They stumbled into the Frozen Hearth, more than half frozen themselves.
"We'd like two rooms please," Faendal said wearily, keeping a steadying hand on Joi's back, she was just as exhausted as he was, if not more. He could hardly wait to have a tankard of mead and a warm bed.
Dagur didn't look up from the flagon he was polishing. "We only have the one left."
Faendal sighed: Joi needed to sleep, and Divines' knew they had gold to spare.
"Fine," he said, praying that this wasn't as bad of an idea as he thought it would be. He slid ten septims onto the counter. "We'll take it."
Faendal gently set Joi on the bed, removing the iconic Thieves Guild straps from her armor. Joi murmured something and turned over, falling asleep once again. He sat at the table and removed his boots, not daring to fully relax yet. The wood elf dutifully kept an eye on Joi, her breathing steady and even. It had bothered him more than he wanted to admit, but Faendal was growing attached to the Dragonborn. A dangerous occupation at best.
His thoughts drifted back to the letter in his bag, but he shoved away those disturbing memories. The ones he had locked deep in his mind, that he wanted to forget. The ones that—if they ever came out—would destroy him . . . and Joi.
He couldn't let that happen. Just the thought of Joi, broken and afraid, gave him the extra energy needed to lock those memories far, far away.
It was well into the night when he finally allowed himself the luxury of closing his eyes. Joi would be fine—she could protect herself; but she needed someone to watch her back, to defend the little spark that was ignited the first day in Whiterun, when she faced that dragon—to protect the lives of the guards behind her, to protect their families, their people—alone.
Faendal had sworn he would protect that flame, that little piece of dragonfire. With his last breath if necessary, whether it be in this world . . . or the next.
He let Sleep take him in her warm embrace.