Prim stared at the clay oven while Vekel coerced a flame to life beneath it. It was a small, simple dome that rested atop a stone base, and had been built directly by the Ragged Flagon's fireplace. A small chimney worked well enough to funnel fumes away from the bar area, but just as with the fireplace, a hint of smoke and soot would always remain. It would be worse today, with both the oven and fireplace lit. Already, Prim's nose felt clouded, but she was long accustomed to the Flagon's myriad of scents. She passed Vekel a wooden paddle, and stepped back with a bemused expression.

"This is the surprise?" she questioned.

"I've wanted an oven for ages, Prim," he tartly replied. "I'll not have one more person nay say it. I spent all last week making it."

"It will make fine bread, Vekel," Tonilia spoke. "Don't worry."

The woman's voice was probably as close to comforting as it would ever come. She was a petite Redguard with whom Prim seldom interacted, and the woman did not speak gently, at least not in public, not even when dealing with Vekel. Of course, Prim had caught her reading a book of poetry one day, so perhaps there was another side to the taciturn thief. A romantic side? But the way Tonilia had frowned at the book, mouth silently sounding out words, suggested that the thief was not very adept at the task.

"I'll never need to buy bread again," Vekel vowed.

He slid a risen loaf into the oven, and stood there staring at it, as if he intended to watch the damned thing bake. Didn't that take a good deal of time? Prim hid a smile as she scooped up a bowl of porridge and topped it with two boiled eggs. It was a shame that she and Brynjolf would be gone before Vekel's first loaf was ready for eating. By the time the other thieves finally rose for breakfast, the Flagon would be filled with the aroma.

"Didn't you already eat?" Tonilia questioned.

"Yes, but this isn't for me. I've got a delivery to make. Vekel?" Prim drew the man's eye and laid a few coins on the counter. "I'll see you two in a few days. I expect the bread process to be perfected by then."

"Bah," Vekel dismissed. "The first loaf will taste just fine."

She was still grinning as she left the Flagon and entered the cistern. Everyone was asleep except for herself and the lone sentinel at the far side of the room. Mercer had arrived nearly at the same time she'd awoken, and she'd laid there in bed, watching him burn several documents in a brazier. One by one, they'd turned to flame, his expression distant, just as it was now. His movements were not as fluid as usual either, or so it seemed to her. She crossed the cistern's walkway while he paced behind his desk, feeling both eager and reluctant to approach him. There'd been few moments like this lately—moments when no one watched—and she ended up near him at such times, even if just to ask about possible work.

I wish we were back at Braidwood.

He watched the last leg of her approach, his eyes flickering between the bowl she held and her face. With a frown, he pulled his chair out at a crooked angle and sat, one arm resting across the desk's edge, and his fingers tracing a circle on its surface. For a moment, Prim felt irrational hate for the piece of furniture, and imagined her sword hacking it to bits. She was sick of it standing between her and him whenever they spoke, and so she moved around it, feeling bold given her impending departure. There was no audience right now anyway.

"Good morning, Master Frey."

His eyes watched critically as she rounded the corner of the desk, the two now facing each other without a confounded barrier. She set the bowl down, and jammed a spoon into the mess.

"No man can survive on stubbornness alone," she declared. "Not even you."

"So you've finally come to your senses," he hummed. "You'll make a better maid than a thief. Go ahead and sweep while you're at it."

"Very funny," she leveled with a smile. "As if you actually mean that. I was just helping Vekel with breakfast and thought you might be hungry."

And she'd wanted an excuse to speak with him before leaving. Never mind that this gesture was small, even insignificant given how easily Mercer could order someone to fetch him food. Their interactions had simply been far too limited lately for her liking, partly warded against by pressing matters with the Companions and then his darkened mood. Last she'd spoken with him, the tension brewing within him had sent her away quickly, and he hadn't sought her out once since their return. It chafed at her, his absence, more so because there was no indication that their renewed distance bothered him like it did her. Still, she stood here now, and he wasn't sending her away.

"You've been doing jobs for the Companions lately," he noted.

