Krosa falls to her knees, blinded by a pulsing light. She feels it all. All of it. All of it. All at once. It swirls around her, claiming every inch of her body. It's too much. The loneliness. The anger. The despair. And more. So much more. It burns, suffocating and itching. It's too much. Feelings she didn't even know she had, that she's never felt before— doesn't even know the names of. Too much. Wishes and dreams she would have never dared to dream. Flashes of a life she never lived. Too much. And there's one more horrifying fact— that was not the same dragon from Helgen. She knew that with certainty.

Mirmulnir.

That was its name. How do I know its name? Mirmulnir, the last dragon to live from the old age and the first to die in the new. Her insides shrivel up. Then just as suddenly as it came, it vanishes, taking her breath with it. And she's left shaking, staring at its bones. The only thing left behind. No. Krosa looks down at the sword still in her trembling hand. That's not all it left behind.

The world is quiet now. Krosa doesn't know how long she's been kneeling there. She doesn't want to look around. She doesn't want to walk through the field of ashes, corpses, and blood. She doesn't want to see their mangled bodies. What would she do if she was the only one left? They'd rely on her to tell the story. What would I tell them?

There's a groan, the sound of movement. Krosa jumps to her feet, nearly toppling over as she looks for the source. It belongs to a guard, his body intact, but she can see where his armor has melted into his skin. She's not alone. Krosa sheathes the sword and gets to work. She can't be the only one to survive. Then stop fretting and start healing.

Krosa curses her inexperience. Her cowardice. There may be some who are still alive, or those who would be if she didn't waste time lamenting. After doing what she can for him, she goes to find another. Then another, relieved that she isn't as alone as she thought. Should I go get help? Someone who could do a better job healing than her. But she doesn't know how much strength she has left. She'd likely pass out before she gets there.

Then she hears it. The sound of running and shouting. People getting closer. That's right. The scouts. Jarl Balgruuf placed scouts to watch the battle and report. Help is coming. It's not up to her. Help is coming. She's so tired. Krosa can feel herself fading, she's using too much magic. She's no longer drawing it from Aetherius— the one thing Savos taught her to never do. Then she sees their silhouettes. Help is here.


Brynjolf and Aiden trudge into the Cistern, weary from a night of hard riding. Mercer didn't know he had left Riften, and Brynjolf wants to keep it that way. He doesn't know why he didn't listen to reason. He knew it would be a fruitless endeavor. But he's gotten lucky before. Aiden yawns, frowning something fierce. Brynjolf ruffles his hair.

"You did good, lad. Go get some sleep." Aiden doesn't need to be told twice. He goes to his cot as fast as his aching legs could take him. Brynjolf considers going to sleep as well but getting drunk sounds much more appealing at the moment. He counts the bodies in the cots as he goes, celebrating the fact that he'll be relatively alone in the Flagon.

"Brynjolf? I was beginning to wonder if I'd see your face today."

"Just give me a pint, Vekel."

Vekel does as he's told with a questioning expression. Brynjolf ignores him and sits at the counter, grabbing the tankard from the man's hands and gulping it down. He welcomes the burn as he sighs and slouches further into his seat.

"You know, I've never seen you mope like this over anything before. Or anyone."

"I'm not moping."

"This Krosa must be something else."

"She was— is," Brynjolf blurts out before realizing his mistake. Vekel only smiles. "Whatever. It doesn't matter anymore."

"Oh? And why is that?"

Brynjolf is not in the mood for this so he lets silence answer for him. Vekel's always had an annoying tendency to chat and gossip. He surprises Brynjolf when rather than insisting on an answer, he refills Brynjolf's tankard without a word. Vekel cleans up the Flagon as Brynjolf works his way through the drink, sipping at it rather than chugging it like a beast. Brynjolf can already feel its effects. It's stronger than usual. Vekel really knows what he's doing.

"How did the two of you meet?" Vekel asks when he returns to the counter and refills Brynjolf's drink again.

"Someone hired her to take me to them."

"Again? How many times has that happened to you?"

"Enough," Brynjolf says, not wanting to admit the real number out loud. At Vekel's face, he adds, "Hey, in my defense that was the first time I was actually caught off guard. I don't even know what I was wanted for, or by whom."

"I'm guessing she seduced you?"

"Wh—"

"All the other mercenaries you told me about were men. That and the fact you've a certain… well, let's say weakness for women—" he drifts off, letting Brynjolf fill in the gaps. In his inebriated state, it takes him a moment.

