Sorry for the wait! Writer's block is the worst. I knew exactly what I wanted, but couldn't get it down right! I hope you enjoy!

Jorrvaskr is larger than it looks, and consists mostly of a large dining hall and firepit. Weapons, armor pieces, and pelts line the wall. A few trophies here or there on display— one in particular that catches her eye. A dragon skull with two swords sticking out of it. No matter where she looks, she can always see it there.

The introductions go smoothly, and Krosa welcomes the distraction. There is only one Companion she hasn't already met: a young girl named Ria who doesn't seem like a fighter at all. Skjor was the man with Aela when they visited her after Mirmulniir's attack on the watchtower and Krosa can't tell if he has a problem with her or if that's his natural face.

They also introduce her to Tilma— a woman who looks like she's on death's door. Krosa tries not to feel too uncomfortable, and when all is said and done, Tilma gives her a large sack of food with a wink. Farewells are said, and Krosa sets her sight on the large front door. She has no idea what she'll say to Brynjolf yet.

"You know, there are other ways of blowing off steam with a partner, and you seem to be in sore need of it," Aela says into her ear, putting an arm around Krosa's shoulder and bringing her to a stop. "And don't try to deny it. I can practically smell it coming off of you in waves."

"Umm… No," Krosa says, hoping she isn't talking about what Krosa thinks she is.

The woman cackles. "I didn't mean me!" she says, gesturing to herself with her free hand. "Unfortunately for you, I'm taken. But maybe you'd like to give Vilkas over there a shot," she says, pointing at the man hopefully not sitting within hearing distance. "I know for a fact he'd be interested."

Krosa shrugs off her arm and resumes her path to the door.

"Oh no, don't leave!" the woman calls out, moving to block Krosa's exit. "I'm only joking, though not about your dire need for sexual stimulation. I can show you a few tips to get the job done yourself if you want. All you'll need are your own two hands and a little ima—"

"Aela, that's enough. Stop torturing her," Vilkas says, coming in between them. Krosa wishes they'd both get out of her way.

"I'm trying to help," the woman says with a wicked grin on her face.

"You're too drunk to be of help to anyone," he says as he none-too gently shoves her in the direction of the stairs. "Go find Skjor. I'm sure he'd be far more receptive to your brand of torture."

"You're welcome to join if you change your mind." Aela says to Krosa with a wink before sauntering away.

Vilkas sighs, hand sliding down his face before turning back to Krosa.

"I am deeply sorry for that, she's not always like this." Krosa only half-smiles in response, wondering if she should just bolt before anything else thoroughly embarrassing happens. It would do them both a favor. She doesn't know who is more uncomfortable. "It seems we will always be unable to leave a good impression," he says before she can make up her mind, "is there any way we can make it up to you?"

"She isn't wrong though," the dragon says, a trace of humor in his voice, "and this… beast would be interested."

Krosa blanches. "I— Uhh, no," she says to the man with a shake of her head. "I'm just… leave. I mean— ugh" And never come back. She thinks to herself as she shoves past him and storms out the door. To the dragon, she says, "What's wrong with you?"

"Helping you is a thankless task," he says as she reaches the bottom of the stairs. Krosa huffs, refusing to look back to see if any of them are trying to follow or are watching her hasty departure. She hears a laugh come from inside the building, and Krosa groans. When she's out of sight of the building, she slows down and slumps against a post. Why does her life have to be so damned difficult?

"Because you're determined to make it that way, it seems."

Krosa ignores him as she does her best to tamp down her desire to break something.

"You said you had something to tell me when I'm alone," Krosa says, hoping for something to distract her.

"And not in public. I don't know how you'll react."

That doesn't sound good. Krosa considers pushing the matter, but decides against it. Catching Brynjolf before he leaves takes precedence. It's a few moments before she can peel herself away from the post, the only thing urging her to move on is the darkening sky. Deciding not to take any chances, Krosa sets a relentless pace for the stables just outside the city, hoping Brynjolf doesn't try to use one of his own exits.

"You know, he'd be interested too, and is probably a better option for you."

Krosa's heart skips a beat as an image of Brynjolf's shirtless chest infests her mind. His smirk. His warmth. His— she feels her whole body heat up, and scowls.

