"Whose side are you on?" Mirmulniir asks, cornering Krosa. All she can see is the yellow of his eyes and the faint gleam of dark red scales. The rest of the world is black. When Krosa speaks, the voice is not her own.

"I thought that would be obvious by now." Wait. That was her dragon. What is going on? She's not in control of any of this, but it doesn't feel like just a dream.

"You'd betray your own kind so easily?" Mirmulniir rages, "She has taken everything from us! We cannot even speak in our own tongue!" Thoughts that aren't her own— a rage that isn't her own. Krosa's almost trembling with it, suffocating with it. Burning. Buildings crumbling, flesh rending, world breaking. Rage.

"If it bothers you so much, then stop talking," her dragon says, sneering. Krosa latches onto his presence, the only thing that's familiar. This must be his doing— his eyes she's seeing through. But it's not his rage she's feeling.

Mirmulniir glares darkly. "You've been in her company for too long. You're starting to act like her. The plan was to gain her trust long enough for us to take over. You promised you would not fail again."

But he didn't fail, Krosa can feel that as clearly as she can feel her own anger and doubt. Their minds are one— he told her about this but also warned her against doing it, so why did he pull her into this now? She tries to leave, to take control, to take from him what he takes from her. But she can't see everything… or maybe there is no answer to find.

"I won't fail because I won't do it. That's not what I want anymore," he says, confirming her thoughts.

"Then what do you want?" Mirmulniir asks, and Krosa finds herself wondering the same thing. Even when sharing her dragon's mind, he is a mystery.

"It is not something that concerns you." Krosa simmers with the red dragon, but it lasts only a moment. Mirmulniir doesn't reply and in a blink his hulking form is replaced with a smaller, golden dragon.

It hits her then that she never saw anything but his face before. It's certainly not the massive, terrifying beast she remembers. Instead, he's twisted. Deformed in some way, but in the darkness it's hard to tell just how bad it is. Does he look like this because of how he died in Falkreath?

Krosa is bursting with questions and accusations, but she shoves them aside. Right now, that's not what is important. Right now, Krosa needs to know what he's been planning this whole time. Krosa needs to know if she's been a fool to trust him.

"Why did you show me this?" Krosa asks, looking him in the eyes, startled by her reflection in them. It stares back at her, peering into her own soul.

"I wanted to explain," the dragon says, shaking her from herself.

It takes Krosa a moment to remember her anger. "So you did try to get me to kill Ulfric?"

"It would have been him then yourself."

Krosa narrows her eyes. That doesn't make sense. None of this makes sense. Why are they able to control her when she's the one who killed them and absorbed their souls? Why can't they just die and stay dead— but if they did, Krosa would have died or been imprisoned at the Embassy. The dragon was the one who fought off the poison, and Krosa's not sure it would have worked the same if she was on her own.

Why can't anything ever be simple or easy in her life?

"Why are you telling me this now?" Krosa asks, crossing her arms. "What changed your mind?"

"You're not… upset?"

"No. I'm pissed." Saying it makes her even more pissed. She can sense fear, sorrow, and shame. Krosa relents. "But you did save my life." Though, he still has yet to tell her why. "So, what changed your mind?"

He's silent for several moments, and when he does speak, it sounds almost distant, "I'm not sure. All I know is that I could not follow through with it."

Krosa narrows her eyes. "How do I know you won't turn on me and start working with the other dragons again?"

"I will keep doing what we did tonight. My mind is yours as yours is mine." Krosa can feel the promise, the truth. He's being honest. He wants to help. Krosa doesn't know if she likes being able to read him so well.

"I thought you said I would lose control myself if I did anything like that."

"In this case, it would be willingly on both sides. The only way to lose control is if something else were to interfere, but even that can be corrected."

"How do you know all of this?" Not even the Greybeards seemed to know of this. If they did, they would have told her… right?

"I'm not sure. The others knew nothing of it until I told them, and then they needed proof."

An elf beneath her: a fight, a shield. A severed head. A lack of feeling. She didn't know what came over herself then. It was completely unnecessary— but it was the same anger. The same lack of control. She had assumed it was her own brutality, nothing but her own pent up frustration and desperation. Her own fear.

