Brynjolf doesn't know what's bothering him. They travel in almost complete silence. Krosa won't stop shooting him furtive glances; once, she even tried to start up a conversation that quickly petered out into nothing. Usually, the fact that she was trying to be friendly would have made him happy. But right now, he finds he couldn't care less.

Etienne is barely conscious, Brynjolf bearing most of his weight. Krosa offered to help out, but Brynjolf wouldn't have it— though he did allow her to carry the pack of dossiers and jewelry. He's not entirely sure which is heavier. They're going slower than they should be, but it can't be helped. At least the weather's not too bad. It's only cold enough to keep him awake, and there are small flurries that float around, falling slowly to the ground. He can see Krosa looking up and around as subtly as she can, and does his best to ignore it.

He's risked his life for her more than once in just a single night and— No. Not right now. Not when she's so close. They're almost there. And once they are, he'll have a room to himself and can let out his pent up aggravation without worry of upsetting anyone. He can do this. He's good at doing this. By tomorrow, everything will be fine.

When they get there, only a few people are out and about, and the day gets a little darker. Before they go to the Inn, they drop Etienne off at the temple. It's risky, but having all of them at the Inn is riskier. Besides, maybe he'll be better after some time with actual healers. Krosa pays for everything.

They make it. Finally.

"Two rooms, please," Brynjolf says as nicely as he's able.

"I'm sorry, but we only have one."

"Are you sure you—"

"We only have one."

"We'll take it," Krosa says, paying him. "Thank you."

I can't win. Brynjolf tries to keep a straight face. If Krosa's the friendlier of the two of them, then there really is a problem here. But Brynjolf already knew that. And what's worse is he can't solve the problem like he usually does: the only viable candidate is Krosa, and she's the problem… though the serving girl isn't too bad. But that really won't help anything— besides he and Krosa are sharing a room. Not that they need one, but still. She's here, and part of him thinks she'll know what he's doing. Brynjolf hates thinking clearly.

There's drinking, he tells himself, drinking's never failed me before. Brynjolf wishes more than ever he stole a bottle of that wine from the party. Now he'll have to settle for the basics. Krosa doesn't stop him when he leaves without a word, but he can feel her watching him. It takes him a while to find what he's looking for. He lifts a bottle of Mountain Berry Brew, hoping that he can at least pretend it's something fancier. He wonders if he should find some place to drink alone, but he can't avoid her forever.

Krosa is on the floor tending to her blades when Brynjolf returns. She has a collection of them sitting on the bench she's leaning against: one is the Imperial gladius had he retrieved for her— it didn't carry an enchantment nor did it seem special in any way— another is the enchanted glass sword that had torn through soldiers, and finally there are three elven daggers. I wonder what happened to the Skyforge one, Brynjolf thinks, and her shield. He hasn't seen either since the Alik'r fiasco.

"You want some, lass?" he asks, going to the table and pouring the wine into glasses.

Krosa eyes the purple liquid as he comes over to sit opposite of her, trying to find a comfortable spot with the table digging into his back. She sets down the dagger she's working on. "Where did you get that?"

"From the dining hall." He waits for any sign of judgement, but it never comes.

"What does it taste like?"

Brynjolf shrugs. "Whatever mountain berries taste like, I guess. It's good though."

"Alright." She grabs the cup from him and takes a sip, face perfectly blank as she swallows. Brynjolf downs his in three gulps before pouring himself more.

"How are you feeling?"

"If you're upset about—"

"That's not what I meant. Are you feeling any after effects from the poison?" He never asked or tried to notice if she was struggling with anything; it only just occurrs to him as he takes in her paleness and heavy shoulders.

"Not anymore."

"The healer said it should have destroyed you from the inside out. It should have lasted for days."

"It really didn't seem that bad… but—" she drifts off, a pinched look on her face. And it takes Brynjolf a moment to realize what she's trying to say.