"I would be offended if you weren't right in this case."

"In this case?"

"Usually women have the same weakness when it comes to me," Brynjolf says with none too little pride.

Vekel shakes his head, a wry smile on his face. "You're too cocky for your own good. You know that, right?"

"I know you aren't the first to imply such a thing," Brynjolf says, raising the tankard to his lips.

"Was this Krosa the first?"

"How do you do that?" Brynjolf asks, surprised. And mildly irritated. Being on the receiving end of someone being up in his business is less than enjoyable. And Vekel is usually not one to pry like this.

Vekel winks. "It's a gift." Brynjolf can't help but chuckle.

"She called me a 'feckless cad' once." Vekel throws his head back and laughs. Brynjolf glowers. "It's not that funny," he mutters, taking another sip, only to realize there's nothing left.

"It sounds to me like you've met your match. Perhaps this Krosa"

"Why do you keep doing that?"

"Doing what?" Vekel asks with a shit-eating grin.

"Saying her name like that. 'This Krosa.' It's annoying."

"Oh? Am I not allowed to—"

"You know what? Forget it," Brynjolf says, getting up to leave.

"Are you sure you don't want to drown your troublesome feelings in ale, my friend?"

Brynjolf growls, then sits. Because damn him, that is what he wants.

"Fine. But we're not talking about her. You may have everyone else around here fooled, but I know what you're doing. I already gave you enough information, I won't fall further," Brynjolf says, despite letting Vekel refill his tankard. Brynjolf brings it to his lips. It's reflex, really.

"Fall for what?"

"Don't play stupid, lad. It doesn't suit you."

"Well, you know how much I like gossip. It's my only entertain—"

"Brynjolf! I need to talk to you," Mercer demands from the door to the Cistern, startling the both of them.

"Good luck with that," Vekel says quietly. Brynjolf downs his last drink before handing it to Vekel.What now? Brynjolf wonders as he makes his way over, only stumbling into a table once. Mercer looks at him for a second and scowls.

"Are you drunk?"

"What's got you in a mood?" Brynjolf asks, then regrets. Mercer only glares, but Brynjolf knows he's cursing him out in his head.

"I'm in a mood because our guild is falling apart at the seams." He takes a step closer, practically spitting in Brynjolf's face. "I'm in a mood because my right-hand man prefers getting drunk and frolicking around the country than doing his gods-damned job!"

"I'm sorry," Brynjolf says, and he is. Truly. Mercer gives him a hard look before huffing and backing away.

"I've received word the guards are planning to snuff us out."

Brynjolf blinks. "As in—"

"A raid. And they don't want to take prisoners, not with the chance of escape."

"What? When?"

"Soon, and we need to be prepared for it. You think we've hit low? Well, it's going to get a whole lot worse. Remember when I mentioned relocating to Solitude?

"Are— are you serious?" Brynjolf sputters, almost at a loss for words. "No. No! We can't just abandon everything! Gallus put his heart and soul into this all have! You have!"

Mercer smirks, and Brynjolf has the faint notion that's what he wanted to hear. He crosses his arms as he says, "I'm just saying to be ready for it. I'm not about to go down without a fight, but if it does happen, I'll be ready for it. I've already found a safehouse. If the Cistern falls, we won't be left with nothing."


Krosa opens her eyes, the contrast of darkness to light nearly blinding her. She must have passed out without realizing it. All she remembers is the feeling of relief, but now she feels so much more. Her throat itches. Her body aches as if she hasn't moved in days and her head has a heaviness to it that's worse than any headache she's ever had.

"Oh, you're awake? How wonderful," someone states in a tone that suggests they're not pleased. Not in the least. It takes a moment for Krosa to realize that person is Farengar, the court mage. Krosa closes her eyes again. She's not looking forward to this. "I will have you know I have never in my life seen someone as stupid and reckless as you. Are you sure you're a student of Savos? If you really were, I can tell you with full certainty that he would be sorely disappointed."

"I didn't realize—"

"Oh, you 'didn't realize'? That makes it so much better." He smacks her arm. "Such foolishness could have gotten you killed more surely than the dragon! If it wasn't for me— What are you doing!?" he exclaims, his hands coming up to his temples. "Do not try to get up! You are far too weak."

