"Krosa, lass, look at me," Brynjolf says, turning her face to him when she doesn't comply. Shit. Brynjolf may not be a healer, but Ingun told him a lot about poisons during their potion-making sessions, and only one of the symptoms are red veins in the eyes. Brynjolf can only guess at what else she's been feeling this whole time. Poison would explain everything.

"Why didn't you say anything, lass?" he asks, holding back his anger. If she had just said something. They likely could have found a cure or something to relieve the pain at the Embassy.

"What are you talking about?"

"Poison like this doesn't just appear out of nowhere. You were acting strange the whole damned night," he says, trying to find something that could be a clue as to her condition, but her makeup is still thick and, for the first time that night, Brynjolf wishes it wasn't there.

Krosa pulls her face out of his hands. "It's fine, Brynjolf. Don't worry about it. I'm already feeling better. I'm fine." Brynjolf wonders how bad it was if she considers this better. She almost seems drunk. He has no idea which poison this could be. There are far too many possibilities, even if he could narrow it down by symptoms.

"Tell me everything that you felt," he says, crossing his arms and Krosa plops back down in her seat, hand at her temple. The cart starts moving again— going a little faster this time, and Brynjolf is grateful that someone else besides him has sense.

"I just felt sick… off… and tingly."

He sits down next to her, taking a deep breath and placing a hand on her knee, giving her no choice but to acknowledge his existence. "Krosa. I know you hate it, but now is the time to be as detailed as possible."

Her scowl is weak. "My stomach hurt and I was dizzy. It was hard to focus or think… and I felt weak, I guess."

Brynjolf grinds his teeth, keeping himself from reacting. If he gets angry, Krosa will get angry, and right now she needs to be as calm and relaxed as possible.

"Why didn't you say anything?" he asks when he has a handle on himself.

She shrugs. "I thought it was just something I ate or stress or something."

Brynjolf's not sure he believes that. "Have you had anything to eat or drink?"

Krosa shakes her head. "I can't remember."

"Krosa—" His hand on her knee tightens.

"I don't know, probably— wait. This morning. At the Inn." There's a look of realization on her face before it's marred by a grim scowl.

"Have you had hot or cold flashes?"

"No," she says quickly, and Brynjolf knows she just wants him to stop talking. He lifts his hand, wondering why in the world she's not taking this more seriously.

"How do you feel now, lass?" he asks as she sinks lower into the seat, arms crossed.

"Tired… Grumpy."

He waits for more before he sits back, seething. Does she just not realize how bad it is? Is it the poison? Or can she just not bring herself to care? Is it him? Whatever it is, Brynjolf's had enough of it. He—

"I hate to break it to you guys, but it looks like we got company," the driver says, tilting his head to the right. Brynjolf turns to see a cart in the distance, full of people. When he squints, he sees who they are.

"Shit." Shit shit shit. This is the last thing they need right now. Anything that gets Krosa's heart rate up could worsen the effects and bring her quicker to death. But if they don't fight, they're worse than dead, and Krosa's the best chance they got.

"Krosa, can you fight?"

"I can always fight," she says, watching the cart of Thalmor with murder in her eyes.

"They have mages, lass."

"I can see that," she all but growls. "I'm not completely helpless."

Brynjolf considers his options. None are ideal. Ideal would be Krosa not poisoned, and the Thalmor not chasing them. Or one or the other.

"Do you think you can lose them?" he asks the driver.

"I can try."

"I said I can fight," Krosa insists, sitting straighter.

"But it may make the poison go through your system quicker, lass. I don't know if I want to risk it."

"Are we still going to Solitude?" the driver asks, and Brynjolf shakes his head.

"No."

"Yes."

"Krosa—"

"All my stuff is there. I'm not leaving it behind. End of story." Brynjolf misses when she was delirious and cooperative.

"We'll have to fight them then. They'll be expecting Solitude even if we—" The map from the office flashes through his mind, and he closes his eyes to better picture it. There was a big blue flag in Solitude Hold, close to Dragon Bridge. That can only mean one thing.

"You guys need to decide right now." The crossroads is coming. Brynjolf can see it from here.

"I don't have a problem with that."

Brynjolf makes up his mind. "Take us to Dragon Bridge."

"What?" the driver and Krosa ask simultaneously

"There should be a Stormcloak camp in that area."

