"Do you need help, dear?" Haran's voice calls through the door.

"No, thank you, Haran," Iris calls back, testing the water in the tub. She carefully strips off her underclothes, laying them in a neat pile on the ground. She peers down at the wound on her stomach, surprised that it still has not completely healed.

It's going to scar for sure, she thinks bitterly.

She climbs into the bathtub, every muscle in her body relaxing as she soaks in the warm water. She dunks her head underwater, coming up with dripping hair and sighing in relaxation. She scrubs the blood and grime from her skin, thoroughly washing her long light brown locks. She decides to remain in the tub until the water cools; leaning her head back, her eyes fall closed, her ears picking up the sounds of the inn.

The bard's droning voice sings Ragnar the Red again, patrons chat with each other over a mead, and the fire's crackling fills the silence in between. The water finally grows chilly, and Iris climbs out, wrapping herself in a towel before pulling on fresh underclothes. She slides into her long-sleeved tunic and pants, wringing out her wet hair and suppressing a shiver. Upon opening the door, she finds the inn very busy. She hurries to her room, praying that no one will recognize her.

"Hey, Bryn," she smiles at her friend when she finds him sitting in the chair by her bed.

"You look a lot better," he grins.

"I feel a lot better." She moves over to her armor. "Good enough to travel, in fact." She pulls the Thieves Guild armor over her tunic and pants, stepping into her boots.

"Maybe wait until your hair dries." He laughs, coming up behind her. "Unless you want it to freeze."

"Oh, good point." She bends down to pick up her sword when a pulsing pain rips through her body. With a pained gasp, she falls to her knees, clutching her side.

"Careful, lass." Brynjolf crouches down beside her. "The wound is closed but the poison is still in your system."

She squeezes her eyes shut, panting as the pain slowly ebbs away. "I'm going to kill Mercer Frey," she growls, trying with difficulty to keep her Voice in check.

"I'll help."

She raises her violet eyes to meet his green, her mouth quirking in a small smile. "When did you become so protective of me?"

"Since Mercer told us you were dead," he mutters solemnly. "I—I need to make sure that doesn't really happen."

She grins, moving to stand and accepting his hand. "It won't."

The two thieves decide to pass the time sitting in the hall of the inn. They choose a table close to the front, order drinks, and settle in to wait for Iris's hair to dry.

"I'll never understand this song," Iris mutters grumpily when the bard begins his rendition of The Dragonborn Comes.

Bryn glances at her, remembering that he has to keep her from knowing that he knows her true identity. "What, you don't like songs about ancient prophecies and the Chosen One?"

She scoffs, taking a drink from her tankard. "Yeah, let's romanticize some random person and make them responsible for saving the entire world." She stops suddenly, taking a longer drink.

"Sounds like you don't buy the whole Dragonborn business."

She shakes her head. "Nordic legend. That's all it is."

"Okay, so I'll just overlook the fact that the Bretons have three extra Gods who are really Elven deities."

She laughs, elbowing his side. "Shut up."

He has to hand it to her; she's a damned good liar. It worries him.

"Do you believe in it?" Iris asks, tilting her head and grinning crookedly.

"I mean, lots of crazy things have happened over the years. Why not believe in a mythical hero who will save the whole world?" He shakes his head. "It sounds crazy though. And I haven't seen a single dragon since the rumors started. I'm wondering if that's all they are. Rumors."

"Probably," she laughs. "People get bored and make up ridiculous stories. Or maybe it's some Daedra messing with us just for fun."

"They do that?" He takes a swig.

Iris scoffs. "You'd be surprised."

"Have you had run-ins?"

"More than I've liked."

"With who?"

She downs the rest of her drink, cradling her head on her hand. "You won't believe me."

"Sure, I will."

After giving him a doubtful look, she says, "Sheogorath. Clavicus Vile. Azura. And…Boethiah. Boethiah is not happy with me."

"How—how did all that happen?"

She smiles wistfully. "We'll save those stories for the road. It's a long walk to Markarth." She stands, stretching her arms.

"Whoa, lass, walking?" He follows her to the back room.

"What else would we do? Fly?"

He shakes his head. "You're not well enough to walk all the way there, lass."

