Krosa doesn't stop walking. She doesn't notice the time passing by. All thoughts were banished from her mind— all but one. I need to get out of this place. It repeats in her head like a mantra, mixing with the unwelcome words, the grating voices reminding her of the prophecy. Of her supposed destiny.

Each step she takes hardens her resolve, her heartbeat quickening with each thought. She won't let herself be used again, becoming a tool for someone's greater purpose, for their own gain… but what is to be gained from this? She shoves the thought away before it weakens her resolve. She can't let herself break.

"You can't escape it, Krosa! You can run all you like, but one day it will catch up to you—" Krosa stops, but the voices don't.

"You can't escape it."

"You can't escape it."

"You can't escape it."

No. Krosa refuses to believe it. She won't answer to anyone ever again. Not to man, not to Fate. Not to anything. There has to be an escape. There always is, and she's going to find it. The Alik'r would always talk about Fate— about its inevitability. Destiny doesn't rely upon one person, what's meant to happen will happen, and if one doesn't rise to the call, then another will take their place. There is always someone left to take their place. Everyone is expendable. Even their heroes.

But Krosa doesn't plan on being a hero. She never has. Never will. She wants nothing to do with that kind of life. Someone else can sell their soul for the duty. Someone else can play the hero if there even needs to be one, but it won't be her. She just wants to be free.

Ulfric. It dawns on her suddenly, and she wonders why she didn't think of it sooner. Ulfric has the Voice. She can let him be the hero everyone needs. He'd gladly take up that burden, would even see it as an honor. She hates him, but at least it means it doesn't have to be her. Maybe it was meant to be him all along. Maybe she just got in the way.

"Fool."

"Coward."

"You can't escape."

"You'll die either way."

"Krosa." She doesn't listen to the voice, somehow more clear than the rest. "Krosa, can you hear me?" the voice says again, more urgently than before. A hand falls onto her shoulder, shaking her from her trance. "Are you ok?" Krosa blinks at the man standing in front of her, recognizing him from somewhere, but the voice is distorted and her vision unfocused. "You're as pale as a ghost."

Krosa's mind finally catches up to the moment. Sinding? That means she's already well into Falkreath Hold. How long has she been walking? She's sweating like a pig, her muscles are aching, she's stiff with cold, and her legs feel like they will collapse beneath her at any moment. I wouldn't have been able to make it much farther. His hand goes to her forehead, before pulling it back quickly. Sinding says something, but she only catches the end of it.

"—burning up, and what are you doing out here without a proper cloak?" He places his cloak around her shoulders, and she's swamped with its warmth. It doesn't help with her shivering. I'm shivering? What else hasn't she noticed?"Did something happen? Krosa?" He gives her shoulders a firm shake. "Are you going to say anything?"

Krosa shakes her head. She doesn't trust her voice. She doesn't trust that she won't pour it all out, say it out loud, because then she'll have to accept it. It will be plain before her, as well as him. And she just wants to forget. For the first time, she just wants to forget all that happened. Start anew. But then how would she know who to trust?

"You already don't know who to trust. Pathetic. You're pathetic… You can't even trust yourself."

"Well, I'll be. Finally decided you missed us, then?"

Krosa blinks. When did they make it to the cave? When did we even start walking?

"Oh, don't tell me you're not here to pay us a visit!" Barbas continues, nudging her hand with his nose.

"I—" is all she can choke out. Her throat is raw. Since when? When did the world seem to turn upside down and nothing makes any sense?

"He's teasing. He does that all the time now," he says to her, throwing Barbas a pointed look.

"Oh are you— is she sick?"

"Seems like it. Possibly a fever or the chills. She was wander—"

"You pea-sized ball sack with no brain. Don't keep her here, you lout! Take her to the Fair-Helms! They'll be of more help, not to mention they'll have a warmer place. She'll catch her death here."

"It's late."

"Do you think that will matter to them when she's in need of help?"

"I doubt she'll make it there before passing out."

"Like she'd let herself fall into your arms." Krosa would have laughed at that if she could. "Come on, we have no time to waste!"

Krosa doesn't know who in the world they could be talking about, but the three of them leave the cave. She's aware of their proximity, of the hand on her shoulder guiding her along and keeping her steady, the glances Barbas sends her way. Krosa closes her eyes, too light-headed to hold them open while walking at the same time. Sinding and Barbas' arguing never ceases, but she's tuned them out a long time ago. She notices the voices before the figures, her dark world becoming light enough to burn through her eyelids, only making her shut them tighter.

"What's wrong with her?" a young, familiar voice asks.