Krosa has a hard time deciding if she's more comforted or horrified. If that's true, then—

Everything is screaming not to trust him. His offer of control is still not a guarantee but his ability to control is. She has no idea how to do it, and whatever he taught her could be used to benefit him instead. What if he's lying and waiting for her to do it before acting? But… they just did it and he didn't try anything. If he wanted to betray her, now would be the time to do it. He's telling her everything, offering her control over him.

Dragons hate to submit. It goes against their very being. They crave power and they will do whatever it takes to get it, even turning on each other. There's no time for emotion. There's no room for trust. Krosa felt like she could trust him before, and he was playing her the whole time.

There are so many risks, so many what ifs. Everything could go wrong so quickly and she wouldn't even realize it until it's too late. He could change his mind again— what's keeping him from doing so?

"I don't think I can trust you fully until I know what you get out of helping me," Krosa finally says. The dragon tilts his head, a thoughtful look to his eyes. It seems almost human then.

"There is something you can help me retrieve." Krosa raises an eyebrow, urging him to go on. "My memories. I still have no recollection of anything, not even how I died the first time."

And there it is again— a connection. A reflection. A plea. Something worms it's way inside her, slithering, soft and unwanted. It's uncomfortable, really. The sympathy. The understanding. The want to help. Krosa hates it.

"The other dragons don't know it?" she asks, already knowing the answer. All of the plots, all of the plans race through her mind just as she asks. Even among his own kind, he's an outsider.

"If they did," he says slowly, "they never told me."

How convenient, Krosa thinks. Everything about their relationship is convenient... but maybe it's not suspiciously so. Brynjolf comes to her mind, and already she feels herself relenting. Maybe it is about time for her to start taking risks, but this one… it could be disastrous. She'll have to be more aware of herself now, learn how to recognize and stay in control of her emotions. Which means actually feeling them.

The thought makes her grimace. She misses Cyrodiil. She doesn't remember having any strong or complicated emotions, nor any desire to feel them. There was nothing there. Her life was so easy. Her days were a blur, her mind was blank… her heart was empty. Not helping, she says to herself. That's not the direction she wants to go in.

It was simple, being alone and not caring about anything.

It was awful.

Krosa takes a deep breath. "Alright. How do I do it?" The dragon regards her for a moment, his gaze hungry. Krosa looks away.

"I do not know, but I awoke near a fortress on a mountain. There may be some clues there. Surely my name, at least, will mark my burial site. My story should be there as well, but I find that is less likely."

Krosa nods, considering her options. Mountains are everywhere in Skyrim, as are fortresses on mountains. She wouldn't even know where to— Her eyes widen. Falkreath. This is the dragon she fought in Falkreath. That's right: this dragon was the one that killed Sinding and— Krosa shakes her head. She can't focus on that— that doesn't matter right now, no matter how sick the thought makes her feel.

"Traitor." Krosa freezes and spins around, coming face to face with Sinding. He's still bleeding from his chest, his colorless eyes depths of despair. "I can't believe you'd do this to me."

Krosa doesn't know what to say, so she just stands there. Stares.

"She's luring you. Do not take the bait," her dragon warns, coming up behind her. But it feels all too real, and she cannot take her eyes away.

"You'd pick a dragon over me?" Sinding asks. "I thought we were friends."

Her heart clenches. "Sinding—"

"No, don't reply. Turn away."

"I loved you, I always have. Why couldn't you love me too?"

A flood of memories. A flood of emptiness. Krosa tries to come up with a reason, tries to hold onto something to remember him by. But Krosa can't even remember the color of his eyes. That fact is now staring into her soul, creating holes where nothing lies.

What kind of person is she? Sinding and Barbas were her friends. Why does she keep forgetting that? They relied on each other for a while. It wasn't long, but surely there should have been something. With Brynjolf, there was always something. So why can't it be the same with Sinding?

"You only feel this way because he's dead. What you're feeling is more of an obligation than a truth," her dragon says. Finally, Krosa turns away from Sinding, fixing her gaze on the dragon instead. Something is bubbling below the surface, something hot and putrid.

"He died saving me from you."

"I lost control," the dragon says calmly. "You know what that's like."

