Nazir is starting to think that he should have left the man more alive. Leaving him more intact certainly wouldn't have been so bad, Nazir thinks as he drags the body up a hill. Then the bastard could have walked. He must weigh at least three hundred pounds— or at least he used to. Until he lost his arm. But Nazir hardly thinks an arm would make much of a difference.
Cauterizing the wound was a bitch. Nazir still has a headache from all the man's screaming. Though, Nazir has to feel a little proud with his thoroughness. He'll take his wins where he can. They'll pay for what they did. Nazir will make sure they all die screaming. It's the least he could do for her.
Nazir remembers the day he found her. The fire. The screams. The slaughter. The child crying out in the darkness of the forest as she fought. Nazir had never seen such a little thing put up a fight like that before. He should have left her alone. He remembers the day he lost her. He knew something wasn't right. He knew he shouldn't have left her behind. If only he hadn't fallen complacent. If only he wasn't so foolish.
I never should have taken her in in the first place. Her life was a sorry one because of him, and shorter than it should have been. He digs into his pocket, pulling out the damaged scroll that the lead Alik'r had. Blood stains the majority of it, making the picture hard to make out. But that hardly matters. He already knows whose face he'll see there. What's important is the sigil at the top of the page. It belongs to them. And that could only mean one thing. They've finally come for me, he thinks, tucking the scroll away. And I need to know why.
They've left him alone all these years. Nazir isn't dumb enough to believe he could have hidden from them this whole time. His first few years in Skyrim were ones of always looking over his shoulder. Survival was the only thing he cared about. It wasn't until Astrid found him and brought him in that he started to care about living for enjoyment. He will forever be grateful for that.
The sun is high in the sky by the time Nazir makes it to the Sanctuary, and for once he's glad for the chill of Skyrim. If it were as hot as Hammerfell, he'd be sweating like a pig. This will be fun to explain to the others, he thinks as he says the password to open the door. As soon as he gets to the main cavern, all eyes turn to him.
"Have you brought me a new toy?" Babette asks, running up to him to ogle the half-dead man. The glee in her eyes at the sight makes Nazir wonder what the child is planning.
"I'm afraid he's lost too much blood to be of any use to you."
"I'm patient."
Nazir laughs. "That's good, because you'll have to wait for your turn."
The vampire child pouts at that, but lets him be. Veezara and Arnbjorn don't say anything as he drags the body further into the Sanctuary, though they do look intrigued. It's not a very rare sight, someone dragging in a dead or half-dead body. Only the more sadistic of them get off on torture, though they've all had the mood strike them at least once. Usually it's not Nazir who brings in such a guest, and he knows they'll be disappointed when they learn he won't be sharing.
"I have something for you."
"Truly? I've been so lonely lately. How did you know?" Gabriella purs, a finger running down the half-dead man's chest. "Oh my," Gabriella exclaims, making a show out of noticing the man's missing arm, "you seem to have broken him. How rude."
Nazir laughs. "Luckily for you, he's not beyond repair."
"So rather than giving me a present, you're asking me to give you one? Oh Nazir, don't you know anything about proper etiquette?"
"Enough with the sarcasm. Heal him enough to be able to talk and think clearly. I need to question him. You and Babette can fight over him when I'm done."
"Very well."
Nazir turns to leave, pausing a moment when he hears her voice.
"You're a pretty one aren't you," he hears her coo, "and look at those muscles. Oh. I'm going to have so much fun—"
Nazir shakes his head and continues walking, deciding he doesn't want to hear the rest of the one-sided conversation. Gabriella likes to turn everything into an event. He sets out for Astrid. She likes being informed on anything going on here. Part of him dreads it. She's usually not the one for questioning, but this will pique her interest. She'll want a full explanation.
This is a trick, Krosa tells herself. None of this makes sense. But why would he trick her? What would he gain from it? She tries to tell herself she needs to leave, trying to awaken the sense of urgency and self-preservation that has driven her all this time, but it's not there. Maybe I really don't care anymore.
"What's the job?" Krosa finally asks, hoping the hoarseness of her voice is taken as exhaustion and not a sign of her hopeless emotional state. Maybe her body's too tired to function properly and that's why she's so out of it.