"Knock it off… And why are you so interested in my sex life?"

"Us dragons feel what you feel, and it's akin to torture most of the time."

"Well get used to it," Krosa snaps, not even believing they are having this conversation in the first place. She did not need to know anything about what she learned in the past few minutes. How on Nirn is she ever supposed to look any of them in the face again?

"Ignoring what you can't control is not a—"

"I will kill you."

"You already have."

She crashes into someone.

"Oh, sex! I mean… shit! I— I didn't see you there." It's Brynjolf. She crashed into Brynjolf. Maybe Krosa will kill herself instead.

"Lass, are you… drunk?" Brynjolf asks, his hands steadying her.

"... No, or—" Maybe she should say yes. Being drunk would be a good excuse, but she's not sure she can keep up the act. "I— I don't want to talk about it," she says, trying to think of the best way to off herself. Maybe jumping off a cliff. Or stabbing herself repeatedly.

"Are you sure?" he asks, letting her go. "You seem—"

Krosa sighs, running a hand down her face and hoping it's not as red as she thinks it is. "I'm sure. I just— It was unpleasant, the conversation… that I had." She refuses to look at him, focusing on the ground instead. Somehow, she didn't even notice that she made it all the way to the stables.

"You had a conversation," he says slowly, his voice far too controlled, "about—"

"Please let me pretend that none of this happened," she pleads. Somehow, hearing him say it will make it all so much worse. Why did Akatosh have to pick her to save the world of all people? Her life was bad enough as it was. Now she has to deal with that on top of all this?

"If that's what you want," he says, and Krosa refuses to look in his eyes. She doesn't want to see what she knows will be dancing there.

"Thanks," Krosa mumbles, already feeling herself relaxing slightly. She still refuses to look at him and hopes her face isn't giving anything away.

"You know, I wasn't sure you'd come," Brynjolf says after a long pause, moving towards the spotted horse he nicked from Rorikstead.

Krosa cringes. "I'm sorry, I— You— I know I shouldn't have left like that—It's just that once you're gone, I won't have—" Krosa huffs, wishing that for once in her life she can find the right words and finish the damn sentence.

Brynjolf studies her for a moment. "Come here, lass," he says, motioning her with his hand. One of the hands she can't stop thinking about. On her body. In… places.

"I— What— Why?" Krosa asks, not sure if Brynjolf or the horse is more intimidating.

"You've fought dragons, lass, and you're still scared of horses?"

Krosa scowls. "I'm not scared. I just do not like them." What doesn't he get about that?

Brynjolf smirks. "Give me your hand."

Krosa looks at his offered hand like a Jarl looks at piss, and Brynjolf does his best not to laugh. It's not everyday he gets to see Krosa as flustered as this. And he would kill to know what kind of conversation she had to make her act in such a way. But he resists.

"Umm, I—" she starts, hand only slightly raised in the attempt. Brynjolf takes it and drags her towards the horse. She stiffens, breathing in sharply. "What are you doing? Bryn—" He places her hand on the horse's forehead. She does nothing more to fight him, but she's still stiff as a board.

"See, lass? It's not that bad," he says as she starts to slowly pet it unprompted. He removes his hand, reaching for the apple in his sack. "Now give her this," he says, reaching for her free hand and placing the apple in it.

"No." She tries to pull her hand out of his, the other one flying off the horse as she tries to back away, but he doesn't let her. "No, no Bryn— what if it eats my hand?"

Brynjolf can't help the smile that creeps onto his face. "She won't eat your hand. Horses don't eat meat."

"I know that!" Krosa huffs, still straining against his hold. "I meant it could bite me by accident."

"If she did, it would just hurt for a bit— maybe bruise if you're unlucky. You're tough, lass, you'll be fine," he says, giving her a reassuring squeeze. Krosa relaxes a smidge, a scowl gracing her features.

"Alright, fine, just… don't rush me," Brynjolf relents, giving her some space. He watches her as she eyes the horse warily, the apple wrapped tightly in her fist. It reminds him of Aiden learning how to throw knives. He was terrified at first, but ultimately didn't want to stop by the end, no matter how dangerous it got. The thought brings a smile to his face. When I get back, I'll try that again. He turns his attention back to Krosa.