"Because of you!" Krosa shouts, nearly panting from the effort. She can't believe this. Why did she ever think she could trust him? It's clear that a dragon can never truly understand people. They can never feel love or sympathy or pain. All they can do is crave. All they care about is themselves, nothing more, nothing less. All they care about is what they can gain.

"Then what does that make you?"

"Coward."

"I never wanted any of this," Krosa pleads. "I never wanted you or your help." She doesn't know who she's talking to anymore. She doesn't know which thoughts are her own. She doesn't know whose voice is whose.

"This is her, Krosa, or them. It isn't—"

Krosa covers her ears. "Stop talking. I don't want to hear it." She needs to concentrate. She needs to breathe. She needs to wake up.

"Focus on me."

When Brynjolf wakes up the next morning, he finds himself in a… compromising predicament. After Krosa passed out, he moved her to the bed and relieved her of her armor and shoes. He was going to leave it at that— but it was obvious that her dreams were no more pleasant than her panic attack. He decided to stay, asking an unconscious Krosa for permission and taking an incoherent mumble as a yes. There were no chairs, only the bed. He didn't take any liberties and kept his distance, leaving a good eight inches between them.

In hindsight, he should have just left her as is, because not only is she now nestled firmly within his arms— one of which is painfully numb, but the woman who outed Krosa to Ulfric decided to come and wake her up bright and early. She was not happy with what she found, and Brynjolf let her believe the obvious. He doubts the alternative would have been any better.

After convincing her to let Krosa get her sleep, the woman stormed out, and now he can't erase certain thoughts from his mind. No amount of 'Get your mind out of the sewer' helps. He also doesn't want to move for fear of waking her, so he stays where he is, uncomfortable and stiff as a board.

Why do I always get myself into these kinds of situations?

Luckily for him, it doesn't take her long to start waking up. He decides the best course of action is to pretend to be asleep. He feels her move, shifting closer to him before tensing and whipping around to face him. Then she groans and falls back into place for a moment before rolling out of bed. He hears her move around the room as she gathers her things, then softly closes the door leading to the sitting room.

Brynjolf only opens his eyes after the pinpricks in his arm starts to fade and he can move it normally again. There's no trace of Krosa left in the room. Good. Now he can move, he can breathe, he can think.

The Dragonborn. Krosa. In his arms. He can still feel her warmth. He can still feel where she was, but the embers of the feeling is not enough. He wants to be consumed by the fire. The flame licking at his—

By the Nine, Bryn, get a hold of yourself.

He slides his hands down his face, doing his best to relax. To banish these thoughts. To numb all feeling. He promised Krosa he would stop toeing that line, he was starting to accept never crossing that line, so why can't he stop?

Slowly, he drags himself out of bed. Krosa likely didn't linger, but just in case he is going to take his time. A washroom is connected to the bedroom, and it only takes him a second to make the decision.

Everything about the rooms Ulfric gave them screams privilege. But, if the extravagance from the other rooms weren't enough, the washroom even has dwarven plumbing within it, the water pouring out from a pipe above the tub after pulling a lever. He's heard about such a thing starting to surface, but thought it was only the wild dream of an inventor. It seems being proven wrong is something of a recurring theme of his.

Raised voices can be heard, and Brynjolf is glad he decided to take his time. It's not hard to guess who the voices are coming from, and his presence wouldn't help Krosa in the least. He sighs.

Brynjolf tries to let all thoughts and worries drift away as he bathes, letting the cool water seep into his skin. He needs to relax. But he can't. Everything is so complicated, so different, and so uncomfortable. Especially whatever is happening with Krosa. It's going to places he's never been before and making him remember things he hasn't had to deal with in years.

The memories invade him mercilessly— memories of all those times his mother would fall violently sick for days or his father would have one of his violent rampages. What happened with Krosa is not all that different. But it's not her fault— and it's not the same. She's the gods-damned Dragonborn, for shit's sake. All that pressure and responsibility would crush anyone.

Immediately, he's ashamed.

She's the Dragonborn, for shit's sake.