"Which is why I left those looted purses on your desk. I know that I haven't exactly been taking guild jobs. That gold should make up for the difference."

"Barely," he mused. "I'm sure Jorrvaskr has a few artifacts worth stealing."

"Not if you offered me my deepest dreams," Prim clipped in refusal. "And you know it."

"I find that hard to believe," he scoffed. "Your deepest dreams must be quite shallow." He paused as if inviting her to correct him, but she held her tongue. She wasn't sure what her deepest dreams were, and even if she knew, wasn't about to blurt them out in the cistern. Such information was dangerous, and finally Mercer removed his eyes from her own. "Bring back something of value," he simply ordered.

"Brynjolf said that you gave him an important job, so I'm sure we will."

"If he's going with you, he's going to do more than hold your hand," Mercer growled, making Prim frown.

"He's not going to hold my hand. I can make the journey without someone to comfort me. Akatosh's mercy, I'm not incapacitated with grief. The only reason I'm not going alone is because of my being targeted by the Morag Tong and all."

"Really?" he quipped, terse and unconvinced.

Why was he being such an ass about this? She fought back a scowl, keeping herself calm.

"Mercer, do I look like I'm going to fall off Quilt from crying?" She pointed to her dry eyes for emphasis.

"The two of you have been disappearing together," he stated. "And neither of you have been bringing in as much gold as usual. We've barely made anything this month between Karliah's little antics and my thieves being paranoid about assassins."

"I've been..."

"You've been what?" he demanded, anger simmering so close to the surface that it flared behind his eyes. "The Companions have nothing to do with Brynjolf. If you're distracting him with such nonsense or keeping him from work, then I'm telling you to stop. Immediately," he emphasized, his words stone grinding stone.

For a moment, Prim could find no words to say. Her tongue floundered, taken aback by both Mercer's vehemence and the strange turn in conversation. The accusation was utterly ridiculous, although she had been spending a lot of time with Brynjolf. She wasn't distracting and putting him on Mercer's bad side though, was she? Surely Mercer was overreacting.

"He's been helping me practice hand-to-hand combat," she explained. "I haven't been taking him on jobs outside the guild. I realize that would be unacceptable. He told me all about Karliah's skill, you know. He said that she never used a sword, but that she could fell people with stealth attacks and her hands. Something about dark elf fighting arts. If I'm disarmed when we're chasing her, I don't want to be defenseless."

He scrutinized her a moment longer, her features flushed in irritation. It was almost as if he didn't like her spending time with Brynjolf, but that was nonsense. He had no reason to dislike it now that he knew she wasn't keeping the man from guild business, not unless he disliked it for personal reasons. The thought made her stare at him quizzically, wonderment tickling her fingers and toes at the possibility. She suddenly wanted to teach out and touch him, just as she had at the Braidwood Inn, even if it was to shake him senseless. Touch had felt so forbidden lately, kicked to the canal.

"I don't care what you do in your own time," Mercer intoned. "But this trip to Whiterun had better make up for the last two weeks." He quite suddenly seized the bowl of porridge, and stabbed into the eggs on top with the spoon. "As for Karliah, she's not nearly as untouchable as you're starting to think. You're a match for her as long as it isn't a long distance competition."

"She almost killed you. I'm not taking chances," Prim spoke. "And I'm not distracting Brynjolf," she added. "We'll be back soon. There's nothing wrong with a friend lending a little support now and then."

Say something, you miserable man!

Mercer blew steam from half a boiled egg and stuffed it in his mouth, gaze focused on the food. The idea of him being jealous worried her as much as it made her hopeful. The flush on her cheeks probably hadn't dissipated, and when he noticed it, a sneer crept up his face. She'd long suspected that he viewed her with a certain amount of lust, certainly since he'd interrupted her bath, but this outward reaction was new. Or was it? She took a step closer and remembered all the times the guildmaster had shown contempt when speaking to her about Brynjolf. She'd chalked it up to the idealogical differences that clearly existed between the men, but this made her wonder if there was something else. Whatever it was, it made intruding on his personal space all the more charged, and intrude she did. She stepped close enough that he tilted his head to look up at her.

