A/N: Thank you to WeAreThePrey and Manu for your lovely reviews! Hope you guys like this new chapter!
Ariana's breathing sounded harsh in her ears. The cave was dim and quiet, lit by sputtering torches, but up ahead she could hear the faint murmur of voices. She nocked another arrow against her bow, skirting the shadows as she moved deeper into the earth.
The Forsworn guards outside had put up feeble resistance at best, unprepared for her vicious assault. She didn't recognize the men she had killed, though one of the fallen looked as if he had only just become a man. She pushed his face from her mind as she pressed forward.
Ahead the tunnel widened into a well lit cavern and Ariana stifled a curse. She pressed herself against the wall, trying to get a good view of the room without alerting them to her presence. The Imperial couldn't tell for sure how many Reachmen were inside, but it was more than the handful that escaped the mines.
On the far side of the cave she spotted someone she recognized and she felt the slow burn of fury in her gut. She pulled back on her bow, aiming down the sights as she waited for the man to pause in his rounds.
He had been the one who had beaten her until she could not stand on her first night in the mine. She had woken from her uneasy sleep to find him standing over her, hands balled into fists…
Ariana took a long, slow breath in... and released.
He fell to the ground without a sound and she smiled in grim satisfaction. Soon, a group of Forsworn had gathered around the fallen man and Ariana nocked another arrow, silently letting it fly. The second man to fall had had been the one who had forced her up against a wall, shiv to her throat when she had made the mistake of walking into what was 'his' territory.
The crowd turned to face the direction from which the arrow had flown as she felled a third offender.
With a collective roar, they ran towards her hiding spot against the far wall of the cave, but she was ready for them. The first Reachman who had the bad luck to get within her reach howled as she buried her dagger to its hilt in the junction between his shoulder and his neck. His cry was cut short by a gurgling flood of gore. There was a moment of stillness as the man's death rattle echoed off of every stone and pebble in the cave; then chaos erupted.
Ariana dodged a flurry of attacks as the crowd pressed her backward into the confining neck of the tunnel. Lips curling into a cruel smile, she waited for her moment, then reared back.
"FUS RO DAH!" The unrelenting force of her Shout sent them tumbling into the cavern. After a stunned moment, the group began to move, shakily regaining their footing in the wake of the Dragonborn's cry. All, save for the one who had been impaled on a wooden spike. She watched without emotion as he weakly grasped at the sharpened tip that jutted out of his chest, slowly sinking down the thick pole to the sandy floor.
Ariana grabbed an arrow from her quiver, feeling a fleeting pang of regret as it embedded into the neck of the man who had watched his daughter's beheading before being sent into the mine. Though he had not hurt her, he had not helped her, and that was enough to earn his death.
She heard the familiar twang of a bowstring and hissed as an arrow lodged itself in her side. She hadn't seen the archers; there were more of these bastards than she had originally thought. Ducking behind a tall rock face, she nocked another arrow of her own, wincing at the white burn that spread across her side.
She let the arrow fly an instant too late, missing the charging Reachman and barely having time to shield her face as his swords connected with jarring force, shattering the bow in her hands and narrowly missing her head. The ruined weapon fell to the ground in pieces and she narrowed her eyes. "You son of a bitch!"
Fury made her fast, flitting around his swords and gutting the man before kicking him to the ground with a snarl. Wiping blood and slime out of her eyes, she spied her next target, leaving the clumsy longswords with their dead owner, preferring the sleek efficiency of her long dagger.
The fur-clad man was ready bringing his axe to bear with a roar. Returning his battle-cry, she side-stepped his slash, sliding her blade through fur armor and muscle, into his heart. Another arrow sang out overhead as he crumpled and Ariana tumbled out of its path. Where in Oblivion was the damn archer?
A third arrow slammed into her arm, ripping through sleeve and muscle. She plunged behind a short outcropping, taking advantage of it's meager protection, and yanked the arrow free of her flesh, feeling the warm rush of blood beneath her armor. There was no time to assess the damage done, she could already hear the cries of the Reachmen as they neared.