It's flattering that she wants him to stay, and her hesitance now with this is only making it harder to leave. She's overwhelmingly competent in so many areas that it can be hard to remember what she lacks. And it's hard to forget the other… problem that would make staying even more difficult than leaving.

"Hold your hand out like this to avoid getting bit," he says when she looks ready, adjusting her fingers to loosen her death grip on the apple.

Tearing her hand out of his grasp, she slowly brings it to the horse's mouth. The horse snatches it from her hand, and she all but jumps, knocking into his chest. Brynjolf grins. "Looks like you survived, all fingers intact."

She tentatively reaches out to pet the horse again, quickly redrawing with what almost sounded like a squeak when it nudges into her. Brynjolf's hands tighten into fists. It would be too easy to reach out and caress her face, pull her in for an embrace, or leave her breathless with a kiss. Where is this even coming from? Brynjolf wonders, trying to control his breathing. All the other times he wanted to… fornicate with a woman he felt nothing like this.

It makes no sense, especially with the fact that she'd likely maim him if she knew where his thoughts were leading. It's just been a while, he reasons. All he needs to do is find a woman… or a few to take his mind off of Krosa and he'll be as good as gold the next time they meet. Maybe Ysolt will change her tune, though with the news he has to bring her, he doubts she'd be in the mood.

"I used to love horses," Krosa blurts out, crossing her arms as she stares at the beast in trepidation. "I think." Brynjolf tries to give her his full attention once again, fighting the urge to close the scant distance between them.

"What changed?"

She frowns. "I'm not sure… it's hard to remember."

"Do you have lots of blanks in your memory, lass?" Brynjolf asks softly, hoping he's not going too far.

The way her face changes tugs at something in his chest. There's still so much he doesn't know. About her past, about her life now, and there's still so much she has to go through alone. He can almost see the weight on her shoulders, see the struggle in her every breath. He wishes there was something he could do to help ease her burden. Something that didn't include risking his whole relationship with her.

Krosa snorts. "I wish I had more, well, sometimes… That's why I started keeping a journal, you know." She adds softly, "I would write down the important things in case I lost my memory again. Then it just became a habit."

Brynjolf can see her walls closing in. She's reached her limit.

The faraway sound of wind through the pine trees and drifts of snow echo throughout their world. The darkness is closing in, the cold returning. But there's still some light from the stables lanterns and the warmth shared between them. Brynjolf holds onto that feeling.

He sighs, a hand running through his hair. "I used to draw as a kid. Wanted to be an artist like my mother." What are you doing?

There's a hint of a smile, something sparking in her eyes. "Really?"

"My father didn't approve. He—" Brynjolf massages his hand, trying to think of the least… emotional way to say it. "He wanted me to be a soldier like him."

A shout, a torn page. Brynjolf is dragged out of the house, a sword placed in his hands. It's time for you to learn how to be a man, none of that pen and paper shit. He's given the beating of his life. It's for your own good. Tears streaming down his face, his hand broken, body bruised and trembling. He drops the sword, falls to his knees.

You're no son of mine.

Brynjolf tears himself away from the onslaught of memories, voice thick and throaty. "After he left and my mother died, Gallus encouraged me to start doing it again, but it didn't last long."

"Why did you stop?"

He refuses to cry. "I couldn't get my mother's face right. It was... disheartening to say the least," he says quickly. "Now I only draw when it's necessary." Or bored. He thinks, remembering the pile of papers still stuffed in Krosa's drawer.

Should he tell her about them? No. He's not sure he wants her to look at them. To see something so personal to him, and besides there's one he'd rather her not see more than the rest. He doesn't know what she'd think. It gets quiet again, and Brynjolf doesn't know if it's a comfortable quiet or an awkward one. Their time is up, but—

"I have a favor to ask of you, lass."

"What kind of favor?" she asks, giving him a look that suggests she expects trouble.

"It's nothing grand or devious, I promise you," he says playfully, before forcing himself to be serious again. "Etienne— look out for him, alright? I know he makes you uncomfortable, but I know you won't mistreat him like Delphine."