"Maybe you should hire a maid to clean Riftweald," she suggested.

Her fingers entered his hair, dragging through it as she removed a clump of dust, likely fallen from one of the disused chandeliers in the manor. She held it for him to see and then dropped it to the floor. There was nothing else in his hair, but she ran her fingers through it once more anyway, suddenly wishing that she could stay all day. Divines, she'd missed touching him. As he seized her wrist and ran a thumb over the pulse, she regretted having not had the gumption to climb into his bed in Kynesgrove. She was tired of pushing her attraction aside and questioning how it would affect everything—questioning how he might react,

"Do you have any idea what you're doing?" he demanded.

"I think so?"

His eyes narrowed at her response, a tug on her wrist bringing her closer. She bumped into the chair's arm, and angled over him. Divines she wanted this man, but an abrupt break in soft snoring warned that Delvin was waking up. Others would follow. Tilma. She needed to pay her respects to Tilma. She leaned forward and pressed a kiss against Mercer's forehead, wanting to aim lower, but knowing there was limited time. His grip on her loosened as lips touched skin, as if he too sensed the need to end this now. Instincts said that this affection was not for others to see or even guess at. She slid away from him, his face devoid of emotion.

She departed quickly and without a word, not daring to look back as she collected her bag and told Brynjolf to meet her at the city gates. She indulged in but a quick glance as she climbed the ladder toward the graveyard. Mercer was speaking with Vex, apparently unaware or unwilling to spare time for her retreat. She would answer for this when she returned, either by his initiation or her own, she knew. The possibility had been unspoken at Kynesgrove, hinted at by a closer proximity between them than the situation required, but this crossed the line. She just hoped that she wouldn't regret it later.

Kodlak held a dish rimmed in garnets, and solemnly walked to the edge of the Skyforge. A strong breeze swept across Whiterun and the surrounding plain, catching Kodlak's white beard as his eyes closed. Prim stood in the leather armor that had been made here, on these very stones, and sighed as he threw the ashes skyward. The gray flecks caught and vanished almost immediately, her eyes following their flight over Jorrvaskr's roof. She was surrounded by her shield-siblings, and all was silent as heads bowed in respect and a final farewell.

The others were already shuffling away as she remained, her mouth silently offering the first prayer she'd spoken in ages. Her mother had recited it many times when begging for protection from the spectral that plagued her, never with results, but Prim knew no other prayer. What else did one say at a funeral but a prayer? Was this prayer even appropriate? Probably not, but she didn't know what else to do. At the end, almost as an afterthought, she spoke as a thief, not a warrior or her mother's daughter.

"Shadows guard you."

A hand touched her shoulder, and she raised her head. The others were gone, and only she and Kodlak remained. The man's wrinkled face bore a gentle smile, his broad shoulders imposing, but his manner anything but intimidating. She smiled at him with the realization of just how much she'd missed him and the Companions.

"It is good to see you," he said. "How have you been?"

"Well. I meant to come sooner, but I've been busy in Riften." It sounded like a pathetic excuse, and Kodlak chuckled with a shake of his head. His voice was a bear's, strong and sure, but this bear was hibernating. Serene.

"I did not mean to question your decision," he assured. "We have missed you, but people do not make roots until they are ready. If Riften is to your liking, then we will content ourselves with that. Your shield-siblings would not mind more frequent visits, of course, but that is your decision, not theirs."

She relaxed and joined him in walking down the Skyforge's steps, the way hewed from rock and leading toward the hall of the companions. The others seemed to have drifted back into the building already, behind which sat the training yard, its expanse only bearing light snow. Winter was lifting, and with it the worst of the cold.

"Tell an old man what you've been doing," Kodlak encouraged.

"Making a few friends and loads of trouble," she dryly mused. "I've gotten myself caught up in someone else's history. I didn't even know it was happening until assassins were sent after me."

"Are you in danger?" he seriously asked.

"No, not right now. One of my friends...he helped me get rid of them."