Ok, Bryn. Clearly you have an issue with that, he tells himself, turning his focus to solving whatever problem that is. The last thing Krosa needs is him not being able to accept what she is. If he uses his logic, then he would attribute it to shock. But if he were Vex, then he would think that it emasculates him and he's somehow bothered by her importance or strength or… something. But, it's quite the opposite, really.

The thought doesn't help. Now he can't stop picturing Krosa— No. Brynjolf groans, sinking further into the water. This is going to take a while.

"You can't force me to be his Thane!" Krosa snaps, about ready to strangle Delphine.

Krosa had hoped to get some time to herself to think before needing to face anyone. Krosa had thought she deserved to have a moment of peace and quiet. But it seems that will never happen. She's trapped as the Dragonborn; she woke up trapped in Brynjolf's arms, and now she's trapped in this damned argument with this damned snake who is in Krosa's room, sitting in Krosa's chair, and eating Krosa's damned food.

"From what I've heard that's exactly what Balgruuf did," Delphine snaps back, and Krosa stops her pacing to whirl on her.

"That was different. He wasn't even involved in the war."

"That's because he never cared enough to get involved!" Delphine retorts, getting to her feet. "Look, I may not agree with Ulfric, but the war needs to end and he's a much better option than the Imperials at the moment."

Krosa scoffs. "So now you're trying to drag me into the war? If that's something you two agreed on—"

"You did give mepermission to speak for you."

"For that one instance!" Krosa says, nearly pulling her hair out. "And that was only because you gave me no other choice!" And Krosa was tired of her shit. She's tired of everybody's shit. The world is full of shit.

Delphine crosses her arms. "If you wanted to be involved in decision-making, you should have been there instead of doing who knows what with your man-whore!"

Krosa baulks, "He is not—"

There's a knock at the door.

"What?" they both snap. It opens, and a soldier peeks his head inside.

"Ulfric would like to speak with the Dragonborn. Alone."

Krosa stiffens. She can't decide what's worse. Both options are less than stellar, but at the moment Ulfric isn't the one who's got her worked into a frenzy. Though that's likely to change as soon as he speaks. He'll want something, that's for sure.

"You don't have to give him anything."

Krosa scowls and heads for the door. "Don't talk to me."

The soldier doesn't say a word to her as he leads her to the office, and Krosa is glad that not everybody is out to get her today. Well, save for Brynjolf. Krosa feels her face get warmer. That's a different problem altogether.

Waking up to him wasn't entirely… unpleasant. But knowing that he witnessed her at her weakest is. So far she's managed to keep those moments to herself, the only thing coming close would be her trying to kill Ulfric. And that's something completely different. And that's what she should be thinking about right now. Krosa takes a deep breath, then opens the door.

"What do you want?" Krosa asks as it closes behind her. Ulfric is looking out the window, turning quickly at her abrupt entrance. He recovers just as quickly.

"It seems you and Delphine get along well," he says lightly, "I could hear the shouting from here."

"If you only brought me here to gossip, I'm leaving." Krosa has no time for this, despite not having anything in particular she needs to do. Just looking at him makes her wonder if she should have just stayed with Delphine.

"I wanted to apologize for before," Ulfric says, going to the desk in the middle of the room. Krosa eyes him suspiciously. Just yesterday he was sitting there, toying with them, talking down to them, threatening her. She crosses her arms.

"Apology not accepted."

To his credit, he seems to have expected an answer like that. "Maybe these would be something you would like to accept," he says, reaching somewhere behind the desk and handing her the two packs he took from them.

"Everything is in there?" Krosa asks, wondering what angle he's playing at.

"No. All the… jewelry is there," Ulfric says and Krosa wonders if he suspects how they got it. There is only one viable explanation for why they have so much of it. "But Delphine and I went through the dossiers, she took what was relevant to your mission and I took ones containing sensitive information regarding my war efforts. I do not know why you'd want the rest of this, but since you're so adamant about it..." he trails off with a shrug.

Krosa eyes the bags suspiciously. Delphine never mentioned that she retrieved any dossiers. If anything, Krosa would like to know which ones she took. She never did get the chance to look through any of them. Delphine likely wouldn't have let Ulfric even look at any of the ones she wanted. Krosa has a feeling hers are included. Delphine likes to use whatever she can against her. Whatever Ulfric has would have nothing to do with her, but he likely already knows most of the information that was on there anyway. He knows far more than she would like.