Crouching behind a stack of crates near the ramp up to the next tier of the cave, she waited for her opportunity. It was only a matter of time before they found her.
There was the crunch of a booted foot next to her, and she held her breath, readying her dagger. Pulling back to strike she was taken aback when he turned around, giving her a view of another familiar face, this one straight from her worst nightmares. His arrow missed its mark, striking her in her stomach instead of her heart. With a cry bourne as much from horror as it was from rage she lurched forward, dagger slicing cleanly through the fragile flesh of his throat, coating her with a spray of bright red blood.
"Well, if it isn't my dear friend from Cidhna Mine."
The voice made her blood turn to ice water, and Ariana turned, chest heaving, blade at the ready.
Madanach.
The King of Rags was flanked by two Forsworn and his giant orc, Borkul the Beast. With an inarticulate cry of fury, she lunged toward them, but was brought up short by a wicked sword aimed at her neck.
The men closed around her, wrenching her arms behind her back, effectively quelling her struggles.
Madanach stepped forward, eyeing her warily, blade still at the ready. "So ungrateful," he admonished. "And to think I led you from the mines myself."
Ariana pulled uselessly against the arms that restrained her. "I'll kill you," she promised.
"No," Madanach said, his tone infuriatingly calm. "You will either help me regain my lands, or your will die."
Ceasing her struggles, Ariana saw the King of Rags' mouth turned up in a smug smile. She sucked in a deep breath. He thought he had won, that he had broken her.
He was wrong.
"YOL TOOR!" She Shouted, and the world burst into flame. Agonized cries accompanied the nauseating smell of charred flesh and the arms that held Ariana disappeared. Dropping to her knees, she pulled out her knife, quickly slashing at the neck of the man who had held her. She ripped the bow from his stiffening hands. It was only a hunting bow, but it would serve her purposes well enough.
Borkul was the first to recover from the blast, and the Imperial knew he was going to be her toughest foe. Behind him, the Forsworn were still frantically patting the flames off of their bodies, and Madanach was nowhere to be seen.
Moving rhythmically, she pulled an arrow out of her quiver sending it to embed itself deeply into the head of one of the Reachmen. Loosing a second shot, she didn't have time to see if it hit it's mark before the orc was upon her, giant club swinging. The blow glanced of her shoulder, sending her spinning, not giving her time to recover. The next strike was directly to her stomach, shattering the arrow's shaft and driving the tip deeper into her body. The air in her lungs exploded out of her and she collapsed to the floor, bow sliding out of her reach as she fell. Scrambling away from the Orsimer, she lurched to her feet, arm crossed protectively across her wounded stomach.
She was too slow, and hurt too badly. Borkul caught up with her easily, swinging the club into her back and sending her flying forward into the stone wall. Her head collided with the unforgiving stone of the cave and darkness wavered along the edges of her vision. Disoriented, she pushed herself up to her hands and knees, coming face to face with the end of the orc's brutish club.
"Any last words Imperial?" he taunted, voice guttural and harsh.
Drawing in a deep breath, Ariana squared her shoulders. As a matter of fact, she did.
"FUS RO DAH!" The Orsimer staggered back, and she pulled out her dagger, pushing herself forward to jam it into his leg, severing muscle and tendon. He roared in pain and outrage, legs now useless, and she rolled out of the way as the force of his fall shook the walls of the cavern.
"Bitch!" The orc was on her in seconds, crushing her beneath his stinking weight and his thick hands closed around her neck, squeezing.
Ariana kicked feebly, trying to buck him off, and stretched out fingers, grappling for her dagger that she had dropped. Her fingers brushed across the hilt, scooting it maddeningly out of reach. Stars exploded in front of her eyes, and she could feel her struggles weakening. Abandoning her search for the blade, she brought both hands up, striking his ears with a devastating blow.
The orc howled, reeling from the impact. His grip on her throat loosed enough to allow her to suck in a desperately needed breath and shift beneath him, finally able to grab her dagger. Knife now in hand, she plunged it into the orc's side, over and over, coating herself in more foul-smelling blood with every strike.