"But you are troubled," Kodlak concluded. "This way," he motioned, leading her to the yard. "I think perhaps we should have a moment before the others tackle you. They'll talk your ear off with what they've been doing and questions. Here. This is a good spot."

He chose a bench on the building's stone terrace, and she joined him. They were facing the southeastern mountains of all things, beyond which sat the Rift, where she would soon return. She stared at the distant peaks, rimmed in clouds and forever capped with snow, and felt pulled toward them as she never had before. She loved Whiterun, but it didn't feel quite the same anymore.

"So," Kodlak prodded. "Tell me what troubles you. You are not running, are you?"

"No," she firmly stated. "I'm not running, but sometimes in dreams, I still do." He sat in silence, granting her all the time in the world to choose her next words. "I care for someone very deeply," she finally spoke. "I didn't realize how deeply until the last few weeks, but he...he is not a man who has use for such care, I think. After losing so many people, I thought it would be alright. I was going to wait and see what happened. Maybe nothing," she admitted. "But for a moment, I thought that I'd lost him, and it hurt, Kodlak. It hurt like it used to in Daggerfall. Then Tilma died, and I cried. I don't know if I should care for this man, Kodlak. I feel something dark coming, and I do not know what it is. It's like a thundercloud waits in the distance, and I can see it coming, but I can't move fast enough to escape it."

"Tell me of your dreams," he urged. "They often carry great portent."

"I don't know about that," she sighed with a smile.

"I dreamed of your coming."

"Really?" She stared at him in wonder. "You knew I was coming?"

"Why do you think I let you join so readily? I knew your spirit before I met you. Even now, I hear your wolf, and it is a fierce, protective spirit, not one that seeks to kill for its own pleasure. Dreams, Prim, are sometimes windows to the future or what might be the future. I do not think they tell us what must happen, but what could."

"These ones involve a daedra," she frowned. "She's come to my dreams several times with the promise of...gifts, I guess. I turn her away each time, but she doesn't believe that I am serious. One time, I thought about accepting. I almost did, but then the darkness consumed me."

"A different kind of dream,' Kodlak mused. "One forced upon you, not of your own making." He scratched his beard in thought. "Perhaps she is right. Perhaps not. You will need to decide whether or not her offer will change you for the worse."

"She's a daedra," Prim frowned. "Like Hircine. Of course it would be for the worst."

"Do you feel worse for your beast?" he questioned. "I am ready to be free of mine, but I have not regretted living so many years with it. If I cannot be freed, then I will make my peace with fate. I have not turned in many years because I do not need to. I am no longer of an age where I yearn for battle and to prove myself. When you're this old, you have nothing to prove anymore. No, Prim, my battles are behind me, and I made the best of what you know I consider a curse. Sometimes it was a blessing. I have found that one and only one thing makes a difference now: my perspective. I made my beast secondary in life—an interesting fact about myself and little more. Therefore it did not and does not define me."

"What are you saying?" Prim quietly asked.

"That if you had decided to accept this daedra's offer, the end result would largely be of your own making. You could let the gift determine how you live, or use the gift in the life you've determined."

"But our souls..."

"Are bound to one plane or another when we die. They must go somewhere, hopefully the place of our choosing. Aela will thrive on Hircine's planes and join others of like mind. If I am to be there as well, I will meet my forebearers and find a quiet place to rest my bones. Prim, I have heard of souls bound so tightly together that they end up in the same plane together, whether or not one or another was claimed elsewhere. I would see my wife again. That is what I wish for most, and because I wish it so ardently, I think the divines will reunite us."

"But you don't know."

"No, I do not. Do any of us really know until we die?"

"I suppose not," she mused. "...But I do not intend to accept this daedra's offers."

"Then so be it," he smiled. "As for this man you speak of, I would not let the threat of loss or pain keep you away. The world is a hard place to face alone."

"He doesn't seem to have a problem with that," she wryly spoke.

"A hard man, is he?" Kodlak marveled, eyes shining. "Vilkas said you needed someone older and sterner to keep you alive."

