Chapter 12

Torbjorn reached in, grasped a hand, and yanked the perpetrator out from under the bed. She didn't stand but scrambled away until her back was against the wall, and she stared up at him with a mixture of guilt and fear.

The first thing he noticed: her age. She might have been younger than his daughters.

The next thing he noticed was her armor. He had never seen anything like it. It might have been foreign. It was black like ebony, but finer and intricately designed.

The final thing he noticed was who she was. The legendary Dragonborn.

"Now what is the Dragonborn doing under my bed?" he asked, more curious than anything.

She didn't answer for a long moment. "Uh, I-I didn't….I'm sorry." The apology came out strange, confused as though she knew she had to say it, but wasn't sure why.

He grunted. "I'm sure you are, but why have you broken into my house?"

"Investigating," she answered, her voice small.

He sat down on his bed and stared at her. Her eyes were wide and panicked. Wasn't this the woman who had defeated Alduin? Maybe, to her, there was nothing more frightening than being caught red-handed.

"Investigating what?" he asked.

She shook her head, unwilling to answer. He sighed. "What's your name, girl? I never got it before."

"Emlen," she answered nervously.

"You got a last name?"

"Not for a long time."

He nodded. "So. I caught you breaking and entering. You going to kill me to keep me quiet?" The question was matter-of-fact. Death didn't scare him anymore.

She shook her head frantically. "No. No, I don't like killing innocent people."

He laughed humorlessly. "Both my daughters were innocent and they were killed."

He looked into her eyes and stared in shock. He'd never seen so much guilt in one person. "What did you do?" he asked her quietly.

She shook her head mutely.

He studied her. "There are a lot of rumors of you, you know. I always believed most of them were lies. Surely the great Dragonborn wasn't a werewolf. Or the new guildmaster of the Thieves Guild. Or had championed Molag Bol. But there was always one that bothered me more than anything. Stories of you and dark tidings in Dawnstar."

Her whole entire body began to shake like a leaf. "I'm so, so sorry."

It was a confession and both of them knew it.

To think that the murderer of his own daughter was in the same room as him – shaking and shivering like a child. Every logical thought told him to be furious – but he wasn't. He didn't feel angry at all. He couldn't make himself hate her in this moment. She was defenseless. There was a bow slung across her back, but he knew she wasn't going to use it. Her guilt had become debilitating.

He stood and approached her. She closed her eyes and flinched away like a small animal, as though expecting to be struck. Instead, he grasped her bow and with one great yank upward, he took it from her.

He sat back on the bed and ran his hands over the bow. "Did you use this?"

Her eyes had opened and she was staring at him hopelessly. She nodded.

"Was it a contract?" He wanted to know everything about the death. His other daughter, Friga, had been killed by a lunatic serial killer. But Nilsine was shot with an arrow in her sleep. No explanation. Nothing. There was no reason to be found, no place to put the blame.

"Yes," she answered immediately, almost desperately, as though through confession she could be cleansed. Then she hesitated, and if possible, looked even guiltier. "Sort of."

"Sort of?"

"Well," she stuttered out. "Um, I was supposed to kill a man, but she – the client – said that I would get a bonus if I killed…um, your daughter…and um…if I hadn't it wouldn't have been right, the contract wouldn't have been truly completed."

He sighed. The pain was breaking anew. "Who was your client?"

"Muiri."

Fury passed through him. So that traitorous witch had chosen to inflict even more damage. "I should have known."

The girl shuddered violently. "I'm sorry for what I've done."

He pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes. "Why are you in my house?"

"Would you kill to have them back?" she countered. He looked up and stared at her. He could see nothing but guilt.

"No. I'm not like you."

She flinched as though he slapped her. "I'm so sorry," she whispered.

He studied. She was still trembling violently. "You're shaking," he found himself saying.

She stared at him.

"Don't move."

He heaved himself up and went downstairs and remembered what he saw his wife do a million times. He poured a bottle of apple cider into a pot and put it over the fire, and when it was warm, he put in it a mug and brought it up to the girl and handed it to her.

She stared at it blankly, so he elaborated. "My wife used to make it for my girls."

She looked up at him. "Aren't you going to turn me in? Or kill me?"

He considered the questions. "I haven't decided yet."

She stared at the drink, but the guilt didn't leave her face and she didn't drink it.

"What happens if I do?" he asked curiously.

"I flee," she answered, almost blankly, as if there was no other answer.

"And if they caught you?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. I don't think about it."

There was silence and she set the hot cider aside. "I need to go," she said, her voice mechanical.

He felt his heart sink at the idea of being alone again. "Wait." This was surreal. The murderer of his daughter was here in this room with him, and he didn't want her to go.

She looked up at him, and he realized what it was. When Nilsine and Friga were young, their eyes were bright with joy and hope. Slowly, the cold air and damask life took away their bright eyes. But this girl – even through the guilt, her eyes shined. Not even sin could take it away from her.

"Stay," he asked quietly. "I can't take the silence anymore."

She relented and remained where she was. There was silence for a long moment, and Torbjorn hated it. "You're younger than Nilsine was."

The girl shrugged.

"Why did you become an assassin?"

"I was promised a family."

"Is that all you wanted?"

She nodded.

"Surely you could have found a home somewhere else."

She shook her head. "I tried. I joined the Companions, but I hated their methods. I enrolled in the College of Winterhold, but I wasn't good at much magic. I even joined the Thieves Guild, and I was good at it…but it wasn't really a family. There was a lot of anger there."

"How was the Dark Brotherhood different?"

She shrugged. "I don't want to talk about it with you," she said bluntly.

The silence stretched for a minute. "I heard you disappeared in a cave."

Her whole entire body jerked, as though shocked by lightening. "What, have you been following my progress?" she demanded, for the first time hostile.

He wasn't afraid of her. He had disarmed her, after all. "Everybody does. You're the Dragonborn."

"Don't ask me about that," she responded angrily.

He raised his eyebrows. "What happened?"

"Don't ask me about that," she repeated, but her eyes filled with fear. Something in the air changed, the way it does when panic is setting in.

He stared at her. "What happened?" he repeated.

Her pupils dilated, and her face turned blank. Was she going mad?

Three loud knocks slammed against the door and he looked toward the ladder that led downstairs. There was silence for a long moment before the Dragonborn made a strangled scream and buried her face in her hands.

There was a splintering sound and a moment later, Torbjorn realized the front door had been ripped from its hinges. A moment later, a tall man was there, in ebony armor. There was something beyond fury in his face.

"What did you do to her?" his voice was quiet, but horrible as he glared at the man. And then he dropped down to the Dragonborn's level, and tugged her hands away from her face.

A moment later, the girl made a strangled cry in a foreign tongue and threw her arms around the man's neck. He held her and then lifted her up and left the house.

Torbjorn stared after them as silence settled back over his ears.