"Come, let's go find my court wizard," the Jarl says, standing with a purpose and drawing her out of her downward spiral. He waves at her to follow him and Krosa does so, silently. They exit the room, and he speaks up again, "His name is Farengar. He's been looking into a matter related to these rumors of dragons. He's the one who will be needing your assistance."
"How long has he been looking into them?" Krosa asks, relieved when her voice is steady.
"It's been a passion of his for as long as I can remember. Only now does it seem that we have a use for it," the Jarl says humorously. "Either this is luck or the works of fate fulfilling the prophecy."
Krosa stops. "There's a prophecy about this?" Then why is everyone so damned surprised?
"You didn't know? Hmm…" the Jarl says, stopping and rubbing his chin but not bothering to turn around to face her. "I guess the legend is spoken of more than the actual history behind it. I'm sure Farengar will have a book on it if you wish to educate yourself on the matter."
"I don't."
He laughs, turning to face her as he says, "Well said."
Krosa doesn't reply. They reach a closed door in an otherwise empty hallway. The Jarl walks right in. The room reminds her of the students' rooms at the College: cluttered and stocked to the bursting point with random glowing coming from odd places.
A robed man whom she assumes is Farengar and a hooded woman are speaking in low tones. The woman stops when they enter, accusing eyes trained on them and Farengar turns to see them.
"Ah, Jarl Balgruuf. Why have you come to me? Who have you brought with you?" Farengar states slowly, tone dry and flat, as if he's lost patience with a child. It also sounds like he may be hiding an accent as well. Krosa doesn't know why else he'd pronounce everything so deliberately.
"I believe I've found someone capable enough for your little project," the Jarl says, gesturing towards Krosa. Farengar looks her up and down.
"I really do not believe you did," Farengar states, a sneer gracing his wrinkled features.
The Jarl stiffens in surprise before his face darkens in warning. "Farengar—"
"The last men you sent my way were far more impressive than her and they could not do it. She would probably die in the attempt."
"And why is that, Farengar?" the hooded woman asks, tone laced with warning. "Do you not think a woman is as capable as a man?"
Farengar gives her an annoyed look. "Not at all. I do not think this particular… example would be very helpful. I mean, look at her," he sneers.
Krosa does have to admit he has a point. She ditched her ruined armor at Gerdur's, trading it for whatever was available in Riverwood in the dead of night. And she can only imagine how she herself looks after all that's happened in such a short amount of time.
"Besides," the mage continues, now talking to the Jarl, "I already have someone to accomplish the task." He gestures towards the hooded woman.
"And who are you?" the Jarl asks, turning to look the woman dead in the eye.
"She is a colleague of mine—"
"I didn't ask you."
"It's as he says," the woman states, and Krosa knows there is more they aren't sharing.
She doesn't know if the Jarl caught onto their stiffness, their sly side glances, or how they hid the documents on the table from view the moment they walked in. There's a secret hidden between them, important enough to hide from the Jarl. Krosa briefly wonders if it's worth mentioning, but she decides against it. It's not my business, Krosa thinks, throwing the observations away. Everyone has their secrets. She looks to the Jarl who wears an unreadable expression.
"Very well. We'll leave you to it then," the Jarl states, turning towards the door. "But your disrespect will not be forgotten, Farengar. Tread lightly." They leave, and as soon as they're out of earshot the Jarl says, "You must excuse his behavior. He never was one for formalities."
Krosa shrugs. She mildly enjoyed the encounter, which is unusual. She has a low tolerance for people who underestimate her. It was also refreshing to see another person stand their ground against someone like the Jarl. It makes her feel better for constantly doing so herself.
"Now what?" Krosa asks, wondering if he'll find some other way to use her. To hold the debt she owes him over her head.
"You may leave if you wish. I will remember your willingness to help should we cross paths again. I'm sure you can see yourself out." Then he leaves her standing there.
Farengar would roll his eyes if he didn't find the act undignified. He may not have been so harsh if they didn't interrupt their conversation. Now the Jarl will be less likely to grant me the favor I've been meaning to ask of him. But that can wait. He was finally starting to get Delphine to open up with what she knows about the dragons. She knew more than she let on- he was sure of it. Despite their long acquaintance, he hardly knows a thing about her. Such secrecy is usually not a good sign, but she hasn't done anything untoward. Yet.