"Someone set you up." Brynjolf wants to ask what's going on, but he knows what kind of answer he's likely to get if she even decides to answer. A few seconds pass, and Krosa doesn't offer anything up. Brynjolf doesn't let himself think anything and takes another drink.

"If it weren't for you—"

Brynjolf holds up a finger, cutting her off. He knows where this conversation is going to lead, and this time it's his turn to say whatever in Oblivion he wants. "Not yet. I need to be more drunk if we're going to have this conversation."

Brynjolf downs another glass. Krosa follows his lead, even though it's clear she's not a fan of it. He refills both cups, and they sit there in silence.

When an acceptable amount of time passes and he starts to feel a slight buzz, Brynjolf says, "When are you going to start trusting me, lass?" he asks, swirling the wine in his glass before looking at Krosa. She puts down her cup, only half empty, and Brynjolf wonders if he should just take it from her and save them both some trouble.

"I do… trust you," she says, not looking him in the eye.

"Do you? Because it sure doesn't seem like it. You could have died because you refuse to accept my help. And even worse, you could have brought me down with you! And when I go out of my way to accommodate you, you still give me the cold shoulder."

He refuses to acknowledge that this time it was primarily him with the cold shoulder. Besides, he only did it because she did it first. Well, mostly.

"I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking," Krosa says, staring intently at her hands. "No, I was… I'm just used to doing everything myself… and I guess— It's not you, I— I—" She picks up her glass, and downs the liquid, a slight grimace on her face. Several moments pass before she speaks up again, "I don't like the idea of trusting people. The idea terrifies me."

Brynjolf relents. "Krosa..."

She still won't look at him, and she doesn't let him continue. "I don't know how to not be alone. Anything else is just— I don't—" she fumbles, red tainting her cheeks. "I don't know how… It's uncomfortable for me."

"You know, I'm surrounded by people I've known for years. I have a whole guild that I'm… mostly friends with–" Brynjolf gives her a small smile, though she doesn't see it– "We drink, we laugh, have a good time. Yet I can only count the number of people who ever gave a shit about me on one hand."

"I don't think I've ever had anyone who cared."

"I care, lass." She frowns, finally meeting his eye for a moment. Brynjolf straightens, leg pressing against hers as he places a hand on her knee. He barely registers how cold it feels before saying, "Krosa, I care. That should be obvious by now."

"Part of me wants to believe that."

"Then believe it," he says, scooting closer. "Take that risk. I promise even if I were nothing more than a scoundrel, you'd find a way to survive it." Krosa tenses. Did I go too far? Before he can move, she relaxes.

"But what would be the point?" She shrugs hopelessly. "Of surviving, I mean. You said it before."

Brynjolf grins. "So you do listen to what I say." The barest twitch of a smile graces her face, and Brynjolf feels his heart skip a beat. I've had too much to drink.

"Only sometimes."

Brynjolf removes his hand slowly, and he doesn't know if the regretful longing on her face is real or just part of his imagination. He's glad there's not much left of the wine. It's quiet for a while, and Brynjolf breaks the silence.

"My father was an abusive, drunken bastard. My mother grew sick with grief after a miscarriage, and he abandoned us. I apprenticed with a merchant who went out of business and took to the street, learning how to steal to support us. One day I was caught by a man named Gallus, the previous Guildmaster, who ended up recruiting me after my mother passed away."

Krosa blinks a few times. "Why are you telling me this?"

"You made some good points before, lass. And I remember my mother once said 'sharing is caring.'"

"Does that really apply to this?" Krosa asks softly, raising an eyebrow.

He shrugs. "Why don't we let it?"

She's quiet for a few moments, and Brynjolf holds his breath. He hasn't told anybody this, hasn't had to nor felt the need to. He feels naked and nervous. Wind screeches against the building, rattling the window. Maybe that was too much. Maybe he shouldn't have said anything in the first place. Maybe—

Finally, Krosa speaks.