She rolls her eyes. "I'll be fine, Bryn."

"No, I'm serious, Iris. It's at least a four day walk from here." He watches as she stuffs potions and arrows into her bag. "Why don't we walk to Windhelm and take a carriage to Markarth?"

She whirls around, her violet eyes flashing. "I don't want to go near that wretched city, and I don't need a carriage. I'll be fine to walk."

"Iris, no. You feel good now, but after seven hours of walking?"

"I can decide for myself." She crosses her arms, her eyes narrowing to slits.

"You're too stubborn for your own good. You're trying to recover too quickly, lass."

"No, I'm not. I feel fine, Brynjolf. I can walk. That's the end of it." She moves to brush past him, but he catches her arm.

"What you're doing is beyond persistence; it's just stupidity."

She nearly growls, trying to tug her arm out of his grip. "Bryn, stop it. I know what I'm capable of. I will be able to walk there. I don't need a damned carriage!"

"Why not? Why are you so against it? It isn't a weakness to have to take it easy! You were stabbed! You almost died! There's an ancient poison in your system! It's perfectly fine if we take a carriage to Markarth!"

"I don't need one!" she bursts out, the ground slightly vibrating from the accidental use of her Thu'um.

"Don't forget, lass, I'm still your mentor!"

She laughs sarcastically. "Really? You're going to pull the authority card? That won't work with me!"

"You've forgotten that you're still my protege! I'm the one who is responsible for training you!"

"This is completely different. You're being stupid."

"And you're being childish," Brynjolf growls.

"So, are you! I am my own person, Bryn! I will walk if I want to! Gods, you're acting like you're my father!"

"And how would you know what that's like?" He doesn't mean to say it. The words leave his lips before he can censor them.

Hurt floods Iris's eyes as she visibly flinches back from his horrible words as if she were slapped, forcefully pulling her arm away.

He crossed the line, and he knows it.

"Iris—" He moves towards her.

"Don't." She turns her back on him.

"Iris, please—I didn't mean—"

"You've said enough."

"Iris—"

But she rushes out of the room and to the door of the inn before slamming it behind her.

"Fuck," he breathes, his hands going to cover his face.

How could he say something like that? Her parents abandoned her when she was barely three years old. Left her on the steps of the Temple of Kynareth in Daggerfall. They didn't even bother to give her a name. She was raised by the priestess, she told him. Though she barely remembered her parents, what they did to her still gashed a gaping hole in her heart. It's her biggest insecurity. And he just had to bring it up.

He curses himself under his breath, sighing in relief when he finds her bag still sitting on the bed. At least he knows she won't be traveling to Markarth. She'd never leave without her bag. And her sword, he notes, finding it lying on her bed. Guilt churns his stomach as he stands unmoving in the middle of the Breton's room. He needs to go after her. He needs to apologize.

Sighing once more, he turns and heads out the door into the wintery landscape, hellbent on apologizing to his best friend.


Her cheeks tinged pink with cold, she exhales sharply, watching her breath materialize in the freezing air. She should have thought to grab her cloak on her way out. Grumbling angrily under her breath, she continues her tirade toward the College of Winterhold. How dare he bring up her father? He knows how much it pains her to talk about her parents. The rejection felt from them plagues her to this day. How dare he bring it up? He was angry, she knows, but that's no excuse. Hot tears spill from her eyes, and she angrily tries to swipe them away. But it's no use. The fact that she almost died, three different times, is beginning to sink in. It's the closest she's ever come to death. Sure, she's come close before, but never this close. If Bryn hadn't found her, she would have been dead.

She climbs down the hill by the College, sitting underneath the bridge, a pillar against her back. She draws her knees up to her chest, letting herself cry. She hasn't in so long. She almost died. She almost killed the entire world with her death. Coming this close to death…she's been putting off finding the Elder Scroll. She doesn't want to be the only person standing between Alduin and the rest of the world. She doesn't want to be forced to defeat him. She doesn't want to be the Dragonborn. But she has to. She needs to stop putting it off, because if she comes this close to death again and doesn't make it, where will that leave everyone else? She's been selfish. If her parents knew she was destined to save the world, would they have kept her? Why did they abandon her? What was wrong with her? When will it happen again?