"Oh, I'm going to get him for that one," she chuckled. "This one is quite determined to throw me into the fire, not save me from it, I think."

"Now, now," he laughingly cautioned. "Would you be happy with a man who wanted you home safe by the fire, a baby on each knee perhaps?"

Prim momentarily imagined Mercer holding a baby, and burst out laughing. Such an absurd notion. The man would not know how to hold a baby, and just wait until one spit up on his armor, tugged his hair, or laughed at his scowling face.

"Sorry," she guffawed, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. "I just...oh, that's funny. No, I think I'd scream if I was locked in a house with children and told to never wander again."

"I'm glad that I've helped put your worries to rest then," Kodlak chuckled. "Come. I think it's time to eat, and Farkas will insist on a game or two."

"I have a friend waiting for me, so I won't stay late," she advised. "But we'll be here several days, so I'll be back tomorrow."

"This is the friend you spoke of?" Kodlak questioned, opening the doors to Jorrvaskr.

"No, not him, and I'm not sure the one who came with me would appreciate keeping company with warriors like us. Maybe though," she mused, thinking a definite 'no' in her mind, but she'd wait and hear Brynjolf's opinion.

She had little time to think once the companions swept her into a chair in the great hall. Long tables lined a central fire pit, and there was food of all kinds to be had. Vilkas and Farkas sat either side of her, and demanded to know exactly what adventures she'd been up. Edited versions that had nothing to do with thieving made the rounds, and then came their news and fond stories of Tilma. They toasted the woman numerous times, and Athis and Njada began sparring while Aela swore up and down that Prim smelled of swamp and men. This drew only laughter, and finally, after too much meat and sweets, Prim excused herself with promises to return in the morning.

It was a horrible walk to Breezehome in the city's lower district, ice on the steps and her overfilled stomach making poor companions. She unlocked and stepped inside to find Brynjolf lounging by the fire. Her home was nothing grand, but the compact size also meant that the fire heated most of the place, the stone pit releasing heat upward to the bedrooms. Unlike Riften, almost everything was made of wood, and not a seat in the house was without a thick cushion. Brynjolf had certainly helped himself to her favorite chair, his armor gone and mead in hand.

"I brought you sweet rolls," she said, handing three to him. "I know there isn't much to eat around here. I haven't been home in awhile."

"It's cozy, lass," he chirped. "I don't think I've ever seen so many chests stuffed with quilts and pillows before in my life. A thief wouldn't know what to do if he broke in here."

"Oh," she grinned. "That's an indulgence of sorts. My first winter here, I stacked my bed with enough blankets and pillows for five people. So you like it? I'm sorry about leaving you here."

"Don't worry about me. It wouldn't be my place to show up at a funeral like that, so I took a stroll. Saw the sights and stopped in the Bannered Mare. The Temple of Kynerath seems an easy target. I'll take our goods the night before we leave."

"Divines, I'm tired," she sighed, flopping into the chair beside him.

His armor was off, leaving him in a tunic and pants, much like herself. She tossed her cloak over the dining table, and pulled off her boots to wiggle her toes near the flames. It would be a quiet evening she suspected, with the two of them sleeping easily after a two day ride from Riften. Brynjolf offered her a mug of mead, and she grinned.

"Helped yourself to the cask in the pantry, huh?"

"You said to make myself at home," he teased. "So how was the funeral?"

"Good."

"And seeing your friends?"

"Also good. They'd like to meet you," she considered. "There's no reason you need to stay here tomorrow, if you don't want to. I'm thinking four days. We'll stay in town four days and then go home to Riften."

"You consider Riften home?" he asked, looking pleased.

"Sort of, yes," she smiled.

"Well, that does my heart good to hear. I'd be delighted to meet your friends, if it won't cause any problems. I'm not a well-reputed man, lass. I wouldn't do you dishonor intentional or otherwise."

"Oh, I'm not worried," she dismissed. "Maybe a little, if something were to happen. You wouldn't take anything from them, would you?" He looked offended, and she chuckled. "Sorry. I had to ask. Well, if your sticky fingers won't be a problem, I'd be happy to introduce you. I'm not ashamed to be your friend, Brynjolf. I'll tell the jarl himself that we drink together if the topic comes up."