"I don't know who my family was, or if I ever had one," she says so quietly he can barely hear. "I can't remember." She avoids looking at him, fidgeting with the cup still in her hands.

Brynjolf nods slowly, taking in the information. It wasn't much, but it was enough— actually more than he expected. As hard as it was for him, he can scarcely imagine how hard it was for someone as closed off and untrusting as her. Not that she likely doesn't have good reason to be. The Alik'r come to his mind followed by the scars he's seen. He can only imagine all the ones hidden beneath her— he stops that line of thought in its tracks. That is a dangerous road. The wine really must be getting to him. Strange. He's never been such a lightweight before.

"Okay, lass, now it's your turn," he says before those thoughts have a chance to return.

"Turn for what?"

Brynjolf struggles for a moment. He straightens, a plan already forming. "Asking a question."

"You didn't ask a question though."

"Maybe I'll ask one after," he says with a smirk.

Krosa raises an eyebrow.

"Humor me."

"Ok…" Krosa says slowly, racking her mind for anything worthwhile to ask. Nothing comes. She briefly wonders if she should ask the dragon but doubts he could help even if he wasn't in some kind of hibernation. Brynjolf's looking at her expectantly, so she gives up and says the only one coming to her mind, "What's your favorite color?"

It takes him a moment to react. "Really?" He chuckles as he says, "That's the best you can come up with?"

She crosses her arms. "If it's too personal, then don't tell me."

"Fine… Gold."

"Gold? Really?" He has to be joking.

"What? It's a valid answer! Gold is a color as well as currency," Brynjolf says, crossing his arms. "Look at your daggers for an example. They're a nice gold color." Krosa rolls her eyes, trying not to smile.

"What about you?" It takes her a moment to realize what he's asking, and Krosa feels her heart nearly jump out of her chest.

"I don't have one."

Brynjolf gives her a look. "Lass…"

"What?"

"You can't ask a question you won't answer yourself. It's against the rules."

Krosa blinks, and suddenly the room feels a little too crowded, her head a little too focused, and her skin a little too warm. It's all she can do to keep her breath steady and face straight. "I was unaware there were rules."

"There's always rules."

"Well then, how can I follow them if I don't know what they are?" Krosa asks with what she hopes was a casual shrug.

"Valid point, lass." He pauses, eyes far away and calculating.

Krosa narrows her eyes. "You're just making it up as you go, aren't you?"

Brynjolf shrugs, an innocent look to his eyes. "What's the harm in that? Different situations call for different reactions. I can't plan for all of them, so it's better to adapt to the situation than to try and take control of it."

"I would say controlling it seems like a better idea to me.

"Well, that's probably because you can actually do that. How can a lowly thief like me do what a mighty warrior like you can do?" Krosa doesn't like the sound of that. She doesn't know why, exactly, but it doesn't sit well.

"I wouldn't say 'lowly thief,'" she says, still not feeling any better about it.

"What then?" Brynjolf asks with a winning smile, "A dashing, roguish, handsome one?"

"Actually, I was going to say incompetent." Brynjolf bursts out laughing, a loud, barking sound. Krosa decides that she likes it. He's not putting up any sort of front when he laughs like that, and Krosa finds herself wanting to smile. Maybe he really is more than what he seems. After his laughter dies down, things are comfortably quiet for a while, until Brynjolf breaks the silence again.

"So you really don't have a favorite color?"

Krosa shrugs. "I've never really thought about it. Never really had the time."

"Well, you have time now, lass."

"I do?" Krosa asks timidly.

Brynjolf crosses his arms and feet, leaning back against the table. "I'm patient. Think away."

Krosa feels her gut twist, and a strange and unmistakable sense of being watched. Eyes boring into her, watching her every movement, knowing every thought. What if she can't think of anything? What would he think if she can't think of anything? Why did she ask such a stupid and pointless question? Not that any others would have been better.