"Brynjolf—"

"Once we take care of them, we'll go back to Solitude, lass. We may not even need to go all the way."

She huffs and mutters something under her breath. The driver turns sharply onto the road to Dragon Bridge, urging the horses to a near gallop. Krosa grimaces as the ride gets even bumpier.

"You'll tell me if it gets worse, lass?" She nods and Brynjolf wonders if he should make her say it out loud. He's not even sure she really heard him or knows what she's agreeing to.

"Need some help with that?" Alesan asks, approaching with casual swagger.

"No," Krosa says, focusing on the mess in front of her. Vander's men sure know how to leave the stables a mess. A horse neighs, pushing against the stall door. Krosa hates horses.

"Are you sure? That's a lot of work for a little lady like yourself."

"Stop calling me that. I'm not little."

Alesan smirks. "That's a lot of work even for a determined lady like yourself."

Krosa blushes, then scowls. "Go away. Stop trying to help me." He'll only make things worse. What doesn't he get about that?

"You're not very good at being nice, are you?"

"There's no such thing as 'nice' here." Nice is a façade, a lure, a trick. She sweeps harder, the broom smacking on the ground and dust and dirt rising up in clouds. Nice doesn't come without a price— and falling for it just proves that one is not worthy of survival. Her nose burns, but she refuses to sneeze. She's lucky there's not much pretending left around here anymore.

After this, she'll have to clean out the stalls.

"You sure are something else," he says, leaning against the wall. Krosa ignores him and continues working and thinking of all she has yet to do today. Soon, he loses interest and leaves.

When it's time to eat, Krosa happily leaves. She's already more than halfway through the damn list. Maybe she'll have some time to relax before the day is done.

Krosa exits the servant's quarters and makes her way quickly back to the stables. The sun beats heavily down on her back, casting shadows into the brown grass. She smiles. If she finishes before sunset, she can go to her favorite spot and write in her journal before night time. No one's found it yet. She stops when she sees someone else in the stables— Alesan.

"What are you doing?" she asks, running in to see the damage done.

"Helping."

She slaps him.

"Are you stupid? I said I don't need your help! Do you not understand what that means?" Tears sting both their eyes, and he's shocked speechless. Krosa looks through all the windows, trying to see if anyone would have seen.. If they caught him— All it would take is one look into the window at the wrong time.

"I'm sorry," he says, leaving her alone with the horse shit.

When Krosa finishes far earlier than planned, she finds it hard to relax.

Ralof hates this post. He'd rather be out there with Ulfric, reclaiming Holds rather than holed up here. In his short career as a Stormcloak soldier, he only had to sleep in one encampment before this— and that was when it was warmer. Now, his snot is frozen in his nose, he can never truly feel his toes, and the men are rowdier and messier than Ralof thought possible. It was charming at first— fun even— but now it gives him a headache. He always has a headache.

It's impossible to have any sort of privacy, even in one's tent. Guard duty is when he has the most semblance of peace. But the gods, it seems, have other plans for tonight. It started with one cart barreling down the road, moving loud enough to get half the camp to listen as they go, making jokes and bets as to where they are heading. They slowed down when they saw him, steering off the road. Ralof hoped he wouldn't get reprimanded for being so out in the open.

A man hopped off the cart and ran to him, other soldiers surrounding him. The man and the women with him sport elven armor, the driver is in thick furs and leather, and someone is swaddled in what looks like Thalmor Justiciar robes.

"Who are you? Wh—"

"The Thalmor are right behind us. We need your help," the man said quickly, and the sound of a cart coming down the hill got the rest of them moving. It's amazing how fast they got into position, but it's not at all surprising: most of the men here are always itching for a fight. And they all hate Thalmor with every fiber of their being.

The ambush went well at first, but it didn't take long for the Thalmor to recover. And now, it's a camp-wide battle, hundreds of men versus less than a dozen of the damned elves. Whoever these people are, the Thalmor really didn't want to lose them.

Ralof had only heard tales of what it was like to face the Thalmor on the battlefield. The tales don't do them any justice. Flashes of blue, purple, and orange taint the sky, freezing, electrocuting, and burning anyone who comes too close. But it seems they weren't as prepared as they could have been. When their magic flickers, they don't drink any potions to re-energize themselves, and it doesn't take long for their magic to drain out.