"Quiet Hilda. Go to your room." Krosa knows that name. Where does she know it from? Oh. Wait. She remembers them. The bandits. Their gratitude. Hilda, the doll.

"But—" Whatever was going to be said next is drowned out as everything twists and turns, distorting and warping.

Tilting.

Tilting.

Tilting.

Krosa tries to steady herself, but her legs collapse. Her knees hit the floor but before the rest of her can follow, arms catch her. She hears raised voices as the world fades away.

What is wrong with me?


"Ralof! It's about time you've returned, my friend," Ulfric exclaims, clapping the man on the shoulder. "We were beginning to think we would never see you again."

"I'm glad you made it out as well, Jarl Ulfric. What of your friend?"

Ulfric can feel his mood darken at the mention of Krosa. The memory of their last encounter has been a recurring annoyance in his mind. He doesn't know what he saw in her. He doesn't even believe she really went to Whiterun. She probably just agreed to get them to stop bugging her. They'll find out soon enough. To Ralof, he says:

"She plans to leave Skyrim, the coward. I tried to convince her to stay and help, but she remains unreasonable."

"Leaving Skyrim seems pretty reasonable to me," Ralof states but, at Ulfric's look, quickly adds, "In her case, I mean. Why would she stay?"

Because it's the noble thing to do, honorable. Ulfric thought she would have cared about the welfare of others after her adventure with the Butcher with no thought of getting a reward, only of benefitting the people. Because she refused to abandon an Imperial soldier she didn't know even in the face of death. Because she can keep up with him in battle. Because, because, because— there were plenty of reasons, all of which mean little to him now.

"Enough about her," Ulfric says. "What took you so long to resurface? Gerdur has been worried sick."

"Yes, well, there were complications with Hadvar."

"Hadvar?"

"The Imperial."

"Oh. I see." Interesting. Either theyknew each other before the war or got cozy enough to exchange pleasantries. Or something else entirely. "And what sort of complications would those be?"

"He was dying no matter what I did. I was thinking about putting him out of his misery when I saw a group of Imperial soldiers." His hand goes to rub the back of his neck as he works his mouth, but no words come out. Ulfric waits a moment before losing his patience.

"Go on."

The man looks at him sheepishly and listens to his command. "I— um— I didn't see any other choice. You told me to honor the deal, so I— I handed him over to them."

Ulfric's eyebrows shoot up. He certainly would not have even considered that.

"They kept me prisoner. I didn't know till then that General Tullius was with them, as was the Thalmor bitch."

So. They weren't the only ones to escape. That's unfortunate. He especially hoped Elenwen would have died. But it seems she has found a way to survive yet again. The roach. And knowing her, Ralof would have suffered a great deal in her hands. The man looks distressed enough.

"What did they do to you?"

"Interrogated me. Elenwen wanted me dead, but Tullius wouldn't let her have me. He wanted me to give you a message. He said this war will have to come to an end if we are to get through these times… He wants to form a treaty."

Ulfric scoffs. "Of course he would. That's what they're good at, or so they think. Their treaty with the Thalmor is what started all this!" Ulfric paces, considering all his options. "No. There will be no damned treaty. If they're so scared, let them fall back to Cyrodiil and leave Skyrim to us."

"Do you think it's true? The legend of the Dragonborn?" Ralof asks hesitantly, and Ulfric can see the hidden anxiety. Maybe that's the true cause of his distress. These are uncertain times, but the only certainty to the public is that dragons are here. Whether or not the legend is true is still up in the air. And if it isn't true, then what does that mean for Skyrim and Tamriel?

"I do," Ulfric says, leaving no room for doubt. The Greybeards taught him as much. Not to mention the summons that all of Skyrim could hear, though most wouldn't know the translation. Someone in Skyrim is the Dragonborn— the Dovahkiin. He wonders whether the Dragonborn even knows what they are or not. But one thing remains certain. He wants whoever it is. Together they could take back Skyrim. With them on his side, failure is not possible.

Ulfric can see the relief settling into the man's shoulders. It's amazing how two words of certainty are able to cause such an effect, how one glimmer of hope can tame the deepest of fears in men's hearts.

"Who do you think it is?"

"I don't know. But one thing's for certain. We need to get to them before anyone else."

"You think they'd join our cause?"

"If they're a true Nord, then there's no doubt."


Krosa wakes up slowly, remembering everything in an instant, frustrated by her clear lack of common sense. She could have been past the border if she had taken the time to prepare for travel, though in her defense she had more pressing matters on her mind. But in any case, she's also growing tired of passing out and waking up in strange places. It's been happening a lot more often than she'd like.

