At the same time as Vash gro-Nul was building a pyre for his departed friend, and as Vialas Maryon was sitting in the Moorside Inn, Gylhain was on the way home to her wife.

She'd risen early that morning, made the trip down to Falkreath for the supplies they couldn't procure themselves. A letter, too, had come through from Kara in Windhelm. She'd found lodgings with none other than Torbjorn Shatter-Shield, which meant her room was just a shout away from Antario's. Gylhain pondered the likelihood of the two getting along, and could only conclude that stranger things had happened.

Plenty to her specifically, of course. And none felt stranger than the Dragonborn, of all people, settling down in a snowbound hut away from everything. Over a year since they'd cut themselves off from most of the world. She stretched her mind back, trying to catch the date. What did it matter? Angi and Gylhain had never been happier.

She'd reached the snowline before she saw the smoke. More smoke than should have been coming from their chimney. She squinted at the cloud of it billowing into the white sky and broke into a run, wishing she'd brought her sword, wishing she hadn't gotten complacent.

She Shouted herself across the last distance to the hut, almost colliding with a tree trunk in her haste. She pulled her hunting knife from her belt, slid the pack of her shoulder and, seeing the door hung open, dropped into a roll through the opening, coming up with blade ready to take on any enemy.

But there was none. Instead, an old man in red and black robes lay on his front in a pool of blood. Two arrows, Gylhain's ebony sword, and a cooking knife protruded from various parts of his body. The bed, rear wall, and much of the roof was on fire. Angi stood in the midst of it, bleeding and burned, another knife in her hand.

"Another one of your consequences?" she asked. She collapsed.

When Angi awoke, she could see daylight through the ceiling. With her mind's eye she calculated how far she would have to travel to find replacement wood, and how much she would need. Then she noticed the scars of ice all about her and remembered the fire and the blood.

She tried to move and felt the stretching pain down her side and in her arms. Her vision went fuzzy before she decided to close her eyes. She felt, rather than heard, the presence of Gylhain nearby. Her mouth felt heavy and dry, and it took her a few tries before she could get her question out.

"Are you going after them?"

She wished she could read her wife's expression. Instead, she could only hear the response.

"Don't worry about that now. I wouldn't leave you alone while you're like this."

Angi tried to scrunch up her eyes and fall into unconsciousness.

When she opened them again, the gaps in the ceiling and the scars of ice were gone. The fire was contained in the hearth and she flinched away from it. She saw Gylhain crouched in front of it, stirring some broth. The woman came over and lowered a bowl gently towards Angi. She rejected the offer of it being poured for her, took it in her own two hands, and sipped gently. Gylhain's face was anxious.

"Could have used a little less salt," Angi said. Gylhain smiled, but Angi could tell it was forced.

"We need to move you as soon as you're well enough," said the Dragonborn.

"I'm well enough now," said Angi. To prove it, she rolled out of bed, grunting her way through the pain, and came upright, albeit with a significant stagger. Gylhain stretched her arm out for support, but Angi waved it away. "I don't want to leave," she said. "This is our home."

"Someone's after me," said Gylhain, "and they know about this place. We can't stay here."

"Can't you go after them?" asked Angi. She looked around and saw that the body of the assassin had been removed. She'd wondered how such an old man could be an assassin, until the flames had begun.

"I intend to."

"And where are you going to leave me this time?"

"I . . ." Gylhain frowned and left her mouth open for a moment too long.

"Look," said Angi, everything coming crystal clear into her mind. "If someone's after you, trying to draw you out, then I should make myself scarce."

"But you're still recovering," said Gylhain. "I couldn't leave you now."

"But you will. Because you won't be able to let this attack just stand. Remember the Forsworn? You'll hunt the Dark Brotherhood and you'll end them, because that's what you do. I'm not coming along for the ride, but I'm also not holding you back."

"Where are you going to go?" asked Gylhain. Angi was gladdened to hear a lack of argument.

"I'll go wild," she said. "Keep moving, stay off the paths."

Gylhain's face immediately became worried, and Angi loved her for it, despite the sudden cloying feeling she suffered.

"But how will I find you?"

Angi was glad she didn't ask how she'd survive. They'd gotten past that sort of snobbery pretty immediately after meeting each other. Angi could take care of herself, as was even more evident after the dead assassin.

"Nobody will." Angi allowed herself a smile. "When you're done, I'll find you."

Gylhain dallied with every moment while she got her things together. Her chest under the bed had remained untouched by the fire, and from it she retrieved her ebony armour, piece by piece. With each strap she did up she felt herself further away from the life she thought she had wanted. Her old reliable dwarven axe was always heavy in the hand, but now it seemed even more so. Further back under the bed was her dragonbone shield, crafted from half a dozen of those ancient foes.

Her coin pouch was full, and her pack had the limited food she'd need for the journey to Whiterun. But still she lingered, and looked around the hut, and watched Angi's own slow preparations. The still-recovering woman was clad in furs, and was moving dextrously despite her wounds. Despite the extra weight, she had been convinced to take along Gylhain's ebony sword, which was slung across her back. Her pack bulged and her quiver was full. She passed her hunting bow from one hand to another.

"Stay safe," said Gylhain, wishing she could up with something more poignant or meaningful.

"That's the whole point," smiled Angi. "Get some help, won't you? Don't go charging into any dens of assassins on your lonesome."

Gylhain nodded, and immediately thought of Dar'epha. Strangely, her second thought was of Kara. She wondered what it would be like to have the big Nord along on an adventure, and how poorly she would get along with the Dragonborn's Khajiit friend.

"I'll be quick," said Gylhain.

"I'm sure you will be," said Angi. "No assassin's ever given you trouble before."

Gylhain's face darkened.

"I guess I'm going to get pretty sick of red meat," said Angi, attempting to lighten the mood. She turned and doused the fire. Gylhain opened the door to let in the sunlight reflected off the snow.

"You'd best be heading off then," said Gylhain.

Angi shook her head. "You first," she said. "You're the one with a hunt on."

"Fine," said Gylhain, pretending to be angry. "I love you," she said, "and I'll be back before you know it."

"I love you too," said Angi, her smile tinged with sadness. She didn't comment on the rest of Gylhain's promise. The Dragonborn embraced her wife gingerly, kissed her, then put on her helmet and began to stride down the mountain, on her way to destroy the Dark Brotherhood.

Alone for a moment in the hut, Angi took several breaths to test her lung capacity. Shorter than she'd have liked, but she could manage. She could always manage. Feeling a surprising weightlessness at being indefinitely alone for the first time since her marriage, she stacked up wood and tinder in case any traveller should come upon the hut. Then she padded into the snow, looked up at the sky, and started walking. Fate could choose the direction.