"I remember what happened in Riverwood," Krosa blurts out.

Ulfric blanches, mouth working as he tries to think of something to say. Krosa assumes her reaction is about the same. She doesn't know where that came from. Krosa doesn't know what happened to her anger. And now, there's also the question of whether it really was her anger. But she can't go around blaming the dragons for everything she does that she doesn't like. I hate my life.

"What of it?" he asks finally, one hand closed tightly into a fist. Krosa knows what's on that hand— the palm, in particular. Thankfully, that was the worst of the wounds she gave him.

"You lied," Krosa says, lowering the packs to the ground. They're only weighing her down. "Why?"

He looks at her then, and Krosa sees something she'd rather not see. "Believe it or not, Krosa. I'm not the monster you think I am."

Krosa pauses. 'Monster' may be pushing it… but it's not far off from what she was thinking. Besides, even if he was a monster, what would that make her? He didn't even try to kill her when given the chance, and that was after she tried to kill him for no good reason.

"I tried to kill you. Why didn't you kill me?" she asks, scrutinizing his every move. He even told her he would have if she tried to. What was the point in lying about that?

"As you said yourself, you lost control," he says as if that excuses everything. "It's not the first time I've seen such a thing happen. After the war, I knew a soldier who had something similar happen to him. The man wasn't the best of fighters, but it still took three of us to hold him down and snap him out of it, and the damage was already done. The horror of the act nearly drove him to kill himself out of shame."

"What happened to him?" Krosa's never heard of anything like that happening before.

"We held him in a modified cell and had healers take care of him until we deemed him no longer a threat to society or himself, then we let him go. "

"And it hasn't happened again?"

Ulfric frowns, taking a seat at the desk. "It's impossible to know for sure. He was no longer allowed in the ranks of soldiers or guards, so I haven't kept tabs on him."

Silence ensues. Krosa doesn't know what to say. Krosa doesn't know what to think about any of this. She doesn't know what to feel. When it becomes apparent neither of them are going to say anything, Krosa picks up the packs.

"I do have one more question before you leave," Ulfric says, smirking. "And possibly follow-up ones depending on your answer."

"Alright."

"The group of people who are trying to hunt you down, are they still a problem?"

"Why?" Krosa asks, eyes narrowing.

"You're the Dragonborn, Krosa. Your protection is paramount." When Krosa glares, he adds, "I am not implying you're incapable in any way. It doesn't matter who you are or what you can do, so don't make a fuss over it."

"I don't know," Krosa says, biting back her pride. "I haven't really had time to look into it."

Ulfric nods, shuffling papers on his desk. "When we took over Falkreath, I heard about a group of Alik'r warriors who—"

"How did you know it was them?"

Ulfric only gives her a look. "I didn't. I was going to ask, but now it seems I don't even need to finish. You know what I'm going to offer."

Krosa does. He offered it to her before, but this time it's even more tempting. She had hoped they'd given up. What's even the point in hunting her down anymore? If it's not the law hunting her down, then it would be a rogue group of some kind. But surely no one actually misses the Da'Vam clan. The only people left in the clan are those Vander would also extort and exploit. Even his friends were enemies.

"And what would it cost me?" Krosa asks to buy herself time to make up her mind.

Ulfric smirks, leaning back into his chair. "As I said before, I wanted to apologize. Are you sure you do not wish to accept it?"

Krosa frowns. Of course he would find a way to needle her while offering her help, and it shames her to admit that she nearly refused him right then and there out of nothing but spite. There is no good reason to refuse, unless...

"I won't have to join you or anything?" Krosa asks, shifting her grip on the packs. They're heavier than they have a right to be.

It takes Ulfric several moments to answer. "Honestly, I would prefer it if you did. This war needs to come to an end sooner or later, and I know for a fact that with you on my side, it would be sooner." Krosa opens her mouth to refuse. "However, it is not required. This is an apology, Krosa, nothing more and nothing less."

Krosa closes her eyes and considers it. She wishes she could say there's no good reason for him to offer her this, but this isn't like their first transaction. Him trying to win her over makes more sense now, but still, Krosa can't stand the idea of working with him. But you don't have to. She can take his offer and leave like she did back then.