"She seems to be doing better."

"If by better you mean not dying. But even that's up in the air, I suppose."

"What do you think it was?"

Krosa opens her eyes to see Sinding, Barbas, and Hilda's father sitting next to the bed she's in. What was his name again? She knows he had introduced himself when they met, but she hadn't cared to listen. She thought she would be leaving Skyrim and it wouldn't matter.

"I don't know. Some kind of fever I suppose. I've never seen anything—" Hilda's father looks to her, eyes widening when he sees she's awake. He quickly gets up to hand her a tall cup of water. "How are you feeling?" She barely takes a sip, the water only irritating the itch in her throat. She gives the cup back to him.

"What happened?" she gets out, her voice a pained whisper.

"That's what we're trying to figure out," he says, sitting back down after placing the cup on the table beside her. Krosa closes her eyes and takes a breath as he continues, "Is there anything you may have come across, something unusual, that could have caused your—" A sense of urgency overtakes her as she realizes the only new thing there is.

"Dragons," she says before she can think better of it. It's likely they wouldn't know. Word might not have spread here yet, and as much as she wants to leave it all behind, she can't let them be taken by surprise. She owes them that much. "Attacked." It's all she can get out. She hopes they don't think it's nonsense.

"So it's true then? There really are dragons about." Krosa nods, wondering whether the string of phrases he mutters under his breath is meant to be a curse or a prayer. "And you saw one?"

"If I know her at all, I'd say she fought one," Barbas claims, and Krosa wonders how well he really does know her.

"Hmph. She'd probably take one look at it and walk away. She hates getting involved," Sinding says in return, voice lowered in what Krosa assumes was an attempt to keep her from hearing.

"Then why does she always get—"

"Both of you get out," Hilda's father says. "And when you see Ida, tell her Krosa's awake." When they leave, he turns to Krosa with a wry smile. "I don't know how you lived in a cave with those two."

"Neither do I," she says, wincing at the attempt to speak. Apparently they've all gotten to know each other while she was away, and wonders if that means Sinding has been successful at keeping his beast under control.

"I have a few questions for you," he says, his tone of voice turning serious. "You don't have to speak to answer, a nod or shake of the head will do." Krosa doesn't think she's going to like where this is going but nods in agreement, curiosity winning her over. "The scars on your back, and the mark on the inside of your wrist…" Krosa tenses, looking down to her wrist to see that nothing is covering it. She turns it to see the scar that was usually kept hidden under her leather wristband. She had tried to burn it off, but it's still apparent on the raised and ragged skin. "You were a slave, weren't you?"

Krosa hates that word, and it's not completely true anyway, but close enough to it. She has no voice to explain it. Krosa nods her head slowly. He stares at her for a long moment before speaking.

"I served in the Great War, you know. I was stationed in Hammerfell for a while. I saw what the Alik'r did to their prisoners when they decided to use the Thalmor as slaves. I have to ask, are you— were you associated with the Thalmor in any way?"

"No," Krosa says, eyes flying open, then immediately closing again at the burning in her throat. Of all the things to not have in this moment, it has to be her voice. She can only hope he believes her. She doesn't know what she'd do if he thinks she's working with them. She knows what he'd likely do.

"But the Alik'r did do this to you?" Krosa nods again. "Why—"

The door opens then, and in comes Ida with a tray of food. The smell of it curdles Krosa's stomach.

"Oh, maybe food isn't a good idea then," the woman says. "I've never seen someone turn so green." She walks right back out. Krosa and Hilda's father barely have time to exchange a glance before she returns.

"Here, the tea may help."

Krosa takes the cup, eyeing the dark liquid. What in Oblivion is tea?

"It's an herbal drink," the father says, noticing her confusion. "It's not popular in Skyrim. A Nord's answer to everything is beer and ale." Krosa takes a sip. It's not as bad as she expected, the warmth soothes her throat, and she can taste a hint of honey.

"Where does it come from?" She may have to get some of this for herself.

"Well, the ingredients mostly came from here, and we made it, but the idea came from High Rock, if that's what you're asking." So she'd have to make it herself. She frowns. That's not going to happen. She can't cook to save her life.

"Can I come in now?" a voice asks from the doorway. They all turn to see Hilda there, clutching two of her dolls, one with red hair, strips of leather for armor, a makeshift sword and shield, and a smaller one with short brown hair and a raggedy dress. Her parents look to Krosa. Krosa nods.

"Yes, Hilda, you can come in," her mother says, and Hilda runs into the room with a squeal. When she's close enough, Krosa realizes she's going to launch herself onto the bed, but her father catches her mid-air and sits her on his lap instead.