"How do you know she—"

"I… may have overheard a conversation between them— but I promise I wasn't trying to snoop, lass. It all just happened so quickly, but— there's something else too. I had left all of this in a note, which you can burn without reading now," he says quickly, "but I'd rather tell you in person."

He's rambling, Krosa thinks. Brynjolf never rambles. She tries not to smile as she prompts him to go on.

"Delphine… has something. A book about Dragonborns." That gives her pause.

"What?"Krosa had asked her if she found anything important while she was gone. Delphine insisted there was nothing new. Did she have it the whole time? No. Krosa would have noticed, right? Why would she keep this from her? Maybe there's nothing in it they don't already know—

"That's not all, lass," Brynjolf says, coming closer. "The questions she was asking Etienne— I— it seems… she didn't outright say it, but I think she's planning something against you."

Krosa shakes her head. "No. That makes no sense. I'm the Dragonborn, she—."

"—doesn't want you to be."

"I know that too," Krosa says, crossing her arms. "She can't do anything about it."

"Krosa, lass," Brynjolf says as he takes a step closer, forcing her to really heed him. To see him and his worry. "She thinks she can."

Krosa scoffs, ignoring the unsettling pinpricks of— of whatever she's feeling. He's told her before that he cares, so why does it seem like such a surprise that he's acting on it? "I would like to see her try," Krosa mutters.

"She thinks being Dragonborn makes you dangerous."

"I am dangerous," she replies with a smirk. There's a flicker in his eyes. It's not humor, like she had hoped, but worry. He's genuinely worried. He really, truly is— and he's at his wit's end with her, if his clenched fists are anything to go by. Krosa sighs, "I appreciate the concern, Brynjolf, but—"

"Come with me." The words pull at something Krosa would rather they not.

"No."

"You can't stay here, lass," he exclaims, hands grasping her arms tightly. If he was anyone else, she would smack them off. "You—"

"I can," she says, grasping his forearms in assurance. "And I'm going to."

His face falls, and he lets her go.

"I can't run at the first sign of trouble, Brynjolf," Krosa says, almost pleading. Wanting him to understand that if she could, she would. More than anything. But running away has always been her specialty. "I have a job to do, and I can't do that if I go with you."

"And what will you be doing here?" he demands, pacing aggressively. "Sitting around and waiting for an answer or— or for Alduin to fall into your lap? All while you let yourself get surrounded by those who only want to use you, may be plotting against you, and who don't have a care in the world for you besides the fact you're Dragonborn? With Ulfric and Delphine, this is clearly not the best place for you."

"And you think Riften is?" Krosa regrets it as soon as she says it. His face hardens once the shock fades.

"That won't happen again."

"It shouldn't have happened in the first place." Krosa says, almost missing the brief flash of hurt that crosses his face. Krosa sighs. She needs to fix this. She needs to stop being so damned difficult. Brynjolf deserves that much at the very least.

"I guess I can't fault you for that," he says, voice clipped.

"Bryn—"

"No. I get it. You—"

"I don't blame you for it. Not anymore… But I can't ignore it. It's actually good that you're leaving. I'll take Ulfric's deal, but even so— nowhere is safe for me, and if I go with you, nowhere will be safe for you either."

Something changes in him then, and Krosa wishes she could say she doesn't know what it is. But he's not alone in… what it is. She can feel something changing in her too— a want, a need. A hunger. She stomps it down as quickly as it rises, but the memory of it remains. Taunting. Longing. Wanting.

"You really do love to torture yourself, don't you?"

"Shut up. Get out of my head," Krosa says, before throwing up her mental blocks again. She really does need to get better at that.

"You don't have to worry about me, lass," he says, and the tenderness in his voice almost makes her reconsider. It would be nice to have that around her more often. To have him around her more often. But she can't. Not when her life is such a mess already and she melts in his hands.

"That's the point, Brynjolf. I don't want to worry about you. Not when I have to worry about everything else too." And there it is. Again— stronger than before but just as unwelcome. Nagging. Itching. Hoping.

Falling.

"I hope you know what you're doing."

Krosa offers him a weak smile. "I hope so too." She sighs, shaking off whatever is between them. "You should go, but, well— I wanted to say… thank you. For everything. I— I'm glad you were here, and… I'm sorry it has to end like this."