"Are you sure you can do this?" he asks, hoping to salvage their previous conversation. "I was not exaggerating the danger this mission—"
Delphine snorts, "Oh, so now you doubt me? Relax. I've got it under control."
Farengar narrows his eyes. "If that is so, then why have you not come to me sooner? You know I've been trying to retrieve it for years." Not to mention he had asked her long ago, but she never responded. He hadn't heard from her since. Until now.
"Before it was merely a mild interest. You never really believed they were real. I saw no point."
"And you did?"
"I had suspected."
Farengar doesn't buy that for a second. She must be hiding something from me. Not to mention he asked her to retrieve it long before and never heard back. This is the first he's seen or heard from her in ages.
"And that is what makes the least sense. Your timing is impeccable. Do you expect me to believe it is a coincidence you came to me on the day we learn Alduin returned?"
"I was nearby. I came here immediately after receiving news of the attack on Helgen," Delphine states, shrugging off the accusation with all the grace of what could be a practiced liar,which doesn't lessen Farengar's growing suspicion. "And what about you, Farengar? You're the only one who's been interested in dragons and the Dragonborn prophecy for a long time."
"Trying to turn suspicion on me is not going to work. My intentions have always been clear. Yours, however, have never been."
"I like my privacy," Delphine says, and Farengar entertains the idea of throttling her. "Do you have any more accusations, or am I free to go?"
Krosa doesn't know what to do or even what to think anymore. She doesn't trust anyone— not even herself. There's nowhere she longs to go, no friends she wants to see… but it's always been that way. Now, though, that fact weighs on her like never before.
She never felt anything like this in Cyrodiil, though to be fair, she doesn't really remember feeling anything during her time there. She can barely remember what she did day by day. Nothing stands out, it's all— Krosa sighs in frustration. That's not even the worst of it. Despite everything, Krosa finds herself reluctant to leave. There's no sense in it, no logical explanation.
Where would I go anyway? Krosa thinks, sending her mind reeling in a whole new direction. She's tired of running. Tired of being alone. Of being betrayed. Abandoned. She tries to come up with a plan. Tries to think of anyone who could help. Brynjolf briefly crosses her mind. He helped her run from the Alik'r before. She shoves the thought away violently. He's also the one who handed her to them. I really must be desperate.
A traitorous part of her wishes she could go back in time and accept his offer when he first asked. Maybe then he wouldn't have— There's no point in what ifs. He did what he did. Krosa mentally scoffs when she feels a sting in her eyes. She curses herself, then realizes she's still standing in the hallway. The guards are watching. Waiting for her to leave. It'd be humiliating to start crying now, she tells herself, willing them— and the thoughts that brought them— away.
Krosa leaves the building, trying to find direction in her churning thoughts. Would it be better for her to stay in Skyrim? Maybe the Alik'r think she would leave. But now there's a dragon on the loose. What about Cyrodiil? It's more densely populated than Skyrim, so she'd be less likely to stand out. She doesn't know a lot about anywhere else, other than Hammerfell, but that is a definite no. High Rock may not be too different from the places she's already been. It's a mostly human country: home of the Bretons, her kinsmen. The thought curdles in her stomach. It's also where Nazir found her and took her in after nursing her back to health. An act that was the catalyst to all of Krosa's problems.
There must be something wrong with me, Krosa decides when she heads into town to buy a room for the night— a night that is still hours away. I must have head trauma leftover from Helgen. It's risky, she knows it is, but she can't bring herself to care no matter how hard she tries; to comfort the part that doesn't let her forget how idiotic it is, she keeps telling herself that she'll leave in the morning.
"Don't get comfortable. We leave at first light," Nazir says, watching her write in her journal from across the fire.
"Why?" Krosa asks, throwing down her quill. I hate this. I hate always having to leave. She's so tired, and her body never gets the time to feel anything but soreness in every limb. He's as relentless in traveling as he is in her training. Training for what? she thinks, scowling.
"You know why. My answer is always the same.''
"But it's nice here," Krosa pleads. She had seen a family today, a father, a mother, and a boy no taller than Krosa. They were smiling, laughing. The father carried his son on his shoulders with one hand entwined with his wife's as they made their way down the street.