Borkul roared in agony, reaching out to halt the attack. Ariana bucked her hips, trying to dislodge him, but he was too heavy. Despite his injuries, the orc was inhumanly strong, hand finally closing around her wrist and pulling the dagger towards her throat, murderous glint in his eye.
Ariana felt panic threatening to overtake her, but refused to relinquish her blade. The Orsimer enjoyed her terror, laughing as she struggled to push the blade away from her throat. Leaning closer, their faces almost touching, he applied pressure and she felt delicate skin split beneath the expertly honed blade.
Taking advantage of his nearness, she reared back, slamming her head into the bridge of his nose and pushing against him with all her strength. Finally his weight shifted and she fell onto him, driving the dagger across his throat and deep through his neck. She watched triumphantly as the light faded from his eyes.
Rolling off of the reeking corpse, Ariana stared up at the roof of the cave, willing her breath to return to normal. Her body was a monument to agony and she wasn't sure her legs would support her. Yet, despite her pain and exhaustion, the vengeful fury still burned bright at her core. She wasn't done yet.
Turning onto her side with a low groan, she made it to her knees, and after an endless moment, her feet. Hand braced against the cool stone of the cave, she surveyed the destruction before her. The cavern smelled of blood and dirt, and there was gore splashed across the grey stones with bodies strewn throughout. There was no sign of Madanach amongst the sprawling corpses.
Rage was beginning to give way to exhaustion, but Ariana willed herself to limp to the ledge where she had encountered him first, arm gingerly holding her stomach. Every movement, every breath, burned like a branding iron. To her left, a torch-lined passage glowed brightly against the dark of the cave. Slowly, painfully, she climbed up the passageway. At the top she discovered the King of Rags, back to her, writing at a desk much like how she had first met him.
"Ah, Borkul. Have you disposed of her body?"
"Madanach," the word cut like broken glass along her ravaged throat. "Face me."
Spinning in his seat, the old man's eyes widened in panic for a scant second before he raised his sword, charging at her with an enraged cry. Reaching to her side, Ariana realized with a jolt that she had left her dagger in the orc's throat down below. Grabbing a large stone from the floor of the cavern, she unleashed a Shout that sent the man tumbling back into the desk he had been writing at, his sword arcing across the room.
She was on top of him in an instant, the stone rising and falling over and over. Ariana thought she may have heard him scream, may have felt him raising his arms to try to push her away, but her only focus was the squelching, muted, sound of stone meeting flesh and bone.
She didn't notice when he stopped struggling, or the chunks of bone and brain spattering her face. Only when she looked down at the pulpy hole that was once the King of Rags' face did she stop, her makeshift weapon falling from numbed fingers.
Horrified at what she had done, she scrambled away from the dead King, not stopping until she was pressed up against a wall. Breath coming fast and hard, each gasp exploded through her in a bust of agony, and her head lolled back against the stones. The expansive cavern suddenly seemed tight and airless, full of dead things that skittered and waited for her to join their ranks.
Spurred by panic alone, Ariana lurched to her feet, forcing her unwilling body out of the stifling darkness and back to sunlight and the fresh Skyrim air. Limping past the pile of bodies she had created, dagger forgotten in her desperate need to escape, she burst out of the mouth of the cave and into the blinding sun.
The journey was painstakingly slow, Markarth seeming worlds away from the hell in which she stood. But Ariana kept moving, holding an image of red hair and eyes the colour of Anvil's ocean in her mind.
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Brynjolf hated waiting.
The anxious feeling grew heavier in his chest with each tankard of ale he drank, melding with the the lingering anger that simmered below the surface his calm exterior. Try as he might, he couldn't wrap his mind around what had happened a few scant hours ago. The Ariana he had known had been gone in an instant, replaced with a creature colder than an Ice Wraith. Despite his best attempts to quash it, one question resurfaced in his mind again and again.
Why?
The sound of metal scraping across stone and the tendrils of winter air coiling around his legs marked the entrance of another patron. Brynjolf heard murmurs of shock as he turned from the bar to see who had entered. The sight turned his blood cold, and his heart was suddenly pounding in his throat.
