Hullo, everyone! I'm back on track, and even a little ahead. Please R&R, and I hope you enjoy ! -LR

I saw him earlier.

I know I did; I must have. I must have.

He was in pretty much the same situation, too. When I saw him the first time, it was about two days ago. The Plains District square was crowded with refugees, as has become the new normal. The fire pits scattered around were all lit up, despite the fact that it was in broad daylight, because it was so fucking cold.

Things had died down, since the first wave of refugees.

I remember seeing him the first time, when I left Saadia's place. The brisk air of dawn slapped me cuttingly in the face, and so I put up my hood. That was when something exploded from the alleyway I was passing, and tackled me, putting me on my ass, but it bounced off me and dropped to.

There was a moment, when I looked up and it looked back, and I realized it was a little boy.

The sides of his head were shaved clean, leaving a neat mohawk of ink black hair trailing down to his thin shoulders. His serious eyes were big as saucers, and brown as a faun, and it seemed as if he were looking straight into me. Light brown skin was dampened with sweat, in spite of the freezing cold, and his cheek was badly bruised. His little chest heaving as he panted quietly. One hand rose to wipe the sweat away, and the other I could see, was clutched protectively around a parcel.

To my surprise, the kid brought his index finger up to his lips, like he was shushing me.

That's when I realized that he was being followed, and that thundering footsteps came crashing down the alleyway he'd fallen out of, as well as when I realized that he had concealed himself behind a large crate.

The footsteps slowed as they exited the alley, and as they saw me.

Three boys.

I only recognized one of them though; Lars Battleborn. I put him at fourteen, fifteen summers. He was panting, too, his face flushed and dark brown brows furrowed. His companions had shabbier clothes, and I figured they were cousins of some sort, displaced by the dragons. Lars' mouth was opening and closing, and I realized he was speaking to me. Breaking out of my stupor, I strained to her as he repeated himself:

"Did you see a boy run through here? About yea high." He marked the size with a hand by his thigh. "Brown skinned? Breton born, I should think. Raggedy clothes. And, black hair, in a mohawk?"

"He was maybe carrying a parcel," added one other others. "He stole from us."

"A couple rolls of bread, five apples, a head of cabbage, two sweet rolls and four carrots," recited the third. "Some roast pheasant, too."

"Our lunch," Lars admitted sheepishly. "Did you see which way he went?"

Though I didn't look at him directly, I could see the boy waiting, breath baited. He didn't show any nervousness, or fear. Whether I told them where he was, or whether I lied, it made no matter to him Whatever the circumstances, he was ready to act.

"Have you seen him, or haven't you?"

At that moment, the boy behind the crate smirked. He smirked because he knew I wouldn't give him up. He knew that it wasn't in me to.

"He sprang out of the alley, not two minutes ago," I said, in the most distressed voice I could muster. "Fled down the street, that way. You're on him."

The cousins barely left time to give each other a look of eagerness before they were off again, turning right past the crate and literally right past the boy sitting beside it.

Once again, all that remained of them was their stomping footsteps as the boy and I stared at each other across the alley.

His young face was shrouded in the darkness, and I could only just make out the two brown eyes with the glint of mischief in them, and the barest curve of his mouth as he permitted another smirk.

Then, the parcel under his arm, he was up and off before I had a chance to either move or say a word.

Needless to say, I desperately wanted to.

Because, in that moment, not even the gods could have told me I wasn't staring straight at myself.

Now, here he was again.

It's early afternoon, and I've just left Dragonsreach.

Despite the conditions the people of Whiterun Hold have to face, Jarl Balgruuf seems pretty comfortable, which isn't something I expected. When the dragons first appeared, I remember hearing that he went to the greatest extent to ensure the small towns were protected. I guess now that there are so many without no place to call home, his resources are spread a bit thin.

That's pretty much what his steward's just told me, almost word for word.

And, it's not something I very much accept. Not with people starving in the streets, while his palace remains fully warmed with many and more empty rooms in it and thousands of people who could fill them. But, that couldn't happen. Not with his fear of them looting the castle.

Fun fact: Nobody loots anything, when they have no place to take shit to.

With a sour taste in my mouth, I snatch my weapons from the guard - a visitor's precaution of course- and I make my way down the winding staircase to the Cloud District. There's another checkpoint set up at the gate, and they pat me down, checking to see whether I've stolen anything during my visit.

"Hands against the wall," I'm told, and I comply. "Spread your legs."

"Already, really?" I snort, "We skip the wine, then? No date?"

"Shut up."

"Ohoho, so you want me passive?" I smirk, "I can do passive."

I don't know what's with me today. That shit with the Jarl's gone to my head, and I'm feeling pissy. Feeling pissy makes me open my mouth.