"I— I need time to think."

"By all means, take your time. Though I have to admit I don't understand what there is to consider."

Krosa ignores him and leaves.

There are limited ways for Brynjolf to pass his time. The guards out in the hall suggest he shouldn't try roaming the keep or heading out into the city. Besides, Krosa may want him to try to stay out of trouble and he has no desire to make anything more difficult for her than it likely is already… and he doesn't want to get on her bad side. Not again and not after last night.

After his bath, Brynjolf tried to read. It worked for a while, but he soon grew restless, so he tried going around the room and appraising its valuables. When it grew too tempting to not pocket the ones of actual worth, he switched to drawing instead. Ever since mentioning it to Krosa, he's been itching to try again.

After successfully drawing a few pictures of objects around the room, he moved to faces instead. He doesn't know how long he's been working at it but the desk soon becomes a mess, and his hands covered in splotches of ink and charcoal.

That's how Krosa finds him, storming in like a whirlwind. Brynjolf nearly jumps out of his seat. Before she has a chance to see what he's working on, he gathers the papers and shoves them into a drawer before turning to smile at her.

"I was beginning to wonder if you'd ever return, lass," he says, watching her dump two familiar packs onto the ground by the fireplace. So, she was able to get them back from Ulfric. That would explain her bad mood. Especially if it took that long to do it.

"Were you here the whole time?" Krosa asks, coming to him.

"I wasn't sure if I was allowed to wander and figured it was best to stay in one place."

"What were you working on?"

"Nothing, really. Just trying to pass the time."

Several moments go by, allowing awkwardness to settle in. Krosa looks as if she's damn-near about to burst— from what, Brynjolf can only guess. She's in a similar state that she was in in Rorikstead. Before she gets any crazy ideas, Brynjolf's eyes drift to the packs by the fire.

"Should we see what they left us with, lass?"

"Oh, yes. Of course— let's… let's do that."

The next hour is filled with doing just that, deciding they would rather do it on the floor than the table. Krosa is mostly quiet as they go through it, though she clearly wasn't happy to find how interspersed her things were with the rest. The packs are a mess, really. For a long time, Krosa suspected they didn't actually return everything as promised and Brynjolf was starting to worry that she would take her frustrations out on him. He assured her they were likely to find the amulet she was looking for in the tangled heap of gold and silver chains.

"What's so important about the amulet, lass?" Brynjolf asks when he finally finds it and gets to work untangling it from the rest. It really sticks out amidst them. There is nothing beautiful about it.

"A… friend gave it to me," Krosa says, scowling as she fingers at what looks like a tear in the corn husk doll that was also tangled in the mess. "And it's saved my life a few times."

"Then why don't you wear it?" he asks, handing it to her when he successfully untangles it. She puts the doll carefully into her pack before taking it from him and inspecting it. Brynjolf fights against asking questions about the doll. He had wondered at it when he found it amidst her stuff in Riften, but now the answer can be just a question away. He keeps his mouth shut.

"I don't know, I just— I can't bring myself to most of the time. I don't know why." She stares at it, biting her lip in thought.

"Well, I don't blame you. It's hideous." Brynjolf says, and she gives him a look before putting it in the pack as well. "Wait," he says, remembering his conversation with Delvin. "I had someone look at it and they said it belonged to some sort of magical cult."

He's not sure why he says it, but he certainly wasn't expecting her reaction.

"What?" Krosa asks, face scrunched in confusion. "But— oh. Do you think who— I mean, I met one but he didn't— or did he? I can't remember—" She drifts off, retreating into her mind.

"You know, Krosa, you're starting to sound a lot like Etienne," he says, doing his best to keep a straight face. She punches him in the arm. "Ow!" he exclaims, massaging the offending area. "I was only joking, lass! Jeez."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to actually—"

"No, you don't have to—That was also supposed to be— oh nevermind." Brynjolf sighs, "I guess I'm not as funny as I think I am."

Krosa rolls her eyes. "You are… sometimes."

"You really know how to give a compliment, lass." Krosa scowls, but Brynjolf can see through its cracks.

"If it makes you feel any better, I'm terrible at it too."

