Hello! I thought I would try something new for the beginning of the chapter and was inspired by those cold opens in TV shows where you don't know what's going on then getting flashbacks to what brought them there. It doesn't work exactly like that, and also I couldn't think of any other way to write it so hopefully it works. I tried to do it all in the format, but that wasn't really working, so hopefully it doesn't feel too out of place.

They were traveling, him and her and— someone else? There was talking, a lot of talking. Then arguing, then running. Running. He remembers doing a lot of that, but was it before or after?

Trapped. Is he still trapped? It's possible— everything is possible apparently. Even the unspeakable.

Pain. Unspeakable pain. Unbearable, night turning to day and day— is there a day anymore? He could have sworn he saw a bright light—

Awake. He was awake, and the pain was fading. That's right, he knew that. They were traveling: him and her and— Brynjolf. He was there. There was talking, a lot of— chatting. Is that a word? It doesn't matter. He was awake he—

Or did he only think he was awake? Oh shit, that must be it. He was dreaming. It was all a dream… but then where is the unspeakable pain?

Pain. Unspeakable pain. Unbearable, night turning to— no. Not anymore.

Cold. He's still cold, he must be though he can hardly feel it, save for the biting of an appendage, what is it called again?

Hands. Hands were on him, not mean hands for once, but nice hands. Helping hands, healing hands. Warm hands. What were the other ones called again?

Feet, wait. Running, that's right. He remembers doing a lot of that, but was it before or after— No. He already thought of that.

Have I been repeating myself this whole time?

"Who are you talking to, lad?"

It's happening again.

"What is?"

Pieces, scattered. Scattered pieces. All the time, all the same. No. Something changed. That's not the voice he got used to hearing— Brynjolf. That's right. Brynjolf saved him, and there was another— Wait. If Brynjolf saved me—

Why is he here again, tied up in the dark and hurting?

Everything seemed normal at first, but it didn't take them long to realize there was something wrong, something… Damnit. They travelled through the day, finally coming upon the city in the middle of the night. Brynjolf can't remember what happened after that— his thoughts still slow and murky. He slowly opens his eyes. It's too dark to take in his surroundings, and even if it was bright enough to see, Brynjolf doubts his brain would have been able to properly register anything. What happened?

"What happened?" someone asked that, someone—

"You know, lass, maybe you shouldn't have said anything."

"What?"

"You jinxed it." Brynyolf didn't know whether to smile innocently or run with the look she was giving him. He did neither, she didn't give him any time. That's right. They tried to enter the city— or, more correctly— they tried to sneak in. There was a plan. Brynjolf gets to work on the binds on his hands.

"You don't have to come with me."

"Nonsense, lass. How else do you propose to sneak in?"

"My thought was to ask."

"How?"

"Nicely?" Krosa offers, and Brynjolf smiles half-heartedly.

"We'll stick with my plan."

He hears something— a quick breath and a soft groan. His eyes adjust just enough to see the form laying haphazardly in front of him. He gets through the binds.

"Krosa!" He goes to her, cradling her head in his lap and checking for injuries. There's only a lump on her head, matching his own.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Krosa. Remember that conversation we had about trusting me?"

"Fine. Sorry."

"After you, lass."

They were ambushed. He remembers everything.

"I stand corrected, lass," he says, pushing a stray strand of hair out of her face. She knew something was wrong since Rorikstead, and was riddled with anxiety the whole way. Brynjolf assured her it was probably nothing, thought that maybe she was misinterpreting what she was feeling. "Maybe you shouldn't trust me all the time."

Doom. Destruction, endless destruction, the end of all things. Things were fine, she was happy for a while, but she shouldn't have been. She let herself get distracted. Brynjolf went down first, then came the hit.

"That didn't work?"

Then the cloth.

"This should do the trick."

There are so many shadows, swirling shadows, and one— the dark silhouette from before. Krosa knows it is. She can sense it, even if she doesn't know who or what it is. She doesn't want to, so she runs and doesn't stop.

"You've lost yourself again," something far away says, voice not quite human, and too deep and gravelly to be comforting.

"Stop crying. You know I don't like to see tears."

"I'm sorry," Krosa cries, wondering why everything seems so big and she's so small, "I didn't mean to."

"You're a coward."

"So pathetic."

"Get a hold of yourself."