The woman fights like a hurricane— an equal match for the elves. If it weren't for her magic, Ralof would assume they'd see more casualties on their side. She stumbles sometimes and wavers, but she recovers quickly. Ralof wishes he could join in, adding another sword to their side, but right now he's their only healer. And he needs to stay alive.

As soon as the elves' magic shows signs of failing, the woman goes in, dispatching two of them almost simultaneously. The man stays close to her, helping when he can and barely taking his eyes off of her for more than a second. A group of soldiers struggle with one Thalmor who can take them down with a single swing of his sword. He goes after the woman next, separating her from the man. Another elf charges at the man and neither of them sees it coming.

The effects of the poison seem to disappear as she fights. Krosa feels more like herself than she has in days, weeks even. No, she feels far better. The power of the dragons thrums through her veins, giving her more than enough strength, speed, and magicka.

"Do you think you can take them all out at once?" a soldier fighting beside her asks after she lets loose a fiery blaze from the palm of her hand.

"I don't have that kind of power," Krosa says, wondering why he felt the need to ask. If she could have, she would have. Even if she did use the Voice she doubts it would kill all of them, and she has no idea if their magical wards would protect them from it or not.

"You don't have that kind of power yet. But you could, if you wished it. Not even magic could protect them from your fury."

"You're back. Where were you?"

The dragon doesn't reply, and Krosa refocuses on the fight with renewed anger. A Thalmor comes at her, sword crackling with electricity. Krosa ducks and dodges, knowing what would happen if she parried the blade. Many men have already fallen to it. She waits for the perfect time to strike— she sees it. Krosa knocks the blade out of his hand, bringing hers between the crevice of his armor and into his stomach. He slumps onto her blade.

"This isn't over. We'll find you," he hisses into her ear, and Krosa twists her blade, ignoring the clenching in her stomach. Usually she avoids causing unnecessary pain. The elf groans, then goes limp. She pulls it out, and he falls to the ground. She stabs him one more time through the back of his neck for good measure.

"So there is some dragon in you after all." the dragon muses. Krosa doesn't know if she likes the sound of that, but the dragon certainly thinks it's a compliment.

Krosa steps away from the body, surveying the battlefield. There should only be two left, but they're nowhere to be seen. The others must have gotten to them. Krosa stifles her disappointment before looking around to find Brynjolf. He's also nowhere to be seen.

"Brynjolf!" she calls out, assuming the worst.

"Over here, lass."

She turns to the sound of the voice, breaking into a run when she sees him on the ground, the body of a Thalmor close by. The Stormcloak soldier hovering over him blocks most of her view, and it's only when she's right by their side that she sees the knife embedded into his stomach.

"How bad is it?" she asks, kneeling and getting a good look.

"I can't tell, but it seems stuck in there pretty good," the soldier says, nudging her away to finish his own inspection.

"Can you heal him? Do you have a healer?"

"I'm the healer."

"You should look at her too," Brynjolf says, cringing as he tries to move into a better position. "She was poisoned by the Thalmor."

The soldiers look at her, some with worry and others with doubt.

"I told you I feel fine, Brynjolf."

"You're welcome." Krosa brushes the dragon off as she helps cut off Brynjolf's cuirass at the healer's beckoning, doing her best not to jostle the knife. Her heart thunders in her chest, and her hands tremble slightly as she pulls the cuirass off.

There's barely any blood.

It hits her then, why that must be. She yanks the knife out, causing the healer to balk as she tears the hole in his tunic wider and pulls out a tangle of golden chains. Red stains them, and they're falling apart from being sliced through. The wound itself is hardly worth any worry, though it will require stitches. Everyone is quiet, and Krosa sees Brynjolf hiding a smirk.

"Looks like you got lucky," the soldier states, inspecting the wound after leveling Krosa with a glare, and he pulls out a sparkling bracelet from within the tunic. Several soldiers lean in to get a better look. Krosa wonders how on Nirn Brynjolf stuffed so much in there, and how much more there even is.

"I got that one off of a High Elf," Brynjolf says, and Krosa doesn't know whether to hit him or strangle him. The others look equally unimpressed. Her head pounds worse than before as the adrenaline starts to fade, but she ignores it.

"Now's a good time to tell us what this is all about," the soldier says as he pulls out a small bottle, cloth, needle, and thread from a pouch at his side and gets to work.

"We were freeing a prisoner," Krosa says, getting to her feet. "And—" she starts, but darkness comes crashing in, and she has no choice but to fall in.