He looked at her with a warmth that carried a tinge of surprise as well. She had to remind herself that the guild was his entire existence. He'd been raised and kept within that circle, forever known as the man selling magic in the market, and before that, probably a street urchin rather than an upstanding citizen. He'd been one thing his entire life, and that was someone who would never rub elbows with the Companions.

"That's kind of you, lass," he said. "I would not ask you for that."

"You don't need to. We should enjoy ourselves anyway, right? Mercer isn't happy we're here, so I'll probably be given something annoying to do when we get back." She smiled vaguely, irritated by the thought, but also wondering what the guildmaster was up to at the moment. He was probably at his desk or in Riftweald, where divines knew what he spent his time doing. There'd been books in his bedroom, and a chest of gold coins, but little else to keep one occupied.

"Lass?" Brynjolf questioned.

"Hmm?" She looked at him, a soft but reserved smile on his face.

"You care about him, don't you? Mercer." She must have looked cornered, for he leaned back and held his hands up in a sign of peace. "If you don't want to say anything, you don't need to. I've just noticed the way you talk about him sometimes, and you said that being snowed in at Braidwood wasn't bad at all. You should see the little smile you were wearing just now."

"It's not wrong to care about him," she said. "You care about him too, don't you?"

"Just what are you implying there?"

"Oh, nothing like that," she beamed, grinning at his distasteful expression. "I meant that if something happened to him, you would care."

"Of course I would," the man shrugged. "We've never been as close as I'd liked. I was on my last leg when he brought me to Gallus. It's work between us now, but...I know what you mean," he sighed. "I don't want to see Karliah nearly kill him again, Prim. I'm counting on you to watch his back while I watch the guild's."

She stared into the flames, debating whether or not to say more. Perhaps it was time to share something deeper about her feelings with Brynjolf, and there was no threat of eavesdropping here, unlike in the cistern. It was safe to say anything within the walls of Breezehome.

"I do care about him, Bryn," she stated. "There was a moment on the tundra above Windhelm where I thought he'd died. I...I couldn't handle it." She stared into her mead, eventually looking up to find Brynjolf wearing a studious expression. "That's when I realized how much...I'm terrible at this," she frowned. "I care about him. Let's leave it at that."

"I'd ask how much," Brynjolf lowly spoke. "But alright. Let's leave it." He stirred the fire's embers with a pick, his almost concerned features melting into calmness. "You could have told me sooner. I wouldn't have said a word. It can be our secret, if you'd like."

"I wouldn't say it's a secret," she mused. "I guess it is. I haven't said anything."

"I'll keep it to myself unless you say otherwise. Mercer is a smart man, Prim. If I've picked up on it, he already knows, or maybe it's too far from his concerns to be noticed. Just be careful."

Always looking out for me, she thought. It occurred to her that everything would be so much easier if she'd gravitated toward Brynjolf. He was handsome and quick, both in manner and tongue, and maybe, if she'd just been thinking more and charging into challenges less, he would have won her favor. Watching him tend the flames, she decided it would have been easy to fall for him if Mercer hadn't so mightily demanded her attention, the guildmaster's demeanor making her determined to best him or gain his respect one way or another. And all the times I intentionally defied him, just to do it, she thought.

"I don't think that I can stay awake much longer," she yawned. "I'm being terrible company. I just got back, and I'm ready for bed."

"I'm ready to sleep myself."

"The spare bed's yours, and you can have all the blankets and pillows you'd like."

They rose together, ambling up the stairs. She still felt overly full, and grumbled as she flung her bedroom doors open. The heat from the fire below seeped up through the cracked floorboards, warming her feet as she crawled beneath blankets. This was so much more comfortable than the cistern. Maybe she would save her coins and take extra work to get herself a proper house in Riften.

"How in Tamriel did you fit this many pillows in one chest?" Brynjolf called.

"Very carefully."

She rolled over and fell asleep with a smile.