"I don't think I can." There are so many voices.

"Krosa—" She shakes her head, sinking to her knees.

"I don't think I can."

"Krosa—" That's Brynjolf's voice. Why is he calling out to her? Is he in trouble, is he hurt? Why do I care? Wasn't I angry with him? She's so confused.

Flaming rocks fall from the sky, crashing into the ground and sending her flying. More come, and Krosa's thrown around like dust in the wind, not being able to stand. She doesn't know how to get through this. I need to run— no, hide. No. Fight.

Fighting. People are cheering. Why are they cheering? More blood spilt, another win, then another fight. She has to keep fighting. There's only the fight, one after another. She cannot fail, she can never fail, not then, not now, not ever.

Eyes, so many eyes— someone is watching. People are watching.

People are screaming.

"I can't fail," she says, to no one.

"Then fight."

She's screaming.

Krosa's eyes snap open, and she sits up, still screaming.

"Shh!" someone says from behind. "Shhh, Krosa, you're alright," the voice soothes, placing a comforting hand on her back as she struggles to breathe. Krosa recognizes the voice. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. How humiliating. "It was just a nightmare. You're safe— well, actually, that's debatable at the moment, but I think you know what I mean."

"What happened, where are we— oh my head," she says, feeling the lump on her forehead and falling back down, bracing herself for the impact— but instead lands on something soft. Lap. Her head is in Brynjolf's lap.

"Sorry," they both say at the same time, and Krosa sits up again. She doesn't ask. Silence ensues, eating up her insides. Ugh. Why do things only ever get worse? First the nightmare, then this?

"Do you have nightmares often?" Brynjolf asks, and Krosa only glares. "Alright, bad question. How are you feeling— oh wait, let me help you with those." His hands fall on hers, and it's only then that she notices the rope tying them together.

"What happened?" she asks as he works at it, fumbling and swearing once before she feels the rope loosen.

"We tried to sneak into the city," he says, helping her unravel it from her wrists. "Let's just say, it didn't go too well."

Krosa remembers everything. They're both quiet again, and Krosa looks around, searching for anything that can help them get out of this— then remembers something.

"Where's Etienne?"

"I don't know."

"They took him," a voice says, a cell across from theirs. She can see his silhouette slumped against the wall. "He was the first of you to wake." Wait. Krosa knows that voice.

"Balgruuf, What are you doing here?" she asks, getting to her feet and ignoring the spinning room in the process. It doesn't work. Brynjolf helps her, and she then does her best to ignore him and his… presence as she tries to get a better view of Balgruuf's cell; it's not hard to. He's strangely quiet.

Balgruuf sighs deeply. "I didn't surrender soon enough, the reinforcements I asked for never came. Before I could arrange the meeting, Ulfric and his men found a way into the city. There was nothing I could say in my defense."

"I'm sorry."

"It wasn't your fault," he soothes, and Krosa tries to ignore the shame and embarrassment eating at her. It was her fault. If she had just been patient and waited out the siege like Brynjolf suggested, they wouldn't be in this mess. She also saw Ulfric in Riverwood— he was likely making his plans even then.

"Why did he attack? I thought you were neutral in the war."

"A lot has happened since you left," Balgruuf says, and Krosa lets her head fall against the bars. The cell seems colder than before, the air heavy and stagnant.

"Does Ulfric know?" she asks quietly, not even sure if he heard.

"I didn't tell him anything… though it may be your only chance to get out of that cell." She will never do that. Nothing could make her. Him knowing would surely give her cause to hate him. And she already hates him enough as it is.

"Does Ulfric know what, lass?" Brynjolf asks, nearly making Krosa jump. She forgot he was there. She spins to see him leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the cell.

"Nothing," she snaps, then cringes. "I'll tell you later. Maybe."

Krosa can feel his gaze and refuses to meet it. Or at least, she tried to. In her defense, it's a little too dark to know exactly where his eyes were, and it was supposed to be just a quick glance, but now she can't look away despite barely being able to see them. She has no idea what he's thinking— Should I just tell him? He likely has practice in keeping all sorts of secrets… But something holds her back.

Brynjolf breaks eye contact, stepping away from the wall and for a brief moment, Krosa's terrified he'll come closer. Instead he starts looking around the cell with purpose.