"Don't be fooled, little one. Nowhere is as nice as it seems. Don't let it lull you into a false sense of security."
Krosa huffs, turning in her bedroll so he can't see her tears. He has all the patience in the world for her stubbornness, but he doesn't have any for tears. Nazir sighs as she hears him come closer, and she furtively wipes them away before he can see them. His hand falls on her shoulder, and she leans into his warm touch as he bids her goodnight. It doesn't last long, but Krosa tries to remember the feeling for as long as she could. She imagines her and Nazir as that family, having found a place where it was safe for them to stay, and lets a small smile grow on her face as she falls asleep.
Krosa's heart jolts at the memory, and jolts again as a burst of laughter breaks through her thoughts. Her attention is drawn back to the rowdy tavern. Everyone around her is as careless as can be.
They sing songs with the bard, some even dance to the tune. While the scene is ridiculous, Krosa finds herself envious. The wild gestures and animated voices are loud and grating on the ears, but there's plenty of smiles and laughs to go around. It baffles her. When she first arrived, everyone was wrought with fear. Now that the sun has gone down, they seem to have forgotten it.
Maybe they've all drowned their worries in their mead... Or they're too drunk to know about the danger. Krosa has heard that some Nords are in a constant state of drunkenness. She's never been much of a drinker, but now she's wondering if it's worth it to try. It may be nice to forget about all her troubles for a while.
A man lets out a loud belch and Krosa cringes in disgust as he's applauded by his friends, an applause that ends quickly as the man then throws up the contents of his stomach. Krosa grimaces at the smell. But at what cost? When his friends look like they may follow in their friend's lead, she leaves the tavern.
Which was a mistake. She has only a moment to panic when she sees someone with ginger hair storm into the marketplace.
"There you are! I've been looking everywhere for you!"
Krosa considers running. Either the Jarl backed out on his promise or his personal guard decided to take matters into her own hands. It wasn't hard to tell that the Dunmer woman did not like or trust her. However, Krosa can't help but notice the woman has no guards with her. Which is not the smartest move if you were trying to catch a dangerous criminal.
"What do you want?" Krosa asks, ready for anything.
"Your help."
Okay. She was ready for anything but that. What would she need my help with? Krosa scrutinizes the woman. Anyone can tell that Irileth is the kind of woman who doesn't ask for help lightly. Krosa half-wonders if it's a trap of some kind.
"With what?"
"There was a dragon sighted circling the western watchtower."
"And?"
"We need all the help we can get. The Jarl sent a large portion of the guards to Riverwood."
Dread pools in her stomach, stronger than it's ever been before. Fear claws at her, sinking in and ripping her to shreds. The destruction of Helgen flashes through her mind: the slaughter, the fire, the screams, the smell— the hopelessness of it all. Just the thought of facing it again makes her dizzy. She shakes her head, trying to shake the feeling.
"The Companions—"
"I already went to them. They're coming."
"Then why do you want me?"
The woman shifts awkwardly. "We may need your expertise."
"My what?"
"You're the only person here who has faced one and survived," Irileth quickly states. "Please. If we are to have any chance— " She takes a deep breath, her fingers pinching the bridge of her nose.
It's the 'please' that gets her. The fact that the woman is asking, not demanding; there's real fear in her eyes, real desperation and— and Krosa can't say no.
"Alright."
Krosa can see the relief set into the woman's shoulders, and looks away annoyed. I'm probably going to regret this, Krosa thinks, sighing in defeat. Actually, you're probably going to die. Krosa wonders if that'd really be so terrible.
"Thank you. I know the Fall of Helgen must have—" Krosa winces. Does she really have to bring it up? "You don't have to fight. Just tell us what we should expect."
Krosa wants to take her up on that. Not fighting for once would be nice. But then what? Hear that they've all gotten themselves killed in the attempt? Face the dragon when it turns to a defenseless city? She knows her capabilities, knows she's a better fighter than most. With her magic, she has yet to meet her match. In her experience, even the slightest advantage can tip the scales. Without her, despite her meagre knowledge on dragon-slaying, she knows they're likely to get roasted alive in seconds. Unless I help. Krosa wants to retch when she speaks.
"I'll fight." At the expression the woman gives her, she adds, "it's all I'm really good for."