"You want to see the inside of Whiterun Prison?" he snaps. "Wonder how passive you'll be then?"

"No," I sigh, realizing I'm only digging myself a grave here. "No, I don't."

"Be wise to keep your mouth shut."

I don't know how, but somehow I manage to do just that.

Maybe it's because I know that I've got three flawless rubies hidden under my tongue.

In any case, I trot down the steps and reach the Plains District. As soon as I do, I'm flooded with the hopeful faces of the refugees.

"Marrick!" cries an elderly woman, "Marrick's back, everyone!"

"What did the Jarl say?" someone calls out. "Has he got a plan?"

"Will they open the doors of Dragonsreach?"

"Have they sent you back with food?"

"Do they know about the other Holds?"

"What news from Winterhold?"

"Has the Pale been hit? My daughter's in the Pale."

"My husband was in Eastmarch!"

"My son-"

"Everyone, please!" I holler, as gently as I can. But, it's hard. Trying to appease a crowd of people who have been hopeless for a while is not an easy task when you have none to give them. "Please!" They quiet down, and I clear my throat. "I don't have any news on the other Holds. I wish I did, but I don't. Right now, the best we can do, is to survive here."

They seem to accept this, but still have many concerns.

"Is there food for us?" one woman yells out. "My boys are hungry; they need food!"

"The castle hasn't sent food," I admit, and at their downcast faces and their groans, I glance my tongue against the rubies beneath it. "There isn't food, but there will be. Tonight."

"How do you know?" questions a heavily bearded man. "How do we know?"

I shrug, "You either trust me, or you don't. But, I said that there would be blankets, and there were. I said that there would be someplace safe to stay, and there was," I say, nodding towards Breezehome. "You either trust me, or you don't. But, so far, I am the only one who's trying for you all." I raise a hand and flap it towards the palace dismissively. "If you want something warmer. Something more comfortable. Something more livable," I shug, "Something kinder. Then, just trust me."

"And, what if we don't?" thunders the bearded Nord. "What if we don't trust you?"

I sigh, and prepare to explain why, with more details, when I see one of the Dragonsreach guards speaking to the one from the Clouds District checkpoint.

"Shit," I hiss, and watching them, I address my inquisitor. "Why should you trust me?" I echo, as the palace guard points me out. "Because, you don't have a choice."

I turn and dash off down the street, hearing a brief, "HEY!" behind me, and not stopping to see the guard who yelled it. I weave my way through the crowd of refugees, slipping from one corner to the other, and then, to the one across the street. Bodies seem to swallow me alive as I slip through them like water, and eventually emerge at the end of the main street, by Breezehome.

I can't enter; if I do, then everyone who's staying here will have their only shelter jeopardized.

"There he is!"

I suck my teeth, "Sonofabitch."

Snapping my head around, I take in the sight of three over-polished helmets, before I'm careening through the streets again, turning off the main, and into the residential part of the District. Behind Warmaiden's, I slam myself up against the back wall, and suck in big, deep, quiet breaths, letting them out slow.

Suddenly, I hear a sharp Crunch! coming from just above me. I crane my neck up, not daring to step out and away from the wall, and that's when I see him again.

The little me, the boy.

On the roof of the smithy, legs dangling over the side, he's leaned over, one hand on his knee, staring down on me. He's eating an apple, likely one of the stolen ones, and he's watching me with this sardonic-ass smirk. Just as before, that index finger raises again, and presses against his lips, once again putting me in the mind of myself.

The boy reaches over, all of him disappearing, besides his legs, and then, he reappears, with another big, red apple. He waves it at me, like an offering, and just when it seems like he's about to drop it, he doesn't. He pulls it back slowly, still grinning, as if I'm a dog, and he's my master, and he's lofting a treat out of reach so I have to jump to get it.

Then, it all clicks; this is exactly what he's doing. He's telling me to climb up.

My realization must have shown in my face, because his grin widens. His dangling legs raise up out of view, and he's gone. Then, his hand and the apple make a reappearance, and he waves it lazily before setting it on the edge of the roof, so I can still see it.

"Over there, I think he's there!"

With this shout as my impetus, I back away from the wall, and start running, vaulting myself from my place just before hitting the wall, and pushing off it for two steps before grabbing the edge of the roof. The impact makes it shudder, and the apple wobbles before tipping off towards the ground.

I manage to snag it before it can fall, and then I hoist myself over, rolling onto the safety of the roof just as the city guards round the corner. They look around for a while, and I shut my eyes against the sound of the search for me. Once they've gone, I open my eyes, and take in the small form sitting across the roof from where I lay.

Those big eyes are just as serious and expressive as ever. His mohawk is cornrowed down this time, woven against his scalp in three long, jet-black braids. He's got a bandage slapped on his right cheek, and a cut on his lower lip. His nose is sharp, aristocratic, and his ears are pierced.