"Hey!"

"Hilda, please refrain from jumping on our guest. She's not feeling well." Hilda pouts, but nods. Her father lets her go. She shoves one of the dolls into Krosa's face.

"Look! It's you!"

It doesn't take long for Hilda's parents to leave Krosa to her fate. They have a farm to tend to, so Krosa is coerced into playing dolls with Hilda— which had apparently been the girl's dream since her look-alike was made. The girl reasons that Krosa has nothing better to do, and Krosa was loath to admit she had a point. Hilda squealed as she ran back to her room to grab every doll she owns.

"You remember all their names, right?"

"No."

"What's wrong with your voice?"

"I'm sick."

"Oh yeah. Do you still have Astrid?"

"Who?"

"The doll I gave you."

"Oh. Not currently, but she's somewhere safe," Krosa lies. Hilda shrugs.

"Ok. Now who do you want to play with? But you can't choose yourself! I want to play with her."

"I'll choose yours then."

Hilda looks at her pile of dolls helplessly. "They're all mine."

"I mean the one that looks like you." The girl looks at Krosa like she's the best thing she's laid eyes on as she hands her the doll reverently. Krosa thinks she just fulfilled another one of the girl's long-held wishes. That joy dwindles a bit after they start. Playing with dolls, it seems, is harder than Krosa thought. According to Hilda, Krosa never does anything right.

"Ok. Now pretend she faints." Krosa lays the doll down. Hilda sighs.

"Not like that. You have to do it more dramatically."

"How do I do that?"

"Bring her hand to her head and as she falls, sigh like this," Hilda says, demonstrating with the most ridiculous sigh Krosa's ever heard. Nothing in the world could persuade her to make a sound like that. Luckily the door opens just then. They both turn to it, and Krosa is no longer relieved.

"Oh?" Barbas says, "What's this?"

"We're playing with my dolls!"

"I can see that." He turns to Krosa, a mischievous glint in his eyes, tail wagging, and Krosa knows full well how red her face must be. "Oh the indignity."

"Says the one who—"

"Uh uh uh. Nothing you say now will have any effect, I promise you." He turns to leave, "Sinding is so going to enjoy this."

"Oh, oh, oh! Tell him he can play too!" Krosa wishes more than anything that he does not do that.

"Oh I will, Hilda, don't you worry!"

"Yay!" She jumps out of bed to give him a good scratch on the head. The damned dog enjoys it far too much, giving Krosa a wink before he trots triumphantly out the door. She'll kill him if he or Sinding ever brings this up again.

"Ok," Hilda says, getting back to business. "I faint, you take out the bandits. Then I wake up, and then when you say, 'Are you ok?' I say, 'Thank you! You're my hero!' Got it?"

Krosa's heart skips a beat. "You never said that."

"I know, which is why we're pretending."

"Hilda, I'm not a hero."

"Are too!"

"Am not."

"Are too!"

A staring contest ensues. The girl even has tears in her eyes, and Krosa suddenly sees what she must have seen that day. What she must have felt. Of course she'd see Krosa as a hero, she doesn't know any better. And Krosa would rather her focus on that than the trauma of the whole ordeal. Krosa has never admitted defeat sooner.

"Alright."

"Some hero you are. Imagine her disappointment when she learns how much of a coward you truly are. Alduin will have no trouble defeating you, and oh how she'll suffer under his—"

"Krosa? What's wrong?"

"Nothing, I— It's nothing."

"You look scared."

"I'm not scared. Why would I be scared?"

Hilda looks at her suspiciously, and opens her mouth to reply.

There's a knock at the front door, loud enough for them to hear it from across the house. Krosa's heart races. The knocking is urgent, which is rarely a good sign. Someone opens the door and Krosa can hear the man shouting. Hilda hops off the bed to peek outside the room.

"There— There was a dragon!" Krosa feels her stomach tighten. Hilda gasps, throwing Krosa an amazed look before leaning out again to listen. "They've taken down a dragon!"

"What? Where?"

"Just outside of town. Ohh, it's massive! The Jarl is holding a celebration tomorrow, starting at noon! You should all come see it! There will be feasting, dancing, and games—" the man goes on and on. Krosa doesn't listen to the rest of it. Her mind is whirling with possibilities. Then the door closes, and Krosa's thoughts are interrupted before they can truly begin.

"Can you believe it? An actual dragon, and so close to home!" Hilda exclaims, running back into the room and jumping on the bed.