"Should we try to escape? I'm sure I can think of something," he says as he moves around the cell rattling the bars and feeling around, voice a little too measured.

"There would be no point. Even if you did escape the cell, the Keep and city are crawling with them," Balgruuf says, defeated.

"And to think he was so proud," the dragon says, awake from his slumber, it seems. The dragon's smugness is hard to miss. Krosa scowls.

"And you're any different?"Krosa snaps back.

"Who are you talking to, lass?"

"No one," she says aloud, then to the dragon "Don't surprise me like that."

"You have no love for him, why do you defend him so strongly?"

"He—" Krosa starts, not knowing why herself. "He helped me," she finishes lamely.

"Did he? Or was he only using you to help himself? Do you think he would have given you any special treatment if you weren't Dragonborn?"

"Stop talking. Go back to sleep."

"I'm not saying it to get under your skin, but it's something you need to be aware of. There are a lot of things you can get away with as Dragonborn, but also a lot of things others will expect out of you."

"I said go back to—"

"Krosa, are you alright?" Brynjolf asks, but Krosa doesn't get any time to answer. Footsteps are heard, then a squad of soldiers come into view, the cells finally being lit from the flames of their torches. Krosa steps away from the bars and Brynjolf comes up beside her.

"It's a good thing we didn't try to escape." Brynjolf says quietly, and Krosa has to remind herself that he's her friend and she shouldn't kill him. The soldiers stop at their cell, and no one says anything as they unlock it, the door swinging open.

"You're coming with—" one of them starts, before looking down at their hands, then back up at their faces.

"We weren't trying to escape," Brynjolf explains innocently, hands raised in surrender. "We were just uncomfortable."

Krosa tries not to roll her eyes as the soldiers exchange glances. Then they all turn to look at her.

"Will you struggle or will you come peacefully?"

"Peacefully," Krosa says, wondering why they're even getting a choice. "We'll go peacefully." Brynjolf nods in agreement.

"Very well, but give us any trouble and you'll regret it," the leader says, while four of them enter and take hold of their arms. It takes all the control Krosa has not to rip out of their grasp, only scowling her discontent. She would have rather had the binds. Brynjolf glances at her once, but she keeps glaring ahead. She knows where they're going, but she has no idea what to expect.

Whiterun is mine, Ulfric thinks as he looks out the window of Balgruuf's— now his— office. He knew it would be, but still the triumph of victory flows heavily through his veins. Already his men have searched the keep and rooted out any servants still loyal to Balgruuf and the Empire.

The trebuchets came in handy, Ulfric admits, eyeing the large contraptions beyond the wall. He initially did not want to use them, but Jorleif insisted that Ulfric's plans to starve the city out were far too risky to attempt. Not only would they have to deal with the harsh realities of winter, but if a dragon ever came upon them, they'd be toast.

However... part of him wishes he didn't listen to Jorleif's advice. His walk through the city comes to his mind. Fear and hatred were paramount in most citizen's eyes, tainting the whole experience. Homes and livelihoods were destroyed, and he has no idea yet how many injuries or casualties there are amongst them. Besides, it seems Fate had already decided that he would win regardless. It was not trebuchets, his cunning, or army that ultimately let them into the city. It was Krosa.

Ulfric smirks, fingers grazing the raised scar on his palm. He knew she would be useful, but didn't expect any help so quickly, whether or not it was freely given. He picks up the report that came just that morning from his desk, reading through it again. There's a knock at the door. Ulfric drops the paper. She's here. He can only imagine how furious she is. He smirks.

"Come in," he says, doing his best to hide his smirk from Krosa's death glare. "Leave us," he says to the guards. Krosa and the man with her stay in place, stick-straight. When it's just the three of them, Ulfric says, "You certainly get around for someone who wants nothing to do with the war… First I got reports of the little scuffle in Solitude, you've given me not only riches, but valuable information as well, and then you help me take control of Whiterun? I'm grateful, to say the least."

"They were all accidents."

Ulfric laughs, then takes a seat at the desk. "I do appreciate the honesty, but if it weren't for the report I'd have assumed you were trying to work against me. So tell me, why were you trying to sneak into the city?"

"I had a job to do and you were blocking the entrance," Krosa says, crossing her arms.

Ulfric only smiles sharply. He knew she would be difficult, she always is. How this friend of hers can stand her, he does not know. "Who's he? I remember him from the Butcher case, but we were never properly introduced."