"What about getting to sleep early so we can leave before the sun rises?" she says, hiding her hands so he doesn't see them shaking.

"Not nearly as important as this."

"How is this—"

"Krosa. Just do it."

Krosa can't think of anything. Colors flash in her mind like a whirlwind, but still there's nothing. She can't even think of any names so she can make something up. "How can I? There are so many to choose from. How do I know I like one more than any of the others?"

"What color do you tend to lean towards the most?"

Krosa feels her heart drop. Why is this so hard for me? "I don't know, Brown? It's mostly what I wear."

"But do you actually like it, or do you just wear it 'cause it's what is available?"

She shrugs, biting her lip to keep it from trembling. This is so pathetic. Even a toddler could answer this— any child or person. She thinks of a color and cringes, but it's better than nothing.

"Pink." It was Hilda's favorite color.

"Pink? Brynjolf deadpans.

Krosa nods, not meeting his gaze.

Brynjolf narrows his eyes. "Okay. Why?

"It's… nice?" Krosa knows she's not fooling anyone. I should have just said I didn't have one. What's wrong with me?

Brynjolf's quiet for a moment, and she can feel him studying her. "Well that won't do. Give me a moment, lass. I may be able to help you." Krosa risks a glance to see him staring at the ceiling, a serious look on his face before he looks down at her again. Krosa nearly jumps out of her skin, but he gives her no time to adjust. "I guess it calls to you in a way. Maybe there's meaning behind it, or it reminds you of something else you like. There can be a lot of different reasons."

Several minutes go by, and Krosa finally thinks of something… or at least, she hopes it's something. Who knows if Brynjolf will count it or not. "What if I'm thinking of something but don't know what the color is called?"

"What are you thinking of?"

Krosa hesitates. It involves a story, and Brynjolf prefers details— more than she's ever willing to give. But you're trying to prove you trust him. Just get it over with. Krosa takes a deep breath, gathering all her focus to this one moment in time.

"There— There was a time in Hammerfell when we left the mainland to go to an island called Stros M'Kai. We were on a ship when a storm came by. Everyone was terrified and tried to get me to go below deck… But I stayed where I was, gripping the railing with all my strength and gazing out at the churning waves," she says slowly, before adding, "It was beautiful. And terrifying, but… mostly—"

They were going to visit Nazir's family: a sister, if she remembers correctly. He thought they could make a life there— thought, for a moment, that family and stability may not be so bad. Krosa was excited. The boat was huge, and she remembers—

"You weren't scared of falling in?" Brynjolf asks, interrupting her thoughts; it takes her a moment to gather them and redirect them to the conversation at hand.

"I did fall in."

"What?"

"Someone saved me, but that's not the point. I was— there was— I felt something, it was like it was calling to me in a way, like you said. It hit me then, how much I loved the sea. I don't know why I felt it so strongly then."

"Especially since it nearly killed you," Brynjolf says, a trace of humor in his voice, but the look in his eyes doesn't match.

Krosa nods absently, still picturing it. She doesn't realize she's grinding her teeth until she speaks and the pressure is released, "I can't really explain it." She leans back, not realizing how stiff and straight she became during the telling of the story. Remembering it all. "So what color would you call it?"

"Well, I would call it the color of a storming sea," Brynjolf says matter-of-factly. Krosa kicks him lightly. "What?" he asks with a breath of laughter. "I'm being serious, lass! Sometimes there isn't any other name for something besides what it already is!"

"So whenever someone asks me that, I'm going to say 'the color of a storming sea? Isn't that, I don't know… ridiculous?" Krosa asks, eyebrow raised.

"I would say it's poetic."

Krosa only rolls her eyes, then closes them and takes a deep breath.