Brynjolf laughs, and he can see Krosa's hint of a smile she tries to hide. His mind goes to the first time he heard her laugh— no, the only time. What will it take to get her to laugh like that again? He doesn't know why it seems so important, but… it is. Especially after last night. His mind returns to the present and he watches how quickly the hidden smile turns to a frown as she nervously fiddles with the pack's straps.

"Hey, Brynjolf?"

"Yes, lass?" he says, setting down the tangled jewels. So far he was only able to separate out one bracelet and five necklaces, including Krosa's amulet. He may have to just cut his losses and chop up the rest.

"What do you—" she starts, her face paling. "I— Um, nevermind. It was stupid."

"I doubt it is, lass," Brynjolf says as he places a hand on her knee to keep it from bouncing up and down distractingly. He swears Krosa leans into his touch. Should I comfort her further? He would like to, but would that be toeing the line? It seems she doesn't mind it so much anymore, but he did read her signals wrong once before. Before he can make up his mind, Krosa speaks.

"The war— I, what should I do?" she asks helplessly; she sinks into herself at the question, her arms wrapping around her knees. Brynjolf doesn't know what happened to the woman who once seemed so confident and sure of herself: telling him the war wasn't her problem and shrugging it off without a care in the world.

"You don't have to do anything, lass," Brynjolf says, finally making up his mind and moving closer to her and draping an arm across her shoulders. It doesn't take Krosa long to relax into it. "Just because you were chosen to save the world from one threat doesn't mean all the world's problems are yours."

Krosa bites her lip. "But… don't you think it needs to end?"

Brynjolf sighs, tearing his gaze from her lips to his feet. "It shouldn't have started in the first place," he says, ignoring the warmth between them. "I know I said before that the war makes it easier for me and my guild, but that won't last. So… yes, I think it should end."

"And if you had to choose?"

"If you're looking for a direct answer, lass, I don't have one. The day before yesterday I would say Imperials because they align more with my guild's interests, but if you're wanting a quick end then it seems Ulfric is the one to root for currently. Whether one side is actually better than the other, I can't say."

Krosa frowns, bringing her knees further into her chest. "I know, but what if you were forced to choose?" And then it clicks. Brynjolf straightens, arm tightening around her shoulders.

"Is Ulfric forcing you to choose, lass?" If so, he has half a mind to whisk her out of here. He doesn't know how he knows, but he can feel it as surely as he can feel her still laying in his arms. Krosa would not do well in a war.

Krosa shakes her head. "No, not— not really. But he offered me something, and I'd be stupid to refuse it, but I also can't— and I don't know why I can't—" She closes her eyes, leans back and takes a breath. "He said he could take care of the Alik'r for me. He knows where they are, and—"

"Does he want something in return?"

"No… but, yes, I think." Her eyes open and meet his. "Sorry, I'm probably not making any sense."

"So, he's not asking for anything directly but you can tell that it may not be as free as it seems?" Brynjolf offers, mind already racing.

"How—"

"I work with a guild of thieves, lass," he reminds her with a wink. "And deals like that are a tricky business."

"You don't think I should take him up on it then?" she asks, sounding almost hopeful. Brynjolf frowns.

"I'm actually thinking the opposite, lass. You're the one with the power here. You have nothing to lose by accepting, and in this case, neither does Ulfric. This seems like an attempt to win you over. In fact, if I were you, I'd milk it for what it's worth. This likely won't be the only time he will try offering you something— though you would have to be careful not to go too far there's only so much you can squeeze out of him before the milk runs dry."

Krosa looks thoroughly disturbed. "That's something I never wanted to picture," she says, and Brynjolf laughs.

"Yes, well, that was all I could think of at the moment. But who knows, maybe picturing him as a cow the next time you meet with him will make it more bearable."

Krosa only smiles, and Brynjolf studies her carefully.

"It's not just about Ulfric and the war, is it, lass?"

"I can't explain it, but part of me— I guess it's just hard to imagine— and I don't even know— I… I told you it was stupid."

"You're overthinking it, lass," he says, and Krosa ignores her faulty heart. "I don't know what exactly the problem is, but you can either let Ulfric take care of it, ask to go with his men, or ask to have the Alik'r brought to you. No matter what you choose, they won't be chasing you anymore and you can move on with your life. You have enough problems as it is."