It doesn't have to, his mind screams. He's grasping, reaching for anything. Trying to think of something to say, but Krosa already starts to leave.

"Let me know if you need anything… and keep me updated if you can," he says quickly, trying not to let desperation taint his voice, seeming to awake from a trance. Krosa nods, taking a deep breath before turning and walking away.

Brynjolf considers saying something, nearly going after her. But he doesn't trust himself. If he goes after her, he may do something he'll regret. It's all he can do not to pull her right back to him and ravish her till dawn breaks. Maybe it's better for it to be like this. He's not willing to risk anything. Not yet. Besides, it's a very Krosa way to leave things.

But then she stops.

And turns.

"I'm sorry I— I'm not the best at saying goodbye, but I—" He dares not take a step, but her floundering undoes him.

"See you sometime, lass?" he offers, coming up to her and sticking out his hand. Keep it professional, he tells himself. Don't do what you did last time. Remembering her swift and brutal knee to his groin definitely helps.

Krosa stares at his hand for a moment before slowly meeting it with her own. She isn't quick to let go. This was a bad idea. A very, very bad idea. He can't stop wanting: that she'd pull him in for a kiss, ask him to wait till morning to leave. But what would happen after? They wake up the next day and— what changes? Would anything change? Good or bad. Or would they just… move on like it was nothing. Like he's used to doing? Would he stay?

One out of three. Something, nothing, or everything. Friend, casual lay, or… more. Where do the others end and 'more' begins? Who even knows what 'more' is? But he can't shake the image of after— what it could be. Where in the name of Dibella's bosom is this coming from? The attraction's always been there, but what is this? Uncomfortable, that's for sure. Unknowable. Unforeseen. Un— un— he's sure there's more words that could fit. Impossible. There's one. Not quite what he was looking for, but it works.

"Is something wrong?" she asks, concern coloring her golden eyes.

"Nothing." Everything.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." No.

"Brynjolf, if there's something you need to—"

"It's nothing, lass, I'm just… lost in thought."

Krosa cocks an eyebrow and crosses her arms. "We both know that's bullshit, Bryn—"

"There's nothing, lass, really. I'm just… lost in thought," Brynjolf says as lightly as he's able. "I'm trying to decide… which route I'll take."

She drops his hand, clears her throat. "I, uh— I'll see you sometime, then," she says quickly, a dusting of pink on her face. Then she turns and leaves with great haste. Brynjolf half-expects her to turn invisible on the way. He smirks. Some things will never change.

Raysha throws open the door, satisfied with how loudly it slams into the wall. Xariel remains unstartled, fully dressed in his ebony armor, his sword strapped to his hip. The room is bare and a pack is on the bed. Raysha crosses her arms.

"Someone said you were packing," she says, voice laced with venom. "I told them they need to get their eyes checked because there's no reason for you to be packing."

"There are easier ways to ask if I'm leaving, you know," Xariel says, as casually as he says everything.

"Coward," she says, storming into the room. "You promised you wouldn't leave!"

"And you promised everyone that finding Krosa wouldn't take long."

"It's not my fault that dragons have appeared out of nowhere, and you're the one who encouraged me to find a way to survive through winter in the first place!" Raysha reasons, coming between him and the pack on the bed.

"Survive, yes. Not terrorize this part of the country," he sneers, moving past her to grab his pack and sling it onto his shoulder. No. No, no, no. He can't leave. He can't. Who else will train her? Why can't he stop being so perfect?

"How else was I supposed to get the money we needed?" she demands. "How else was I supposed to earn their respect? Are you really so hard-assed that a little—"

"You murdered an innocent man!" Something tugs in her then— a nagging emotion tied to a string that she cuts. She doesn't need regret. She did what she had to. She would do it again.

"I couldn't back down after what I said. I would have lost all of their respect!"

"And in so doing, you have lost mine instead." There is only disappointment in his voice— not so much anger. But she would rather he be angry. Anger can be softened, but disappointment always lingers.

Raysha scowls. "You think you're better than me." Everyone is, apparently. Everyone knows more. Everyone is more worthy. Important. Why can't anyone see she's Just as strong, just as smart, just as capable as any of them.