Krosa can't stop seeing the two men side-by-side and not knowing when one of them ends and the other begins. But Alesan is only a memory— a faded, dark form in her mind. Brynjolf's here physically. She can still feel the warmth radiating off of him where they touch; Krosa lets out a breath of air she didn't know she was holding as Alesan's image fades, leaving only Brynjolf there, looking at her with an emotion she can't decipher in his eyes.

"What are you thinking of?" Brynjolf asks quietly, looking almost as if he didn't mean to ask in the first place.

"You remind me of someone."

"Oh?" Brynjolf asks, a smirk in his eyes.

Krosa shakes her head slowly, looking away. "It's not a good thing… but I know you're not him and I need to remember that."

"There was a 'him,' lass?"

"Why are you here anyway?" Krosa asks, tossing hay at him. After witnessing Alesan cry his brains out, Krosa no longer had the heart to turn him away any time he came for a visit. It's actually nice to have someone help out with the chores, it gives her more time to just relax. She even showed him her favorite secret spot, and now they're just laying there and chatting about nothing and everything. She hasn't had anyone to talk to in forever. She hates to admit things seem just a little better when he's near. Though, she tends to feel sick more often.

"My family owns a farm," he says, swiping the hay out of his hair and tossing it back at her half-heartedly. "And with the drought, things were getting tough. They needed money and Vander is pa's cousin. They worked out an agreement."

"What was the agreement? All I've seen you do is bother me," Krosa says, rolling onto her back. Alesan stands, and Krosa barely has time to react before a pile of hay is dropped on her face.

"They're training me to fight in the arena for them," he says as if he didn't just accost her with far more hay than necessary. "Their last competitor died, and apparently arena fighters make a lot of money." Krosa gets up, hay falling into small piles around her as she glares at him.

"Why are you here?" he asks softly, taking a seat again, a finger drawing lines on her arm.

Krosa should have known he would ask that. She shoves his hand away.

"Are those tears I see?"

"No," Krosa says, but he looks doubtful. "Stop looking at me. Look over there–" He obeys– "Stop smiling." His smile only grows wider.

"You remind me of my sister," he says, gazing out the window at the stars in the darkening sky. "She's just as bossy as you are."

"I'm not bossy," Krosa harrumphs, yanking as much hay out of her hair and out of her clothes as she can.

He shrugs."If you say so." It takes her several moments to get a hold of herself, and when she does realizes how close he's gotten.

"What are you doing?" she asks, her stomach immediately full of tumbling cotton. He is always invading her space, and Krosa hates it because she can't stop looking at his lips or imagining him coming even closer.

"I was thinking of kissing you," Alesan says, voice hoarse.

Krosa's heart flutters. "Why?" And why now?

"I want to… Don't you want to kiss me?"

Krosa shakes her head, feeling her face getting warmer. "We shouldn't. We'll get caught."

"That's not what I asked."

Krosa tries to think, to debate with herself on what she really wants, and what is worth the risk but he moves before she can properly form any sort of logical thought.

His lips touch hers softly, one hand coming up to her face. Krosa doesn't know what she's supposed to do, so she copies his movement. Both their lips are dry and chapped, but she doesn't mind and it doesn't seem like he does either. It grows more and more insistent as he draws even closer, his hands wandering all over, leaving her skin tingling and longing for more. She's never been touched this way before— never been touched with any sort of affection. Nazir would only ever place a hand on her shoulder or ruffle her hair, and even that was rare.

She likes it.

His lips on hers.

His body's warmth.

She doesn't want it to stop.

When his hand finds its way under her shirt, she finally has enough sense to pull away.

"I don't want to get pregnant," she blurts out: she's too young, she doesn't want a child, and she doesn't know what Vander would do to her if it happened. Nazir told her how… this works after she witnessed a couple in the wilderness. He told her how amazing it could feel, how normal it is, and Krosa has to admit that she's always been curious. But he also warned her of the dangers of it.

Alesan chuckles, stroking her cheek before giving her another kiss, this time making his way down her neck. "There are ways to avoid that," he says, as he gives her body his full attention.