"A friend," Krosa says, and Ulfric nearly has her escorted back to the prison right then and there.

"Brynnegan McCallister, Jarl Ulfric," the man states with a slight bow, before he can really consider it. Ulfric doesn't miss the glare Krosa throws his way, nor the shock on her face.

"That sounds like a Breton name," Ulfric states, and he's no Breton.

"That's because it is," the man continues eloquently, a stark contrast to Krosa's curtness. "My mother was Breton, and my father never earned a Nordic name, so we always went with hers."

His accent is certainly different. Ulfric's heard something like it before at the docks, though it does sound a bit too polished and practiced— not to mention he looks more like a disheveled noble than a simple sailor.

"It seems you're more suited for conversation, so maybe you can answer the question Krosa refuses to," he says, gesturing to the scowling woman.

The man hesitates, glancing at Krosa before saying, "Unfortunately, I'm as in the dark as you. We ran into each other in Rorikstead."

"It is unfortunate. I'm sure we could have worked out some sort of agreement," Ulfric says, moving the papers around his desk as he searches for the dossier he found most intriguing. "And maybe we still could, after all it seems you have fought and bled for your findings."

"Will you give all of it back if I tell you?" Krosa asks, a challenge in her eyes.

"All of the jewels and… baubles, yes, but the dossiers are far too valuable to part with."

"We—" Krosa starts, but Brynnegan stops her, whispering something in her ear. Whatever it is, she doesn't seem to like it. "Fine," he hears her finally grumble. Ulfric doesn't know what to think about the whole exchange. Brynnegan doesn't give him time to think anything.

"What if we only took some? A few of them were essential for the job, but the rest we can part with."

"Unfortunately for you, Brynnegan, you're in no position to negotiate. And I've lost my patience."

"Bullshit—" Krosa starts, but Ulfric cuts her off.

"You're lucky you have not yet crossed any lines yet, for if you did then I would gladly punish you for your continued contempt and disrespect," Ulfric says, getting to his feet, "and need I remind you of what happened in Riverwood? My patience only goes so far—"

A loud, grating sound fills the room, followed by heavy footsteps. Ulfric spins around to see a haggard-looking woman in strange armor and a look of grim determination on her face marching towards them. Ulfric makes a mental note to have his scouts search for any more secret doors within the Keep. The woman, despite all appearances, doesn't seem interested in attacking him, but still, Ulfric reaches for his sword.

"Who are you?"

"Someone who can help settle this dispute," the woman says, crossing her arms and giving Krosa a pointed look.

"And how is that?"

"I heard you were searching for the Dragonborn to further your agenda, Jarl Ulfric."

"And?" Ulfric scoffs, "I hope you don't expect me to believe that you are the Dragonborn." And even if she was, Krosa has nothing to do with it.

"No, but she is," the woman says, gesturing to a startled Krosa, "and if I were you, I'd show her some more respect." It takes him a moment to register what she said, then another to ensure that he heard her right.

"No. No, she can't be. He— She—" Krosa's turned pale, and he can see her seething, grinding her teeth as she shoots the woman a death glare the woman fails to notice. Ulfric can't believe it.

But it does make sense.

All their interactions swirl through his mind. She is tougher than she has a right to be, stronger, faster and more capable than anyone he's met. Not only has he seen it, but his soldiers too. She fights like a storm— no. He can see it now, clear as day. She fights like a dragon. Her temperament is scathing, her skills nearly legendary, and her golden eyes always carry a sort of fury— a fire within them. He always knew there was something about her that made her different from the rest. Talos preserve me, she is the Dragonborn. How could I not have seen it before? It's etched into her very being.

Shit. Damn it all to Oblivion, this changes everything.

Riverwood returns to his mind then, and he traces the scar on the palm of his hand. She finds a reason to hate him no matter what he does, their tempers are not suited for each other, and there's something else going on with her beneath the surface. How in Oblivion is he ever going to get Krosa… the Dragonborn, to work with him?

No. No, she wouldn't— It wouldn't make sense. Delphine was always the one going on about keeping everything between them, that they couldn't trust anyone else. She wouldn't throw it all out on a whim. Even though Krosa hates her, she knew Delphine always meant what she said.

But she did tell him.