A golden chain is around his neck, but whatever hangs from it lies beneath his dark blue longshirt. The ties at the collar are done all they way up, and a muddied wool cloak is wrapped tightly around him. Too-big leathers keep his legs worn, and make me wonder if he stole the pants when he stole the food, and they're tucked into flat leather boots.

"Thin for this weather, no?" I say, nodding at them. "Don't your feet get cold?"

He doesn't respond for a while, just watches me expressionless, scrutinizing me as I've scrutinized him.

"No," he says finally, and his voice is quiet, and something else I can't quite put my finger on. "I've stuffed them. They're actually pretty warm."

"Stuffed them? With what?"

"Rabbit hide."

I smirk to myself.

"Clever kid."

"Can you say the same for yourself?" he scoffs. "If it weren't for me, you'd be eating the core of an apple like that, in the depths of Dragonsreach."

The fuck?

"And, if it weren't for me, you'd have gotten the rest of that beating you so obviously deserved from the Battleborns."

"Exactly," he nods, "So, why don't we call it a truce. Work together."

My brows pull in. This cheeky bastard-

"What did you say your name was?"

The boy smirks, "I didn't."

"Hm." Really smart. But, also really cautious. He's not in the same boat as the rest of these kids. "So, I guess you already know who I am."

He nods.

"Marrick Stray-King. Refugee. All the adults listen to you, even though you're only twenty-nine. Your alias is Keller the Smiler, but you don't go by it anymore. Friends with Hulda Hearth-Child, lovers with her Redguard barmaid, Saadia-"

"Ye gods," I blurt, before I can stop myself. "Why don't you just write a book, boy?"

"How would you know if I didn't?" he smirks. "Not like you can read."

I lunge across the roof, and he scuttles away, quick as ever.

There's a clothesline running from this roof to another, and I realize from the way his foot rests on it that he's got a backdoor escape route that I couldn't follow without half killing myself.

"Alright!" I force out, "Alright. What do you want from me? Huh? What do you want from me?"

Keeping his foot on the line, and his eyes levelled on me, he lets me know.

"I'm looking for my mother," he says, so quietly that I can barely hear him. "I know she's here, in Whiterun, but I can't seem to find her. It took two days, but I finally made it. She said she was here on business, but I can't shake the feeling that she's in some sort of danger."

"Two days?" I echo, and the little Breton nods. Damn. "What can I do?"

"I don't want to let her know that I'm here. I need a place to stay that's off the radar. Taverns have eyes, and inns have voices. But, come to find out, your place has neither."

Breezehome? That's what he wants?

"And, what if I say no?" I ask, just to see what he'll say.

"There are three rubies under your tongue; you've stolen them from Balgruuf the Greater. My guess: you're gonna try to turn them into food before sundown. Pretty sure the Jarl'd like to see them again before that happens."

Hooooooolyyyyyyyyy shit.

"Kid, you en't need to go to blackmail, just to ask for a place to stay," I tell him, rising up and dusting off my trousers. "I'd have taken you in for the asking."

"I only threatened you because you threatened me, just like I only saved you because you you saved me," he points out. "Outside of that, I don't give something for nothing, and I expect the same. I figured we could strike a deal."

What the fuck kind of child?

"So, you'd get a stay in Breezehome?" I ask, and the boy nods. "What do I get?"

"I teach you how to read." Damnit. "I know that you can't, and I know that you want to. You don't want to ask anyone else, because you know they'll talk, and you've got too much pride for that." He shrugs. "I wouldn't say a thing. After all, I'm only here until my mother leaves."

I suddenly realize what it was about this kid's voice; the quality that I couldn't put my finger on. It's quiet, yes, and calculating, too. But, the truly haunting thing about it, is that it's too old. Much too old.

My hand comes up to stroke my beard- a habit I've borrowed from Adjin - and I sigh. He knows he has me. He knew it the first night I saw him, crouched behind that crate, smirking. My thoughts trail back to words on aged paper, that are neither addressed to or signed by anyone, and smell of sweet kush and jazby. I glance back at the kid, who's watching me without intent, masking whatever he's feeling with practised precision.

Much, much too old.

"Deal," I mutter hoarsely, and stick out my hand. He still doesn't show his thoughts, as he takes my hand, and I'm sure he wouldn't have even if I'd turned him away. When he tries to reclaim his hand, I hold fast, and he yanks and yanks before realizing I've caught him. "I don't make deals with nameless kids," I tell him. "I'm Marrick Stray-King."

He studies my face quietly for a while, and seeing no other way out of it, he gives in.

"Chaos," he says, dark eyes never wavering. "You can call me Chaos."