"You're coming with us?" Alesan asks when she arrives, and Krosa glares at him. Ever since she slapped him, he's kept his distance. She still feels bad about it, but she has a sneaking suspicion that he would not have listened if she hadn't.

"She's the distraction you suggested," Vander says, not even sparing her a look.

"But she could be caught— and— and killed."

"Better her than us, my boy. Besides, I think you'll be surprised at what she can do." Krosa keeps her face neutral as Vander speaks. This is her first mission since Nazir abandoned her here, she has no idea what to expect from Vander. "Loosen up. You're as stiff and useless as a board like that."

Alesan looks at her helplessly. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"I do whatever Vander tells me to do," is all she says, and Vander nods.

"A good answer, girl," he says to her, placing a hand on her shoulder while giving Alesan a warning look. Krosa clenches her teeth, avoiding both their eyes. "And you'd better stop talking to her. She knows her place, it's about time you learned it too."

Krosa's eyes snap open, and she sits up, looking around frantically. She's in what looks like a long tent, fulfilled with rows of cots and injured soldiers. It's light out, but it's hard to tell what time it is with no sun to see.

"Easy, easy," a man's voice soothes, and a blonde-haired blue-eyed Nord with a disfiguring scar on his face comes over to her. Krosa slows her breathing. He was the healer from the night before, but also—

"I know you."

"From Helgen, I believe," he says, and then she remembers: the soldier who was with Ulfric. That's who he is.

Krosa's glad she decided not to use any of her Shouts. Ulfric will likely hear about this, and that could have been disastrous.

"Your friend explained everything," the soldier says as he inspects her eyes. "Quite the daring mission."

Krosa has no idea what Brynjolf would have said about their excursion and decides it's better not to speak of it. Instead, she asks, "Where is he?"

"He went to Solitude, but he should be back soon. The skinny one is over there, at the end," he says, pointing. Krosa glances over for only a second before turning back to the soldier.

"And the poison?"

"Gone from your system it seems, though I hardly understand how. It was mostly gone before I gave you the antidote. I'm surprised you were able to fight so well. That poison should have wrecked you."

The dragon. That's what he was up to the whole time. Krosa regrets any poor thoughts she's ever had about him. She doesn't know how he convinced the others to help out— or maybe they just didn't want to speak to her. That would make more sense. I'll have to thank him later. Right now his presence is faint, almost as if he's resting.

"What happens now?" Krosa asks.

"Once your friend gets back, we're moving camp. And you get to go wherever you're off to, but we're keeping the cart and horses."

"What about the driver?" Krosa asks, wondering how he'd be okay with that arrangement.

"He didn't make it."

"Oh." Krosa says, feeling numb. She doesn't even know his name. He could have a family waiting for him for all she knows.

"Dragon Bridge isn't far, only an hour's walk from here." Then, he pauses, studying her. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine."

He frowns. "You said that before you passed out. Your friend made me promise to ensure you don't overexert yourself."

"I don't feel anything. Maybe a little hungry."

The soldier smiles and gets to his feet. "You can eat, but stick to bland foods. I'm not sure if you can handle anything stronger, but it's better to be safe than sorry. Oh— and drink plenty of water. I was just about to leave for a late lunch, if you want to come with me."

Krosa nods, getting up slowly and trying not to be too irritated by his constant gaze and asking how she's feeling. He's only doing his job. When they exit the tent, the light hurts Krosa's eyes, and she has to squint. The camp is in the process of packing up but there's nothing quick about it. Several men grumble, though some seem to be glad for something to do.

When they reach the food tent, Krosa has to keep herself from running and shoving people out of the way to get to it quicker. She blames the dragons. Luckily for her, it's easy enough considering how exhausted she still feels. Soup and bread, that's all there is—and there's not much left by the looks of it. Krosa hopes they're allowed to have seconds. After getting their food, the soldier leads her to an empty spot, clear of soldiers.

"I usually like to eat alone," he explains, and Krosa only nods in reply, immediately digging into the soup.

"I take it Ulfric will hear about this," Krosa says once she finishes.

"The report has already been sent." Great, Krosa thinks as she tears into a roll next. It's dry and flavorless, but Krosa won't hold that against it. "You're allowed seconds," the soldier says as he gives her a water flask to drink from. "But you should wait a few minutes. Too much all at once could make you feel sick— and a tip for rolls, dipping them in the soup helps."