Krosa nods and lets him have his way with her. It wasn't as great as she thought it would be, but it wasn't so bad either. They wake up before the sun that morning, with Krosa nestled against his warmth. When she tries to pull away, he pulls her right back to him, and she lands with a grunt.

"Where are you going?"

"It's too hot for this," Krosa groans, and the longer they linger the more likely it becomes that they'll be caught.

"For what? Cuddling?"

"Don't call it that," Krosa says, face flaming. She hates that word. Alesan laughs, but lets her go. She glares at him when he tries to watch her get dressed, and he laughs again before following her lead. I'll have to wash up before I get to work, she thinks, as she shakes hay out of her shirt. A day as hot as this one is bound to be gruesome. Especially with the memory of what they did that night. She blushes just thinking about it.

"You know," he says, with a mischievous smile, "we could run away."

"I don't want to talk about it. I just thought you should know," Krosa says, barely noticing how hollow her voice sounds, how thick and blurry the room before her gets. It gets harder to breathe, her throat constricting against invisible hands.

"That does help… put things in perspective," Brynjolf says slowly, and Krosa closes her eyes, not wanting him to see her struggle. "Krosa, are you alright?"

She doesn't know what else to do, so she shakes her head before opening her eyes and pointing to the bottle of wretched, disgusting wine. "Can I have some more of that?"

Brynjolf grabs it, giving it a shake. "All out, unfortunately, but I think I can swipe another one. I'll be right —" he says, getting up, but Krosa stops him, hand on his leg.

"No, that's okay. I'll just—I don't need it," Krosa sighs. The longing and tingling still hasn't left, and her head is buzzy. Who knows how much Brynjolf's affected. The last thing she needs is a night of drunken fumbling and regrets. "We probably shouldn't."

"Alright...You can have the bed if you want, I'll take the floor," he says, helping her to her feet. She doesn't even try arguing. His hands are warm and the callouses scratch softly against her skin. She wonders if he can feel hers too.

"Goodnight," Krosa says, dropping his hand and turning. She barely hears his reply as she collapses into bed. Even with how tired she is, she doubts she'll get any rest tonight.

The whole journey to Rorikstead is filled with random, short bursts of conversation and long bouts of silence. Etienne is sitting next to Brynjolf and already he seems better, sometimes joining in on the conversation, though sometimes saying things that make no sense. The healer told them to give it time, but whatever happened to him may have wholly destroyed his mind. Delphine will not be happy, but Krosa finds she cares even less than before.

Krosa can feel that the dragon's strength has returned, but she also feels a sense of uneasiness, especially when looking at Etienne. She assumes it's coming from the dragon, but he hasn't replied to anything Krosa has said to it. It doesn't bother her as much as she thought it would. After all, Brynjolf more than makes up for it.

Krosa had no idea Brynjolf had an affinity for beautiful things. Krosa isn't entirely sure what that means, but hopes she has the right idea. It mostly shows in gems and jewels, or well-crafted clothes, but also poetry and art. His mother was fond of it as well. He speaks of her fondly, though looks sad every time he brings her up. Krosa can't imagine anyone talking about her like that.

For all the information and conversation he gave her, she was only able to offer one tidbit of information. She's starting to understand his aggravation when she doesn't give him anything to go off of. But it still doesn't feel right. She doesn't feel ready. Anything she would be willing to tell him he already knows. There's not much to me, I guess— the fact never bothered her before.

"You can count me," Krosa says after they drop Etienne off at the temple in Rorikstead— this time at his insistence. It comes out with no warning, but it kept tumbling around in her head, and Krosa didn't know what else to do with it. It's better than nothing.

"What, lass?"

"On your hand… if there's room," Krosa says, not knowing if she really wants him to understand or forget she said anything.

Brynjolf's brow furrows as he holds the door open for her, before understanding dawns his face and he smiles, mirth in his eyes. "There's a whole other hand, you know."