Ariana slumped in the doorway, coated from head to toe in blood and viscera, tear tracks making paths in the gore on her face.
He was at her side before he had made the decision to move, hand hovering over her shoulder. "Ariana," he breathed, then gasped, barely able to get his arms around her as she pitched forward to her knees.
"Brynjolf." Her voice was hoarse, and when her eyes met his, he nearly recoiled from the pain he saw there. "Help."
Grunting, he pulled her arm over his shoulder, hoisting her into his arms and navigating his way through the onlookers to their room.
Shutting the door firmly with his foot, he lowered her carefully onto her bed, not missing the soft whimper as he did. "What happened to you?" he said softly, not sure he wanted the answer.
Ariana took in a shallow breath, wincing. "I need… I was shot. The arrows…" She plucked weakly at her stomach and he grimaced, seeing the shattered wooden shaft of an arrow peeking through her armor. "I can't heal until they're out."
"All right, lass," he soothed, hands moving to the buckles and straps of the armor. He gently pressed her shaking hands into her lap when she tried to fumble one of the buckles loose. "Just take it easy, I'll help you," he said.
Undoing the final few straps of her armor and easing her cuirass over her head, Brynjolf sucked in a sympathetic breath at the sight before him. The Imperial's body was a mess of darkening bruises, pale skin barely visible through the mottle. An ugly gash decorated her upper arm and he could see where arrows were embedded in her body, one bloody wound in her side, the other marring her abdomen.
Muttering an oath that was certain to bring down the wrath of the Eight, he filled a pot with water, and placed it over the fire. Grabbing one of the bedsheets he tore the fabric into chunks and pulled his knife from it's hiding place in his boot.
It was going to be a long night.
He watched her from the corner of his eye as the water heated. The silence of the room was overwhelming, the air heavy with unasked questions. Finally, adjusting the pot of water over the flames, he broke the stillness.
"Where did you go?"
She stirred at the sound of his voice. "Druadach Redoubt. It is - was - a Forsworn camp to the north of the city."
It took monumental effort to keep his voice even as she confirmed what he had heard earlier. Forsworn camps were notoriously dangerous. "Why?"
"Madanach."
The name ignited his frustration into red-hot anger. "What would possess you?" he snapped, spinning to face her. "Were you trying to get yourself killed?!"
She paused a moment too long and the look on her face doused his fury, the realization staggering him. "Lass…"
"I had to go," she insisted, voice determined although weak. "How am I supposed to live up to my destiny if I can't even deal with a few bandits?"
He poured the hot water into a wooden bowl, noticing the painful-looking bruises that spread across her back as he neared the bed. "You didn't have to do it alone."
"Brynjolf-"
"We'll talk about it later," he stopped her words with a gesture. Placing the bowl beside her, he handed her a chunk of torn sheet. "You're going to want to bite down on this."
Swallowing hard, she took the fabric from his hand and rolled it up. Watching as she placed the roll between her teeth, the Nord turned his attention to her wounds, starting with the arrow lodged in her left side. He examined the projectile, fingers pressing gently against her skin. "Are you ready, lass?" Brynjolf asked, eyes searching her anxious face. She gave weak nod and he brought the blade to meet her side. In a single, swift movement, he edged the blade into the wound and yanked on the shaft, freeing the arrow from her body.
Brynjolf dropped the projectile on the dresser nearby, gently wiping away the blood from the wound while he gave the Imperial a moment to rest before he moved on to the next arrow. As her frantic breathing turned into more measured whimpers, he turned his attention to the fragments of wood that stuck out of her stomach. The arrowhead was impossible to see, only the shaft that protruded above her navel was visible. He winced at the injury. Any wrong move and she would bleed to death right here on this bed.
He gave the broken wood a gentle tug, and Ariana pulled away from him, shaking her head with a muffled groan. Brynjolf picked up his knife again, giving her a sympathetic look. "This is going to hurt, lass," he said, "fighting me is just going to make the entire process more difficult."