"I'm not weak," Krosa says, having barely sat up in the first place. It was harder than she expected it to be. All of her limbs feel disconnected from her body. Her soul feels drained, but also... there's something different. As if there's something there that wasn't before. Something that electrifies her, amplifying everything. Touch. Feel. Sight. Sound. Smell, even. And hunger.

"Too stupid, then," he says, going on without missing a beat. "Now lay back down before I knock you out. I swear some people only serve to test one's patience." Krosa obeys, more out of exhaustion than trying to appease the crotchety old man.

"Now, before you get any more ideas, let me tell you your conditions. You are not to move from bed for the rest of the day. Tomorrow you can try walking, but you will not wander. You will stay within sight of this doorway. And don't even think about using magic for the rest of the week. It should stabilize then, though in my unprofessional opinion, I would say you should never use it again. Someone who does not respect the guidelines put in place by their betters should not get to use it."

Krosa sighs, wanting to go back to sleep if only to free her from his scolding. Why does he care anyway? They barely know each other. She nearly says something, but he beats her to it.

"If you don't do as I say you will ruin all my work and die for no good reason. Then I will revive you only to kill you properly. Do you understand?"

Krosa nods.

"I didn't hear an answer."

"Who survived?"

"It is too soon to say who all will survive. I know of one person who is still at risk if they don't do as I say."

"Alright," Krosa snaps.

"'Alright,' what?"

"I'll do what you say."

"Good. Drink this. You sound like an Argonian." Krosa takes the cup, her arm feeling like it weighs a hundred pounds. The warm water trickles down her throat, but does nothing to soothe the itch.

"We lost four guards, and two of the Companions, which is less than we thought we would," Farengar states, counting off on his fingers. "Irileth is already back to business against strong recommendation. The remaining guard likely will be unable to return to work. He is the only one still unconscious, and the other Companions are more or less intact. One can not be too sure of their mental state. A band of fool-hardy… well, fools. Excited to fight a dragon. Well, I hope they have learned their lesson."

Krosa recalls Farengar nearly begging the Jarl to let him go with them, but decides mentioning it would be more trouble than it's worth.

"I know what you are thinking," Farengar says, sitting up straighter and crossing his arms. "And wanting to see one is different than wanting to fight one. I would have preferred to talk to it, though I know it likely would not have wanted the same."

"Why?"

"They are magnificent creatures, though monstrous. Worthy of study and respect." Krosa opens her mouth to speak, but he waves her off. "No more words out of you. I can not stand the sound. Eat," he says, gesturing towards the food on her table. "Rest. We can talk again tomorrow." Then he leaves her there, closing the door behind him and she stares at the table. How did she not see it when she could smell it so strongly?

Krosa tears into the cold food, wondering only for a moment how Farengar knew she would wake up around this time. It tastes amazing and she can't get it down fast enough. She nearly chokes on a crumb; it tickles the itch already present in her throat. She coughs helplessly and drinks the water straight from the pitcher. The food is gone before she knows it and she frowns in disappointment. It was a lot— way more than she usually ate. But it's not enough. Not even close. What is wrong with me?

Voices can be heard through the door. Krosa tries to make out the words but fails. There's an argument. She can tell that much at least. The voices get closer, and finally the door opens.

"You have visitors," Farengar states, eyes going to her empty plate and his eyebrows shoot up. He turns to the intruders, two of the Companions from before, and says, "Do not rule her up. She just woke up and needs to rest." Then he leaves them there, mumbling under his breath. She hears him perfectly, but the others seem to have heard nothing. It's good to know he's the same way with everyone.

"How are you feeling?" the woman asks.

"I'm not sure."

They smirk, and the man speaks up, "You have quite the protector. Farengar wasn't letting anybody near you for the last three days."

"What?" I've been unconscious for three days?

"Did he not tell you?" He didn't tell me anything, Krosa thinks, trying to remember their conversation. The man goes on, "In any case, we're glad you're awake. We wanted to get to you as soon as possible."

Krosa blinks. "For what?"

"To thank you. We wouldn't have made it if not for you— none of us would have, I suppose, if you hadn't slain the dragon— but Aela and myself wouldn't be here if not for your efforts after the fact. "

"Farengar told us what made it possible. He was sure to chew us out in the process."

"Save your thanks," Krosa states, only barely registering their shocked faces before realizing that was the wrong thing to say. She adds, "I wouldn't be alive if it wasn't for one of you."

"Who?"

"I don't know her name." Realization dawns on their faces, and Krosa remembers there was only one other woman with them.