Krosa scowls. "You know what I meant."

"Aye, lass. I do. Thank you."

The silence takes its turn, and this time Krosa is not comfortable with it. Brynjolf seems to be mulling something over, and giving her worried looks.

"You looked lovely at the embassy," he says without warning after paying for their separate rooms. Krosa has no idea who he got the money from. "I didn't dare say it then. But, since we're being honest with each other–" he gives a small bow– "Though I have to say, I prefer your usual get-up. You look far more comfortable in it. I'll see you in the morning, Krosa."

He leaves her at the bottom of the stairs, taking them by two. Krosa just stands there, dumbfounded and flaming-faced. She can't bring herself to be annoyed, and she hates it. Even if they're not the same people— Stop. Don't even think about it. She doesn't want to deal with any of it. Krosa marches up the stairs, shoulders set and mind made.

She was afraid of this.

Brynjolf's never felt lighter. He's also never felt so unsettled before. It's not a terrible feeling, but he can't help but feel like he overshared— something he never does. At least I didn't tell her everything. Especially since she gave him so— No. She doesn't owe him anything. In fact, after this he thinks that they're even. Both of them know things they didn't really want the other to know. This is the strangest transaction I've ever been a part of.

But it's also his favorite.

Stop it, go to sleep. He can't. There's a noise in the room next to his— Krosa's room. She may be having trouble trying to sleep too. Maybe they could make better use of this time if neither of them can sleep. Another noise sounds— he's sure of it. He gets out of bed and goes to the door— And what do you plan to do? What if you're just imagining things?

Oh shit. He didn't think about that. You're right, he tells himself, and takes a seat on the bench, comforting himself with the thought that he's just sleep deprived and his brain isn't working properly. This is so unlike him. What even is this? Before he can come up with any theories, there's a knock at the door. Brynjolf slowly goes to open the door, not sure if he'll see what he wants to see or if it's someone else entirely.

It's Krosa.

"I can't sleep."

He tries not to feel anything, or look at her too intensely. Or imagine any reasons for why she's here, and what they could do with their time. What is wrong with me? He clears his throat. "Want to come in or—"

"Leave. I want to leave." It's only then that he notices the panic. He steps out the door looking her over for any sign of the cause of her distress.

"Did something happen, lass?"

"No. I mean, yes— I don't know, but I think— it's hard to—" she shakes her head, "we should go. Please."

He studies her, all feelings of lust replaced with worry. There are so many things that could make her start acting like this. He wonders if he should push the issue, but the look in her eyes makes him wonder if she even knows what's wrong. "Okay. Let me grab my things."

She follows him into the room, and he nearly tells her to go get ready before seeing she already has it all with her. She likely wouldn't have taken no for an answer. As soon as he's finished, Krosa takes the lead. Brynjolf forgot about Etienne and almost tells Krosa they're going the wrong way. The streets are empty, and the world is quiet save for their footsteps crunching in the snow. Only one priest is awake and he thankfully asks no questions as he leads them to Etienne. He's asleep.

"Do we wake him up?" Krosa asks, looking at the poor man like a disease.

"Etienne, lad, we need to get moving," Brynjolf says, shaking the man's shoulder. Etienne's eyes fly open, and he sits straight up, head nearly colliding with Brynjolf's.

"No, no, I don't want to go," he pants. "The end— the dragons. Doom— doom upon us all. They want to know. They want to—" He closes his eyes, body falling back down to the bed.

"Well that was interesting," Brynjolf says, looking to Krosa. She doesn't say anything, doesn't look him in the eyes. She knows something. He recalls the Thalmor, the poison, and the names. "But there's no point in wondering what in Oblivion that was," he says, moving to drag Etienne out of the bed. "There won't be any carts available at this time, lass," Brynjolf says, wondering if this is another one of her ill-thought plans.

"I know. We're walking."