Krosa nods, before getting up to do just that. She pockets extra rolls, just in case Brynjolf is hungry when he returns. He's only out there for her, paying him with food is the least she could do— even if the second serving fails to fill her. Once she's well and truly done with eating, the soldier recommends she get more rest. She's never met anyone with so many good ideas, and happily does as she's told.

There's someone outside— footsteps crunching the hay. Krosa readies herself for anything. It's not unusual that one of Vander's men pays her a visit while drunk and aggressive. They've never been able to do anything quite yet, and Krosa's not about to let them tonight, even if her arm is killing her from the job. When the figure emerges from the darkness, Krosa relaxes a bit. It's only Alesan. She could take him in her sleep.

"I think you were right," he says when he sees her, and Krosa tries not to acknowledge his pained expression. "They're not nice, are they?" he asks, and Krosa's curiosity gets the better of her.

"What happened?" she asks, and he breaks down at the question, shoulders shaking and tears streaming down his face while he just stands there stupidly.

Krosa's eyes go wide. "Don't do that!" she exclaims, tensing up as she looks around, not knowing what to do. "They'll punish you if they see you do that."

"What am I supposed to do?" he asks, wiping away tears with a fist.

"Suck it up. Turn it off, I don't know! Just stop!"

"I don't want to go back in there."

"You'll have to eventually."

"Can I just stay here for now? I promise I'll hide if anyone comes along. And I won't get in the way of—" He looks around the barn, then at her curiously, "whatever you're doing here."

Is this a trick? Krosa wonders briefly, but the sight of him standing there looking so sad is too pathetic, and Krosa knows it can't be. No member of the Da'Vam family would ever bring themselves so low. She sets down the pitchfork she's holding, having almost forgotten she still has it up and at the ready. Krosa sighs, Why does he have to be such a baby?

"Fine. But you really should stop crying."

Hands at her throat— struggling to breathe. Fighting for her life, tears running down her face. The sting of betrayal, the sting of a blade. Krosa won't die. Not like this— not here. All that's on her mind is rage and fear— desperation. A will to survive.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Murderer.

"Fight it. Don't let it consume you." Krosa tries catching her breath, but the panic has already set in.

Traitor.

Krosa turns around as the scene changes, and this time it's Sinding standing there, tears in his eyes.

Traitor.

Hands around her neck, fighting to survive. Fighting to breathe, fighting to live. Always, always. Never an end. Crying, hurting—

"You're in control. End it."

Something touches her neck, and her eyes fly open. It's Brynjolf.

"What are you doing!?" She sits up, hand flying to the offending part of her neck still warm from his fingers.

"Checking your pulse," he says, hands raised in defense.

"My pulse is fine."

"Well, I can see that now."

"Next time, wake me up like a normal person!" Krosa says, unusually agitated. She doesn't even know why it's so prevalent, like a disease festering and itching beneath her skin. She rubs the spot he touched, before dropping her hand.

"The last time I tried that you punched me." Krosa only glares. "Here," he says, handing her her pack. "I put your armor under the cot, and your sword is right there." He nods to the head of her bed, and Krosa sees it leaning against the tent, within easy reach. She loosens her shoulders.

"Thanks," Krosa mumbles, taking the pack from him and checking it's contents. Not to see if he stole anything, she tells herself, just to see if there's anything he missed. Everything's there. The sight of her journal hardens her stomach.

"Don't mention it," he says, turning to leave.

Krosa sighs, "Brynjolf."

"Hmm?" he says, an eyebrow raised as he comes back to her.

"I'm still… upset about the journal thing. But I'm also sorry for how I treated you. And for— well, you know—" Krosa doesn't know why this is so hard.

"Thinking I was a traitorous bastard?" he asks, and Krosa notices the distance in his voice.

"Yeah. That. And for calling you one," Krosa watches him carefully.

"I believe what you said was 'lying bastard', lass," he says, giving her a tight smile. "But I appreciate the apology nonetheless."

"I saved you some food. Thought you might be hungry." Krosa pulls out the square of cloth with the rolls stored inside. He takes it. He doesn't really even look at it.

"I am. Thank you, lass."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Don't worry about it."

"Brynjolf—"

"You should get ready to go. We're leaving soon," he says, then leaves.