What is she planning?

"Do you need some time alone to find your tongue, or do you think you'll get a hold of yourself before I lose my patience?" Delphine bellows, and Krosa closes her eyes, doing her best to breathe, hoping for the woman's sake she is not talking about her. Ulfric answers, but Krosa can't hear it.

There's a buzzing in her ears, a burning cold prick of betrayal stabbing into her gut; dirty, mangled claws tearing each shriveled piece of her body in half again and again and again. Krosa digs her nails into her palms, trying to remind herself to keep standing. Be steady. Stay in control. The last thing that needs to happen is her going on a rampage.

"Whatever they recovered is of great importance in our mission to defeat Alduin. If you refuse—"

Just the damned woman's voice is enough to give her a headache. Why is the only person who could help her such a bitch. Why did Krosa even think that they could learn to work together? She liked Balgruuf well enough and Farengar. If Delphine didn't shove her way into Krosa's path, then maybe they would have been the ones to help her. Maybe Krosa will kill her and find out if it's still possible. Maybe after she spits on her cold shriveled corpse, Krosa can finally—

A hand brushes against hers, a breath tickling her neck. "You know lass, if you glare any harder, you'll melt them both on the spot."

And just like that, the ice melts and the fire is quenched. She didn't even realize how quickly it escalated. Krosa closes her eyes, unclenches her teeth and takes a deep, steadying breath. She then shoots Brynjolf a grateful glance, wishing she had told him everything in that cell. Then maybe all of this wouldn't feel so… hopeless.

"What do you think, Dragonborn? Does this woman speak for you?"

Krosa doesn't know what the conversation's about anymore, she doesn't know what she's agreeing to. She doesn't care. Delphine can handle this, there's no more damage she could do anyway. All Krosa wants to do is get out of this place— away from two of the living people Krosa hates the most.

"Yes," Krosa says through gritted teeth. Whether I like it or not.

"You look sick. Are you feeling alright?" Ulfric says, and Krosa only glares. That seems to be the question of the week.

"She was poisoned at the Embassy and is still recovering," Brynjolf says for her, and Krosa tries not to be annoyed. He's only trying to help.

"Well then, I'll have rooms prepared for each of you—"

"One room," Brynjolf says quickly. "We'll only need one."

"Are you going to let everyone speak on your behalf?" the dragon asks as Ulfric raises his eyebrows, looking between her and Brynjolf. Delphine only scowls. Krosa looks away. It's not hard to imagine what dots she must be connecting. Delphine's going to have a field day.

"You don't need to criticize everything I do," Krosa retorts, wishing he'd make it easier to like him because she still hasn't even thanked him yet. And now she doesn't plan to.

"If you actually did something, I wouldn't have to criticize you."

Krosa doesn't reply.

Ulfric calls in a servant and a group of soldiers to escort them to a room not far from where Krosa assumes his quarters will be. The whole way there, all Krosa sees is a blur, and all she feels is a hollowness carved into her stomach. Ulfric knows. When they're finally alone, Brynjolf turns to her.

"Well, that was tense."

Krosa frowns. "You're… not going to say anything?"

"I believe I just did, lass," he says matter-of-factly.

"Not— I meant— About— Ugh!" Krosa exclaims, turning to walk away. "Nevermind."

"Wait— Hey, no no no, lass," Brynjolf says, pulling her back to him. Krosa hates that she allows him to do it, and pretends not to notice when he doesn't let go. "I was only trying to lighten the mood. It was a little shocking but I had already suspected it, or at least… something similar."

"What? How—"

Brynjolf smirks. "You put the names 'Alduin' and 'Dragonborn' on your list, lass," he says, finally releasing her arm and collapsing onto the plush-looking settee. "And there were a few other hints."

Krosa blinks. "Oh. Well then why didn't you say anything?" she asks, cursing the Thalmor once again. There's so much about that night that she wishes she could redo.

"We had more pressing matters to deal with and then it slipped my mind," he says with a shrug. "And you don't like too many questions."

"You're… not mad?" she asks slowly, sitting down next to him.

"No. Why would I be?"

"The whole trust thing," Krosa says, sinking further into the settee.

"This is different, lass. Huge. I can see why you'd want to keep it a secret."