Brynjolf sighs, "Lass, horses would—"

"Or we can steal one. A cart, I mean." Brynjolf doesn't know whether to be proud or worried that she has no qualms about stealing so callously. This is not how he hoped his night would go.

"I think that will be easier said than done," he says, regretting everything that led to this.

"But it can still be done."

Brynjolf has nothing to say to that, so they go on with Etienne in tow. Krosa leads the way, walking a little faster than Brynjolf can keep up with until she disappears completely. Brynjolf grumbles, wishing he were in bed. But when he makes it to the stables, he sees Krosa has already secured the cart. I'll have to ask her how she did it later, Brynjolf thinks, grudgingly impressed. She helps him put Etienne on the cart, then he goes to get a horse.

He goes for the Clydesdale named Heather, if he read the carving correctly. An odd name, for a horse, but it's not his place to judge. The options are slim, and for once Brynjolf feels bad about stealing a horse. But if I leave her at the Whiterun stables, at least there's a chance they can recover her. He spares no more thought to it and gets to work.

"How's your guild?" Krosa asks after they've been traveling for some time. She opted to sit in the back, and Brynjolf assumes she is scanning the area behind for any sort of threat. He tries to do the same up front, but it's getting harder to stay awake. Figures.

"Same as always," he says, straightening, "All this will help," he says, tilting his head to the pack beside Krosa.

"How's Aiden?"

Brynjolf frowns. "You know, I'm not sure. I've been, well, not there, if you know what I mean. I plan to take him out on a job when I return. The poor lad probably needs it," he says, then is graced with the thought of another thing that could make it all up to him. "I'm sure he'd be ecstatic if you ever wanted to come down for a visit."

"I'm not so sure that's a good idea."

Brynjolf ignores the disappointment that finds its way to his stomach. It's likely that she has no intentions of going back there ever again despite their tentative friendship.

"Last time he tried convincing me to give him a 'stabbity class,'" she says after a pause.

Brynjolf smiles. "He did what?."

"And that was after he gave me a bloody nose."

"What?"

"He ran into the room as I was leaving and the door slammed into my face. You should have seen the look on his."

"That boy is always in a rush," Brynjolf says, shaking his head. Is this to distract me, or is this her real reason? Brynjolf feels he knows the right answer, but hopes he's wrong. "I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive him," he says, trying to keep his voice playful and glances back at her.

Krosa rolls her eyes, but Brynjolf can see the hints of a smile.

"You know, I tried teaching him how to throw knives once. Nearly took my head off, but the lad can sure pick a damn lock." She doesn't say anything to that. Neither of them say anything for a while.

"I'll visit when I can."

Brynjolf barely heard her, and then isn't entirely sure if he heard her right. "Just let me know beforehand so I can be sure I'll be there."

"Okay." His hands tighten on the reins. He hopes that means it's not an empty promise. He will never be sure with her.

"Have you run into any more of those Alik'r, lass?" he asks, cringing. But it's been clawing at him, and he's too tired to think better of it. At least it's not a personal question.., right?

There's a pause. "No. Have you?"

Brynjolf shakes his head. "They could have thought you fled and left Skyrim." Which means she doesn't have to worry about running into them anytime soon.

Krosa scoffs, "That would be nice, but it probably won't be long till they come back, if they even left in the first place."

"Why so grim and pessimistic?" Brynjolf asks with fake cheer.

"Honestly, I'd be surprised if Whiterun's not completely destroyed by the time we get back with how my luck has been going."

Brynjolf knows a thing or two about that. Delvin's theory is starting to seem more likely. Or maybe it's just the end of the world so everything's going to shit. After all, no one really knows if the Dragonborn has been found yet despite the occasional rumor, and with whatever Etienne has been going on about, the idea seems to have spread to the majority of people. And he still has no idea what Krosa's been up to.

"Things have really been that bad?" he asks, glancing back at her again to see a grim look on her face.

"You have no idea."