Sucking in a deep breath through her nose, she clenched her fists into the furs that covered the bed and gave him a curt nod.
Steeling himself for what needed to be done, he dug the blade into her, probing the muscle while trying to work the knife under the barbed arrowhead. Ariana twisted under him, her screams barely stifled by the rag in her mouth, echoing off the tall stone roof above.
Blood was everywhere, slick on the handle of his dagger and obscuring his view of the wound. Sweat began to bead on his brow and Brynjolf swore, driving the blade a little deeper. Her breathing sped up and her eyes rolled, unfocused and agonized.
"I know, lass," Brynjolf said, slipping a finger into the bloody hole and trying to gain purchase on the shattered nub of the shaft. "I know."
Ariana jerked away from his invasion and he bit back another curse as the arrowhead slipped out of his grasp. There was too much blood. Wiping his hand on his pants, he used the dagger to further open the wound, desperately trying to ignore the agonized noises she was making. "It'll all be over soon, lass."
He couldn't understand her response, her words muffled by the makeshift gag, but the tears streaming down her face told him all he needed to know. He needed to finish this and fast.
He wasn't going to make any progress with her moving about however. Ruthlessly, he pressed down against her hips, holding her in place as he dug back into the wound. Though she jerked and bucked, he held firm, fingers finally reaching the arrow. He slowly tugged it out, careful not to cause even more damage in its extraction.
She fell back on the bed, spitting the cloth out of her mouth and crying in pain. Brynjolf watched as she took in a few calming breaths, fists unclenching from the furs. The light of her healing spell encircled her, split skin slowly mending in front of his eyes. She cast it again, and once more, until all that marked her ordeal were pale pink scars and the blood that coated her skin.
She pushed herself up on her elbows, looking around the room. "Blue bottle, in my pack."
Wordlessly, he walked over to the bag, crouching to open it. After a moment of searching, he pulled out a small blue bottle and handed it to her. She unstoppered it, quickly draining the liquid with an expression of distaste and a shudder. Raising her hand, she cast the healing spell one last time, sighing with relief as she slumped back onto the bed.
"Endon should be here by now," Brynjolf said, wetting a cloth and daubing at the blood that had crusted on her forehead. She made a thoughtful sound, reaching up to take the rag from his hand.
"I should probably clean up before coming out to see him. Or else he might think we're part of the Dark Brotherhood."
Brynjolf looked at her sharply, surprised by her attempt at humor. Maybe that gash on her head was worse than he had originally thought. "Take however long you need," he said with a frown.
Giving him the ghost of a smile, she disappeared into the adjoining room, shutting the door behind her. He stood there a moment longer, listening to the muted sound of water and her voice humming an eerie tune. Shaking away his misgivings, the Nord turned and walked out of the room, heading to the main room of the inn to meet with their contact.
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The afternoon sun beat down upon the road to Falkreath, warming Brynjolf despite the frosty air. He was used to the brutal Skyrim winters, but he could tell that Ariana was not. He looked to his right, where his companion trudged along the path, huddled tightly in a heavy travelling cloak. "You doing alright over there, lass?"
The muffled reply he got sounded suspiciously like "should have gone to Elsweyr" and he laughed. "It's not that cold."
"You can't be serious!" she protested hotly. "You grew up in Skyrim! Do you know any season other than winter?"
He snorted. "We're not that much further north than Cyrodiil. You should see Windhelm, or Winterhold. Snow stays on the ground nearly year round."
"Even more reason to stay away," she muttered, pulling the cloak closer against her body.
"It's just a bit of snow, lass."
She made a rude noise. "One of them has Ulfric Stormcloak, and the other is full of mages. No thank you."
"Not a fan of the Stormcloaks?" Brynjolf had been watching the civil war unfold from a distance, refusing to so much as voice an opinion on the subject. In his line of work, it wasn't particularly profitable to pick a side.
Ariana shrugged. "I'm not interested in getting wrapped up in a war is all. I have other things to attend to."
"Like that destiny you mentioned?" he queried and saw her stiffen from the corner of his eye.
"What do you think is going to be at Pinewatch?" she changed topics with a forced lightness.