Krosa studies him, trying to find a flaw or hint of a lie— anything to give her a reason to push him away. But she can't find anything, and immediately she feels herself soften towards him once again. For once, she doesn't hate herself for it, though… she cannot fathom why he's so patient with her. She doesn't know how to thank him, but finds her gaze wandering to his lips. He would likely accept it as a—

"Is there something you wanted to talk about with me?" he asks, saving her from her own patheticness. It takes her a moment to get a hold of herself and realize what he's talking about.

"Is what you told him true?" she asks, eager to be distracted from her traitorous thoughts. "Your name is— whatever that name was."

Brynjolf smirks. "No, lass. I was bullshitting him. Well, kind of. Half lies usually work the best.

"So—

"Brynnegan McCallister is a fake name, a stage name, if you will. All members of unsavory guilds likely have them. Some are known by others but most are kept secret. I probably don't know the real names of half my guild. I wasn't careful in my youth, so my name has long been associated with the Thieves Guild and there was no going back.

"And your parents?" Krosa asks, storing the information away for later.

Brynjolf shifts, reaching for a bottle of mead on the end table that Krosa's seen him glance at several times. "My mother was only half Breton, and my father really never did earn a Nordic surname."

"Do you have a story to go with the name?"

Brynjolf grins, popping the bottle open. "I have several names with several stories, lass. There's Brynden the merchant's apprentice, Brynjor Far-Skies the traveler, Brynmorr the struggling artist, and Brynley the scrupulous investor. Then there's Brynnegan McCallister, the do-gooder noble who always helps the poor and down-trodden. The best one for you to be associated with, in my opinion. And then there's me, Brynjolf the thief."

"Nobody gets suspicious when they all sound the same?" Krosa asks as Brynjolf takes a drink, then offers her the bottle. Krosa eyes it warily. Delphine would kill her if— she takes it and quickly brings it to her lips, grimacing as she tries to swallow the foul liquid, eyes watering. She gives up and spits it back into the bottle.

"Well, you gave it your best shot, lass," Brynjolf says, grinning. "I take it you've never tried Nordic Mead before?"

"You actually like that stuff?"

"Not really, though I'll drink it if it's all I got. I just wanted to see what you thought of it."

"Why?"

He shrugs. "Curiosity."

Krosa rolls her eyes, glaring at the bottle before giving it back to him, damn near willing to pray to the gods for the aftertaste to fade. Brynjolf places it back on the table, a thoughtful look on his face.

"I've actually met a Brynjor and heard of another lad who shares my name," he says, still not quite paying attention. "There's a lot of people out there, lass. And nobody else knows all the names. A few members of my guild only know about one or two."

"There's something you're not telling me," Krosa says, and Brynjolf flinches, then cringes.

"Aye, lass, there is. It's personal and… kind of embarrassing—" he starts, but Krosa stops him, placing her hand on his arm.

"You don't have to tell me. I was just… curious."

Brynjolf's lips twitch into a smile. "I will one day. I'm sure you'll get a kick out of it. But you'll have to tell me something embarrassing about yourself too or else I may never recover."

Krosa smiles, then removes her hand. They sit in silence for a while, Krosa wishing she could be as comfortable with it as she usually is. But they're a little too close for that. The warmth radiating from his body is both agitating and soothing.

"On a more serious note, lass," he says, startling her. "How is— What— Being Dragonborn… I- I'm sure you know what I'm trying to ask."

Krosa sighs. "It's… not great. I had a hard time believing it at first. I was even going to leave Skyrim for good."

"Well, I'm glad you didn't," Brynjolf says, and Krosa' able to muster up a half-smile. "How many dragons have you killed?" he asks with boyish-curiosity. Krosa rolls her eyes.

"Four."

"Four already?"

Krosa shrugs. "I had help."

"Help or no help, lass, you got to see a living, breathing dragon— well, not quite so living and breathing anymore, I suppose," Brynjolf says, drifting off for a moment before refocusing. "In any case, I never thought they ever existed!"

"You're not the only one," Korsa says, trying to think of any times when she heard stories of them. She never really put time into deciding whether or not they were real. Delphine admitted after they slew the dragon in Kynesgrove that even she had a hard time believing in them in her youth. To her, they were just a symbol meant to instill fear and obedience in the hearts of men and mer.