"Reyana," they say in unison, grief coloring their expressions.

"How did she—" The man grimaces. "What happened?"

Krosa hesitates. What if they don't understand? Or think that she's responsible? What if they blame her and—They're probably wishing that Krosa had died instead. And how couldn't they? They were the girl's friend, family, and Krosa is— she's nobody. To them and to everyone else. The thought is like a punch to the gut. But they deserve to know.

"She saved me. I— I don't know why, but— then she charged at it and— the sword—" Krosa looks at the sword sitting on a chest across the room. The girl's sword. She didn't even notice it before. She doesn't notice a lot of things, apparently. Krosa can feel their stares."I— If it wasn't for her I wouldn't have found the opening to—"

Maybe it would have been better if you had died instead. And why didn't she? Why didn't the girl just let the dragon kill her? She could have used it as an opening just as Krosa did, but instead she— Why? That girl had people she cared for and who cared about her. Krosa doesn't have that.

No one would mourn her if she died.

"I'm sorry I couldn't—"

"It's not your fault. I always told her—" He can't finish.

"The sword over there. It was hers," Krosa says quietly, pointing to it. "She gave it to me before dying. I killed the dragon with it." She sighs, defeated. "Maybe... I don't know, maybe that means something."

"It does. Thank you. Truly. The others will want to know this… We— we'll leave you alone now. Just— Don't— She wouldn't have wanted it any other way." They turn to leave.

"Wait. Take it." They look like they're going to object. "Please."

They probably have lots of things to remember her by, but Krosa doesn't want it. She doesn't need it. She'd lose or ruin it anyway. They nod silently, picking the sword up reverently before exiting. Krosa closes her eyes, refusing to cry. But the tears come anyway.


Krosa is grateful Farengar is not the hovering sort. He leaves her to her own devices, only coming to scold or talk to her when he deems it necessary. She is especially grateful that he doesn't allow visitors. Krosa didn't think that would have been a problem, but in the two days of recovery, she's heard him turn away several people. Even Irileth and the Jarl. Farengar warned her after the second attempt that the Jarl wishes to speak to her on an urgent matter. She doesn't leave the room. She has no energy left for urgent matters. Whatever else he wants her to do will have to wait. And maybe if she waits long enough, he'll give up and turn to someone else for aid.

Two more days pass and Farengar tells her she can use magic if she so chooses, but to keep it simple. She tries out a few spells, which leads to him giving her some pointers and even teaching her a brand new Alteration spell. He makes sure she understands it's for his own good and not for her. As soon as she proves she can go around without trouble, he gives her her stuff, and kicks her out saying he's tired of sharing his space.

It's early so Krosa's able to make it outside before anyone stops her. She has never been more grateful for fresh air, even if it is bitter and littered with snowflakes slowly making their way to the ground already covered in piles of snow. She hasn't attempted stairs yet, but makes it down without any hiccups. Though, she is more out of breath than she should be. She makes it to the first square before slipping on a patch of ice and crashing into the ground.

"Careful there, it's slippery," someone says from behind. Krosa looks to see the Jarl standing on the steps, a wry smile on his face. Krosa curses her luck and when she glares, he chuckles, "I'm sorry to do this to you, but I've been meaning to talk and it cannot wait. Walk with me to my office?"

"Can't we talk here?"

"I'm sure the frozen ground is as comfortable as it looks," he says with a smirk. "And what I want to speak to you about is a sensitive topic: best done in privacy. For your own good."

Krosa gets to her feet and scowls all the way back to Dragonsreach. The Jarl is smart enough to know not to attempt any further conversation. As they pass through Farengar's study, she catches the old man watching her with pity. They make it to the office without anyone approaching them, only watching with curious eyes. He closes the door and turns to her.

"I assume Farengar told you of the situation," he says, eyes gleaming. Krosa narrows her eyes.

"He said you needed to speak to me about something urgent, that's all."

The Jarl works his jaw. "Damn him. I swear he's getting bolder by the day." He shakes his head. "But that's irrelevant. Did you hear anything after your fight with the dragon?"

"No."

"So, you must have passed out by then."

"What are you talking about?"

"The Greybeards have summoned the Dragonborn." Krosa doesn't know what he's talking about. "Remember when we spoke of the prophecy?" Krosa nods. "The Dragonborn is part of that."

"What do the Greybeards have to do with it?" All Krosa knows is they're a group of monks who live at the top of a mountain. They never leave, they don't care about what's happening in the world, and sometimes they train someone in their ways if the person can make it to the top without dying.