She lets herself cry in earnest. She's always on the go, running from city to city, busying herself with menial tasks for months. And now, she's been forced to stop. It must be why everything is catching up to her, she thinks. Brynjolf is right. She's too stubborn for her own good sometimes. She forces herself to stay busy at all times, never resting. She feels like she needs to prove herself. To who? Her parents? Who knows where they are now? She sniffles, rubbing at her eyes. They don't care about her. They left her. Who will leave her next?

"Lass?"

She gasps, springing to her feet and turning her face away.

His footsteps crunch in the snow as he approaches her.

She wraps her arms around herself, her back to him.

"Iris…"

"Leave me alone."

"I want to apologize."

"You went too far, Bryn." She hates how pitiful her voice sounds.

"I–I know. I'm sorry." He exhales. "There's no excuse."

"No. There isn't." She hears him sigh again; she can imagine him scratching the back of his neck, like he always does when he's stressed.

"I'm sorry, Iris. I was out of line."

She feels the brush of his fingers across her arm and flinches away, closing her eyes. "What you said…" She finally turns around, finding his eyes dark with worry. "That was low, Bryn."

"I know." He hangs his head.

"I would never say anything like that to you."

"I know, Iris."

She pauses, grinding her teeth. "You know, I—"

"Yes, I know! I know I fucked up! And I'm sorry, okay? I'm really sorry."

She doesn't say anything, her eyes downcast.

"Will you look at me?"

She gives into his request, raising her reddened eyes to meet his.

"I'm sorry, Iris." He meets her gaze evenly, and she finds herself almost lost in his eyes. "Please forgive me?"

She sighs, bringing a hand up to rub her sore eyes. "Damn you, Brynjolf," she mutters. "Fine. But only because I'd be dead now if not for you."

His brow furrows slightly before his expression relaxes in relief, even cracking the smallest smile.

She finds her own mouth curving into a subtle smile at his immense relief.

He must sense her mood lightening because his grin widens. "Your hair is frozen." He points to the long strands.

She glances down, gathering them in her hand. A shining sheet of ice coats the light brown strands, giving her hair the illusion of frozen snakes.

A small laugh bubbles past her lips as she clamps her other hand over her mouth.

He laughs, picking up one of the frozen strands. "We better get you inside where it's warm."

She nods, wiping at her face and laughing softly. She lets him drape an arm over her shivering body as they walk back to the inn.


"Okay. I have my sword, my bow, my ring, and potions." Iris checks off her mental checklist. "Is that everything?"

"Should be."

"Okay." She nods, swinging her bag over her shoulder. "Ready."

"Let's head out then."

"Wait!" She digs around her bag, pulling out a leather bound journal. "Phew, okay. Gallus's journal. Gods, I'm so afraid it's going to get lost."

Brynjolf laughs, leading her out of the back room.

"Thank you for everything," Iris gushes to Haran and Enthir.

"Be safe out there, Miss Iris," Haran smiles warmly.

"I will. And I'll be back soon with the translation," she tells Enthir. "Hopefully," she adds under her breath.

"Safe travels to you both."

Brynjolf and Iris step out into the frigid winter, heading straight down the road.

"So…Windhelm?" Iris asks softly, glancing at him sideways.

"Oh, uh, aye. Windhelm." Brynjolf is taken aback; he was preparing himself for a battle to try and get her to take the carriage from Windhelm.

"I just don't want to go in the city."

"We won't have to." He glances at her. "Why do you hate Windhelm so much?"

Iris sighs, fingering her sword. "I'm just not too fond of places with blatant racism, that's all."

Brynjolf laughs. "You'd better hope the Guild doesn't send you on any jobs there."

Iris shrugs. "It'll be more of a challenge because I'll have to really try to abide by the 'don't kill anyone' rule." She flashes him a smile. "But I'm up for it."

"Of course you are." He chuckles under his breath.

They continue chatting and laughing as they walk down the road. Once they finally make it to the Windhelm stables, Brynjolf pays the carriage, and they climb in, heading to Markarth.


They're on the road! What will happen next?

Thanks so much for reading, and, as always, favorite, follow, and review! :)