"She's not completely wrong, you know. Those stories came after a time of being enslaved to us. Mortals have a tendency to forget things that are too painful to bear, so soon we faded into nothing but a symbol of power and fear."

Krosa wonders then, whether she should tell him about the part where the dragons are not quite dead and gone yet. And that one of them she may consider a sort of friend or mentor-like person. Dragon, she reminds herself, he's a dragon, not a person.

"What does that make you?"

Krosa flinches. "What do you mean?"

"If dragons aren't capable of acting or feeling like… people do, what does that make you?"

"I don't understand."

"You're more dragon than human and everytime you absorb one of our souls that becomes more and more true. By the time you defeat Alduin, there'd barely be any human left in you... Remember your fit of rage with Ulfric?"

"What about it?" Krosa asks darkly. She does not want to be reminded of that day.

"There's a reason why you can't remember what happened."

"I lost control."

"Yes, and something else took over."

Krosa blinks, and the dragon is gone, having left behind a path of burnt embers and ashes in her mind. What is the last thing she remembers from that fight? The axe. That was it— she saw the axe. Something did come over her then, something furious and twisted, and— there was blood on her hands.

Time seems to slow as Krosa's hand tightens around the axe. Fire flows like blood, her heartbeat thuds in her chest as something in her ignites.

A fire that's not her own.

Her body lunges at Ulfric with a savage swing, barely missing his face as he dodges out of the way, true fear on his face as her body attacks relentlessly, fueled by an otherworldly being. Dragon blood pumps through her veins, burning and empowering, his every breath and curse only fanning the flames.

"Krosa, what are you doing?" he shouts, grabbing hold of her arm and trying to wrestle the axe out of her grasp. When it doesn't work, he simply wraps an arm around her neck tightly, squeezing the air out of her. It is then that she notices the blood— in her blind rage, she didn't even notice all the times the axe grazed him.

Her bloodied hand goes limp, and the axe falls from it. It's only then that Ulfric releases her, it is only then that she's back in control and gasping for breath.

"What happened?" she coughs out, looking at her hands in horror. It all went so confusing and wrong so quickly. Ulfric gives her a confused look before something in his eyes hardens. Then everything goes to black.

"And I can't even begin to imagine how much pressure you must be feeling. It would be the literal weight of the world… Krosa?" His voice is far away, but she knows he's all too close for this.

Krosa gets to her feet, stumbles, and crashes into something. Something shatters. Something breathes— inside of her. They're watching. Waiting. For her to slip. She feels sick. Her head is spinning. There is no up or down anymore, just endless drifting. Spinning out of control.

"...something I said?"

Krosa tries to concentrate on him, to ignore the vibrations in her head. Tears sting her eyes as she struggles to breathe again. What if it takes control of her again? Right now, right here, and she comes to her senses to see Brynjolf's blood on her hands? She tears herself away from him and his helping hands, but trips and crashes to the floor.

"Go away. Leave me alone, I don't want you to—"

What a sight she must be. She doesn't even have enough energy to be embarrassed as she curls within herself, focusing all her attention at keeping the dragons at bay. Maybe it's a good thing he sees her like this. He can finally see how big of a mess she really is— finally understand why he never should have bothered with her in the first place. He'll leave and be safe and she can go back to how she was. She misses those days, before this place had sucked her dry. They were simpler, easier.

But he doesn't. He comes closer, his warmth invading her senses, and places a hand on her back. It's a different warmth than what she's used to, not burning like fire or scorching like the sun, but comforting. Tears leak from her eyes, wholly unwelcome and all the more humiliating. How did she lose control and turn into such a disaster so quickly? Why can't she just be normal and not break down every other gods-damned day? Why did Brynjolf have to witness it?

"It's okay, Krosa. Breathe. Just Breathe, I've got you," he says, arms snaking around her.

"What are you doing?"

"It's called a hug, lass… It's something people do when—" She elbows him, and can feel his huff of laughter. Despite everything in her telling her not to, Krosa finds herself leaning into his embrace.

"What's wrong with me?"

"Nothing, lass. You're just panicking." If only that was all it is. He doesn't even know the half of it. A new wave comes then, crashing into her and leaving her gasping for breath as she tries to fight the current. To find herself above the churning waters pulling her further and further away from the shore and deeper into the depths of the sea.

"How do I stop?"

"Focus on me."

It's the last thing she remembers doing.