"The Greybeards are the masters of the Way of the Voice— of Shouting." He scrutinizes her as he adds, "They live on top of the Throat of the World."

"So they're good at talking?" Krosa doesn't know why any of this is important, or even related to her. All she wants to do is go to the tavern to eat.

"In the old tales, the Nord heroes would use the power of their Voice to Shout down the gates of cities and strike down their enemies, but only the Greybeards study the Way of the Voice anymore."

"And what does this have to do with me?" She's never had a way with words, and she doubts studying a 'Way of the Voice' would do her any good. Though some people she knows seem to benefit from it.

"I believe you are the Dragonborn… You don't know what that is either do you?" He sighs. "The Nord heroes of ancient times were Dragonborn. Wulfarth was Dragonborn. Talos, too—" Krosa makes a face. She's heard that name before, but where? He catches on,"—the founder of the Empire? By the Nine, woman, what do you know?"

"Nothing, apparently."

He sighs, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. "Wait here a moment."

He goes to the bookshelf, while Krosa awkwardly stands there, trying to make sense of all this, but mostly wanting to leave. Can I leave without him noticing it? She doubts it.

"You see, the Dragonborns would slay the dragons and steal their power," he says as he makes his way back to her, book in hand.

"What power?"

"The power of the Voice. Shouting. And I believe, after hearing the reports, that this is what you are. That you were destined to defeat Alduin."

Alduin. The World-Eater. The one who has returned to take over the world and devour your souls. The master. The Wait. Krosa blinks.Where is this coming from?

"I don't know what you're talking about," she says distractedly.

"The scouts told me they saw you absorb the dragon's power."

And now it's all starting to make sense. Somehow the pieces are falling into place. Not five minutes ago she felt nothing, but now there's something there. Something pulsing, pumping— like a heartbeat. Something that may be alive. And it started immediately after she put that sword through the throat of that dragon. Mirmulnir. A voice in her states, and Krosa shakes her head. She doesn't believe it. She's not going to believe it.

"No. They must have just seen its body burning."

"You were engulfed in it as well. Why did you not burn as it did?" he says, looking at her with a critical eye, as if he can barely believe that she isn't jumping on his claim. "If you truly are the Dragonborn, you must go to the Greybeards immediately."

"I'm not the Dragonborn. I'm not anyone."

"Everyone is someone, if you allow yourself to be," he mutters, as if it was a passing thought and not something profound. His focus is on flipping through the pages of the book he brought in. "Ah, here it is! The prophecy. Here's what it says—"

When misrule takes its place

The fall of Helgen. Her nightmare. She remembers it. The beast was a dragon. No. She hears the whispers again, louder and more insistent than before, drowning out the Jarl's voice. She can see the words without looking at the page.

"When misrule takes its place"

"In you."

"Reshaped. Trembles. Falls."

"Sundered, kingless, and bleeding"

"It's you."

"And the wheels turn."

"On you. You. You. You."

"You are the"

"... Dragonborn," the Jarl finishes, his voice overcoming the others, but Krosa can't pay him any mind. They don't stop. They're shouting, giving her no room to ignore them. "Krosa." In an instant the words vanish, the voices grow quiet. "Are you— Wait. Where are you going?"

"No. You're wrong, and I— I need to leave." And that's what she does. He calls out after her, but stays where he is.

"You can't escape it, Krosa! You can run all you like, but one day it will catch up to you: only then more people would have suffered because of your—"

Krosa closes the door on his words, forgetting her exhaustion, her hunger. She just needs to move. To get away from it all or else she'll lose it; the fragile control she has on her panic. He's wrong. And she'll prove it. She'll go to Cyrodiil, she'll leave them to their dragons and they'll be just fine. After all anyone can kill a dragon… right? In the past others did, so why is now any different? But what about the voices?

"I'm just going crazy." She can deal with that; it's more likely than the bullshit the Jarl was spouting. And it's not like it's unexpected, considering everything that's happened. But there's something else. Something inside her that refuses to stay quiet. It laughs, feeding on her fear. Reveling in it. It wants her to run, but it wants to toy with her as well.

But what if you're wrong?

Yay! Another one! I hope it wasn't too long of a wait (I know there's been a lot of those recently, and I apologize), I will try to update more ferquently noe that I'll be having more time. I hope you enjoy (and let me know that you enjoy it hehe)