He gave her a measured look, and received a glare in return. "Endon didn't say, aside from bandits," he finally said, ending their standoff.
Ariana kicked a chunk of ice with her boot, sending it skittering off the road as they resumed walking. "I can't believe we're going half-way across Skyrim to get a silver mold."
"If we can get a foothold in Markarth-"
"Yeah, I get it," she said in exasperation. "The Guild needs this, the Guild needs that, Mercer is furious, what else is new?"
Brynjolf frowned at her flippant reply but couldn't say he was surprised by her attitude. She had made it abundantly clear that she was not happy with their business arrangement every step of the way. It was a shame, because she was an excellent thief.
They walked along in silence, the only sound the crunch of snow beneath their boots and the whistle of the wind. Beside him, he heard Ariana begin to hum, the same haunting tune she had sung in Markarth. He listened for a moment before he spoke. "What's that song?"
"It's an old lullaby. My Ma used to sing it to me, said her mother had sung it to her, and her mother…" she trailed off with a shrug.
"What happened to your parents, lass?"
She looked away, holding out a hand to knock the snow off a branch that hung low over the road. "Thalmor. My parents worshipped Talos."
Brynjolf winced, sympathetically. He had heard stories of the Altmer arresting Nords for worshipping the human god, and he had seen the condition Etienne had been in when he returned from Solitude. "I'm sorry-"
"It's in the past," she said with a slight shake of her head. "Let's focus on the present."
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Daylight was fading as they stepped out of the bandit's hideout. Ariana shivered as the cold wind sliced through her, slinging her new bow across her back and pulling her cloak close around her. The bandits hadn't been prepared for an attack, and she and Brynjolf had easily taken down the men. The silver mold was now stowed safely away in his pack.
She sent a quick glance to the Nord at her side.
His questions had brought up a myriad of memories, and to her surprise, they hadn't been the blood soaked terrors that had been haunting her for so long. She recalled her father's rare, wide smile and the way her mother had hummed softly while mixing potions. How long had it been since she had thought of them without seeing their deaths? How long had it been since their memory hadn't brought her guilt?
Smiling to herself, she reached out to catch a snowflake as it fluttered down from the heavens and remembered how peaceful Brynjolf had looked this morning, taking in the icy tundra before him. The thought sent a little jolt through her and the corners of her mouth turned up on their own accord.
It was strange, she mused, how she could trust him to have her back in a fight, and then look to him to lift her dark spirits. For all that she didn't want to get him involved, she was glad he was there.
"It's getting late," he remarked, low voice pulling her out of her thoughts. "Do you want to stop for the night in Falkreath?"
Ariana shook her head, gooseflesh prickling across her arms at the thought of the place. The townsfolk were a little too focused on death for her liking. "No, we should keep going. I'd rather not waste any more time."
"Lead the way," he replied with a good natured shrug.
Adjusting her pack on her shoulders, she set off back to Markarth.
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A couple of hours later, she was seriously reconsidering his suggestion to stay the night in Falkreath. As the sun dipped below the mountains, the wind had picked up, blowing across the tundra and chilling her to the bone. Her travelling cloak didn't do much to keep her warm, and it felt like it was getting colder every passing moment. Even the eerie villagers of Falkreath seemed like a pleasant alternative to another moment in this frigid forest.
Her breath came out in a white puff and she shivered as the wind sheared through her cloak again. Keeping her head bowed and eyes on the path, she attempted to stay warm. Her eyes were burning, a combination of how late it was and the lack of sleep she had been getting for the past month. Her body ached and she could swear that her fingers had frozen to her cloak.
Brynjolf, on the other hand, didn't seem affected by the temperature at all. In fact, it almost looked like he enjoyed it, closing his eyes and turning his face up to the icy blasts, a gentle smile curving his mouth.
Opening his eyes, his smile faded away as he looked over at her. "Come on lass, we're stopping for the night. You look like you're about to keel over."
Ariana tried to protest, but he touched her upper arm, guiding her towards a sheltered outcropping by the side of the road. She breathed a sigh of relief, grateful to be out of the biting wind. Here, protected from the elements, it was almost like being warm.