"Isn't that the way it's supposed to be with a teacher and his student?" Xariel says mockingly. Has he been silently mocking her this whole time? Amused at her struggles? Using her for his own entertainment?

Raysha lets her voice simmer with her anger. "Don't get smart with—"

"Don't get ahead of yourself," he says in warning. "You may lead the others, but you have never been my master."

"What changed?" Raysha asks, scrutinizing his every breath. His every word. His every action. He won't tell her. She knows that, but if she can come to a conclusion herself, then he'll have no choice but to defend. And in his defense, she'll have her answer. "You think I can no longer give you what you want, so you'll just toss me aside? For someone so intent on being noble, you sure do flake like a—"

He whirls on her. "You're a wild card, Raysha. You don't follow any rules, you pick and choose which ones suit you best. I only stuck with you so long because I thought you would improve. But I see that is not the case."

"But—"

"What would your brother say when he sees what you've let yourself become in his name?" he asks, silver eyes cutting her down to the bone. "Do you even think he would want you to exact vengeance in the first place?"

Raysha is thrust back to that day. The day he left. He promised when he was ready for the Arena: he would send for her; he would teach her what he knew. Give her a chance to live her life how she wished to. She never was one for domestic life. Planting, sowing, reaping. Cleaning, sewing, sleeping.

The boys who would flounder about looking only for a girl to lay with and the girls who wanted to be laid. And the love that's supposed to come from it? She never understood it. She never wanted any of it. Her brother was always the one wanting to get married and settle down. He was always quick to forgive. So soft and easy to mold. It was almost too easy to take advantage of him— as many girls he thought loved him did. It was always up to her to teach those girls a lesson.

And he was always trying to teach her a lesson.

'Just be patient', he had said. 'Your time will come'. He was lying. He was always lying to her. Trying to make their life seem better than it was. And if he believed his own lies, then he's as daft as the rest of them. Those who enjoy a life amongst cow shit, horse shit, noble shit.

We're starving, he'd say, but we're still alive enough to enjoy what we eat. Maybe it's a good thing. A blessing in disguise. Everyone has to suffer at least some of the time— it makes their lives more interesting. It builds character.

"No," Raysha admits to Xariel, chest tight and burning. "But that is why I must do it! Someone has to!" And she's the only one who can. She's the only one that could. That would.

"Is that true, or is that just what you tell yourself to make you feel important and principled?"

"And what about you?" she counters. "You said you needed to find her more than I did."

"That hasn't changed." Xariel says, not sure if it counts as a lie. It is truer now than it was back then. Before it was a mild interest— a side benefit while he bided his time for the dragons to appear. Seeing Krosa again in a world that isn't in ruins, seeing her happy and free— hoping that somehow this time would be better. And maybe there is still hope for the future. That maybe all of this wasn't for nothing. And maybe she is that hope.

There is only one way to fix his mistakes and ensure he doesn't miss his chance again. It should be easy, considering all that Raysha has done, or rather, all that she would do, if she had the chance. She may not be the Dragonborn this time around, but that is the only guarantee. All it takes is one moment for everything to go wrong again.

But there's something so sad about it, something that stays his hand. He wants another chance— how can he deny another theirs? What is the right thing to do in a situation like this? With the world in the balance?

"I can't let you steal her from me."

"She does not belong to you, so there will be no 'stealing' involved."

Raysha doesn't get angry like he thought she would. He watches the steel seep into her spine. Readying her against whatever may come. "You never intended to help me kill her, did you?" she asks, voice hollow. He knows she doesn't need him to answer. "Then why go through the trouble?"

"I wanted to help you, not to kill, but to change. I see now that you are beyond helping."

"So you'll kill me instead?" Xariel smirks as her hands go to the hilt of her blades. She still thinks she can beat him. But Raysha never could land a hit— not unless he wanted her to.

"No," he says, dropping his guard. "You are not as much of a threat as you think you are. I expect that soon after I leave, the others will turn on you. Then maybe you'll finally learn what you need to."

"What makes you think I'll let you leave?" Raysha asks, unsheathing her swords. Xariel can only smirk.

"What makes you think you can stop me?"

The moment she lunges, he's gone.