"And they've killed it," Krosa says, barely believing it. Jarl Balgruuf was wrong. The prophecy must be nothing but a story, and Krosa's just sick. The voices, the hallucinations— all symptoms of whatever it is that's infected her. It just took a while for her to be affected by it fully. It's probably from the spider venom. Gerdur must not have been able to get it all out. She lets out a small huff of laughter, relief settling into her shoulders.


The next day they all set out for the town. Despite her current ailments, Krosa insisted on coming. She needs to see the dead dragon for herself. It's snowing, the snowflakes big and fluffy. Hilda skips along, tongue sticking out and giggling whenever one lands on her tongue. Her parents hold hands, smiling as they watch their daughter. Krosa is lagging behind, her strength not up to par. Sinding and Barbas hang back with her, for once silent for a time.

"You seem to be in a good mood."

Krosa only smiles.

"Is that a smile?"

"No," Krosa says, cringing. Her throat seemed to only grow worse over night, but Krosa's decided to ignore it the best she can. She can endure the pain if it means freedom to speak.

"Are you sure? You know, it's not a weakness. You can admit it and face no judgement from us."

Krosa lets her glare answer for her, though she knows it's not entirely convincing.

"It seems you've lost your sense of humor. Maybe the sickness robbed you of it."

Or maybe it is convincing. Brynjolf would have been able to—

"She never had one in the first place," Barbas claims, saving her from wherever that thought would have taken her. She didn't realize how often she thought about him before.

"I've laughed before." She says, determined to take her mind off of him yet agaon. "You guys just aren't as funny as you think you are."

"Well then, it's a poor sense of humor," Barbas says, then scoffs, "'I've laughed before,' she says. When? Once when you were a child?"

"At least twice." Sinding and Barbas both laugh at that.

It doesn't take much longer for them to reach the town. By the time they get there, Krosa can feel exhaustion pulling at her, but she refuses to acknowledge it. She needs to see the dead dragon.

It seems like anyone who could have come decided to see the dragon for themselves. The narrow streets are crowded with families and friends and their lively chatter. They make their way through the crowd, Hilda grabbing her hand so she doesn't get lost. Krosa lets her, ignoring Barbas and Sinding's exchange of looks. They pass burned buildings and several pits in the road from their battle.

Then there's the dragon, lying just outside the reach of the city. It's massive form is mangled. Chunks of it are missing, as are all of its scales. Two men are sawing through one of its horns. Such a terrible beast, now a heap of meat and scrap, ripe for the picking. Krosa doesn't know why her heart falls at the sight. It's not like it's the first dragon she's seen. It's not even the second. She thought she would feel relieved. She thought seeing it would only confirm her beliefs, but there is something wrong with the image. Krosa doesn't know what. Whatever she's feeling is unnatural. It's not awe, but it also can't be fear or— or… sympathy?

But it is. She can't believe it, but the sight brings her no joy. She actually feels sorry for the creature, for what they're doing to its body. Krosa doesn't fully agree with Farengar, but part of her thinks that they should show some more respect to it. She doesn't know where it comes from or why she feels that way. All she knows is her eyelids getting heavier and her thoughts slower. There's no energy left to do anything other than standing and staying awake.

"You're not as fascinated as most people are when they see it. A downed dragon is a rarer sight than—"

"I'm just tired, that's all."

"Well then, we should get you to bed before you pass out on us again," Sinding says, playfully nudging her shoulder.

"The celebration will last well into the night. You can get a bed at the inn to rest for a bit if you want," Hilda's father says, handing her enough coins to pay for it. Krosa thanks him, then heads for the Inn.

She doesn't fall asleep right away, there's a sinking feeling in her gut. Something isn't right. But she does her best to ignore it and her exhaustion soon takes over. She drifts into a restless sleep.

The dragon bares down on her, barreling past anyone in the way, intent on her death. But before it reaches her, someone manages to pull Krosa out of the way. They both fall to the ground, quickly taking cover behind and under a large boulder overhang to give them a few more seconds. The dragon roars, and the world shakes as he lets out a fiery blast.

"Looks like you've made a friend" the girl quips. When the fiery barrage ends, she throws her spare sword to Krosa as she gets to her feet. "Too bad we'll have to kill it." At Krosa's scowl, the girl cackles.

Then she dies.

Krosa barely has time to blink as the dragon snaps her up in its massive jaws and tosses her out of the way. Krosa has only a moment to act before the beast turns on her. When the dragon comes down again, she moves to impale it through its neck with the sword. But there is no sword. She only looks down at her hands, finding them shackled. She can't escape it. She can't fight it. She can only accept her fate.

The beast swallows her whole.