"Stay here," he ordered. "I'm going to get some firewood."
Watching him disappear out of sight, she turned her gaze skyward, taking in the multitude of stars that sparkled overhead. Up above, the sky was awash in green flickering light, she believed it was called aurora borealis. It never failed to take her breath away. This was the one thing about Skyrim she loved above all else - there were no stars like these in Anvil.
The shadows shifted around her and she tensed, letting out a breath when Brynjolf appeared from the darkness, arms full of wood. Ariana watched with interest as he worked to get a fire going, sparks from the flint and steel illuminating the look of concentration on his face. The tinder caught and he brought the bundle to his mouth, using his breath to coax the spark into flame. Surrounded by smoke, illuminated by the budding flame, he looked like a Nordic hero plucked from a history book.
Ariana stared, taking in the scars that ran up his cheek and the reddish stubble on his chin. In the firelight, his eyes were dark and fathomless. Turning, he caught her eyes and she looked away, warming in a way that had nothing to do with the fire.
He sat down beside her with a thump. Ariana shifted slightly, moving a little further away from him and made a startled noise as he wrapped a heavy fur around her shoulders. She looked over to find him rummaging through his pack. "Feeling hungry lass?"
Her stomach growled loudly before she could respond and she ducked her head, an embarrassed smile escaping her. Brynjolf laughed, pulling out a loaf of bread and breaking it in two. "I'll take that as a yes. Won't be able to make anything warm unfortunately, but I brought some mead for that."
She took the proffered cold hunk of bread, breaking a piece off the end and chewing thoughtfully. He bumped her arm with an elbow, offering a chunk of cheese.
"What's on your mind Ariana?"
She looked over the glittering snow, trying to reign in the chaotic thoughts. "I'm homesick," she admitted at last. "I mean, I shouldn't be. I know it'd never be the same if I went back…"
"But you miss it all the same," he finished for her and she nodded slowly. "Home's like that, lass. You remember the good times, the warm memories, and when you go back, there's just a pile of rubble and weeds."
She looked over at him sharply, surprised at the wistful expression on his face. "What do you mean?"
Brynjolf shrugged. "I left home as a lad, seeking my fortune. By the time I went back, there was nothing left. I don't rightly know what happened."
Ariana felt a pang of sympathy for the Nord. "Guess we both know a thing or two about wanting what we can't have."
He smiled wanly, passing her a bottle of mead. "To family," he toasted.
"Family," she echoed, taking a gulp from the bottle and grimacing at the taste of the beverage. "Ugh. Why do people drink this?"
Brynjolf shifted, leaning back against the rock wall. "Because it keeps you warm on the cold Skyrim nights."
"The only thing it's ever done for me is give me a headache," Ariana retorted, looking down at the bottle skeptically. When she looked up, she caught his slight grin as he tilted his bottle of mead towards her, inviting her to keep drinking. With a huff, she followed suit, surprised to find that the bitter chill of the night wasn't as bad as she'd first thought. Actually, tucked away from the wind, warmed by the mead and the company, it wasn't bad at all.
A particularly strong blast of wind cut through their shelter, making the flames of the campfire flicker low. She shivered and Brynjolf offered her a sympathetic smile. Raising his arm he cocked his head, gesturing for her to come and share the voluminous warmth of his own traveling cloak. Ariana shook her head, wrapping her arms around herself. "I'm fine."
Even in the darkness she could make out the Nord's eyeroll. "I'm not trying to get fresh with your stubborn, frozen arse," he said, amusement bleeding into the frustrated words. "I'm trying to keep us from freezing to death through the night."
Ariana felt an arm close around hers and suddenly she was pulled off balance, enveloped in blissful warmth. Beside her, Brynjolf was strong and solid, smelling like campfire smoke and pine. She huddled into the warmness with a contented sigh, unmindful that it meant pressing herself against his side. The only thing that mattered was the blessed reprieve from the frigid night. There was a moment of startled silence, then he chuckled, closing the thick cloak around them both.