Krosa closes her eyes, trying not to get too distracted by his arm. She hates to admit how nice it feels, his warmth inviting. Surprisingly comforting, Not to mention how good he smells. Whatever soap he used, it's… nice. Even his laugh is, well— Krosa colors. Everything about him is comforting, apparently.

How did they get here? Just last week she was determined to hate him forever. But he persisted. Krosa has no idea why he fought so hard to wear her down. And after learning about everything, he reacted far better than she would have expected… and maybe now she'll have someone on her side through all of this. She hardly even pays what he says any mind, though it does help. Just his presence is enough, and Krosa breathes it in happily.

And there is someone else who has been helping her through everything.

"I'm ready to talk."

"For what it's worth," the dragon says without missing a beat, "I'm sorry for killing him. But, in all fairness, both of you were trying to kill me too."

Krosa decides to let that slide. "He was my friend. I just didn't know it then."

"If you say so."

"I'll forgive you if you don't bring it up again, and if you don't keep anything else from me."

"Then there is something I should say, but it's probably better to wait until you're alone."

Brynjolf shifts then, and Krosa looks up to him, doing her best to act like what they're doing is normal and not worrying in the slightest.

"Well, lass," he says, removing his arm and getting to his feet. "want to get something to eat before I leave? I'm famished." His hand is outstretched, waiting for her to take it. Krosa does, and he pulls her to feet. They're close now, closer than they've been before. And for a moment, she wants to close the distance between them. Then she realizes what he said.

"You're leaving?" she asks, stepping away. His hand still grasps hers, and his grip tightens, keeping her in place. Krosa has no choice but to look him in his stupidly green eyes.

"Yes," Brynjolf says sadly. "I was hoping to head out before the sun goes down. That gives us a few hours, at most."

"Why?" Krosa asks, and this time when she pulls away, he lets her. But it's too late. Krosa can still feel the touch of his hand, warm and irritating. More than anything, Krosa wants to feel it more surely again. No. Krosa closes her eyes. This can't be happening. Not again.

But it's too late. It already has.

"I have people waiting for me back home," he says, oblivious to her rising panic. "I don't want to worry them needlessly."

"You can't write to them?" Krosa asks, her voice failing to stay level. He studies her for a moment, eyes full of concern.

"Even if I did, I'm not needed here," he says slowly, a hand reaching out to brush against her arm. "You don't want me to go?"

"No— I don't have any friends here. I— You're—" She bites her lip to keep from finishing that. You're the only one I can trust.

Brynjolf gives her a small smile. "I'm sure you can find some, lass, it's not that hard. Just look for someone with a similar interest… I could also introduce you to some people and we can see how that goes," he adds, his eyes smirking.

Krosa scowls and turns away.

"Krosa, I was only joking again," Brynjolf says, closing the distance once again. Krosa needs that distance back. It's the only thing keeping her from doing something she will regret. Again.

"I know, I know, I just—" Krosa sighs, grabs her cloak, and heads for the door.

"Where are you going?" he calls after her, moving to follow.

"Don't follow me. I need time alone." Because in the end, that's how it'll always be regardless. There's no point in getting comfortable.

Xariel watches Raysha laugh from across the fire, the light of the orange flames dancing across her face. There's nothing to see besides the flame, and his heart hardens. She's gotten comfortable in her position of power, comfortable enough that Xariel hoped she was closer to forgetting all about getting vengeance on Krosa. But after today, he knows nothing has changed. Nothing will ever change.

Raysha only ever responds to violence, praise, or any useful information he has that would be helpful to her search. But, now that she's earned the other's respect after wrangling control of the area from various bandit groups, she's as drunk on power as ever. Completely and blissfully unaware of her own insignificance.

Rumor is, the Dragonborn's been wandering Skyrim, having already visited the Greybeards at High Hrothgar. And if that's true, that means Raysha is not the Dragonborn as he originally thought she was going to be. He chose the wrong person to follow. The mistake is a devastating blow, especially since he knows who it's likely to be.

He's led Raysha on a path of vengeance against the very person who can fix everything.