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Chapter Text

It was a thieves world. Or, it was in Riften at least. The entire city was in the pocket of the Thieves Guild – nothing went on there without them knowing, and every guard was bribed or threatened into complacency. The merchants all paid protection money and if anyone tried to work against them, they found themselves in jail pretty quickly.

It was a good place to be a thief. Here, Brynjolf could walk the streets without being cautious – and some other thieves even didn't mind if it were public knowledge they were a thief. In Riften, being a thief was merely a career choice, not a heinous crime. And it made seducing young maidens quite a bit easier, they all seemed to have this notion that being a thief made one seem dark and mysterious, or romantic, or something along those lines.

Brynjolf didn't really care as long as it helped him into their beds.

This particular morning he was walking down the streets with an arrogance in his step to join his fellow guild members. His path took him through the market, where he saw a foreign merchant selling a yellow fleshy looking fruit. It was imported from Hammerfell according to the merchant – apparently very delicious.

Skyrim, as a rule of thumb, did not have the best of climates, and the food was none too different. The frost killed most plants during the winter apart from the hardiest and natives species, like apples and berries. In the colder months, very little grew in terms of food, and most people survived off preserved vegetables or fruits from the warmer months, tubers, or cured meats. In certain parts of Skryim, a particular traditional method of burying orca meat in the sand with salt for the better part of a year, then digging it up and eating it in winter, was quite popular. Brynjolf had never acquired the taste for it.

Still, Riften was more temperate than the more northen areas of Skyrim. The summers were warm(ish) and during it the sun seemed to believe it had a personal mission to shine for the entire day at times, only to completely bugger off in winter when the snow came – as if to say, I did my part and gave you four months of constant sunlight, so figure it out for yourselves in winter.

But either way, Brynjolf was used to it. It was all he'd ever known.

The merchant selling the fruit was distracted with a costumer, so he casually snatched a piece of fruit as he passed the stall. Nobody brought him up on it because it was Riften, though some people probably noticed. He took a bite out of the yellow fruit as he walked to the graveyard. It was quite sweet and juicy, he had to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand after a few chews. He'd finished it by the time he'd entered the secret entrance to the thieves guild, and chucked the core in a pile of trash in the corner. Somebody would get rid of it later, hopefully not him.

He was probably one of the youngest people in the guild, but he'd been there for a long enough time that people treated him like family. He was only a teenager when he wound up joining, so even if he was an adult now, some people still treated him like the little baby brother – he hated it.

Gallus, their somewhat eccentric but friendly guild master was standing near his desk, speaking to Karliah, a dark elf of a similar age to Gallus. They were both probably ten years older than Brynjolf, maybe a little less. It was common knowledge in the guild that Gallus and Karliah where a 'thing', though it was considered a bit odd. Most thieves didn't take their relationships beyond a casual screw.

Regardless, Brynjolf hadn't really intended on joining them, until Gallus beckoned. So he obliged and wondered over.

“Excellent,” Gallus started warmly. Karliah gave him a polite nod. “We were just speaking of you.”

Brynjolf cocked an eyebrow. “Good things, I hope.”

A chuckle left Gallus' lips but he didn't specifically reply to his statement. “An opportunity has presented itself to rid Pontus Felskog of a valuable falmer artifact he has recently acquired.”

Of course it was about falmer. It was always about falmer with Gallus. Well, perhaps not always, but it sometimes felt as if he were always going on about some scholarly thing or another. Sometimes Brynjolf wondered why he'd even become a thief in the first place.

“He's holding a gala at his estate in Windhelm,” Karliah continued. Pontus Felskog was a nord of some wealth and standing, remarkable for being enthusiastic about multiculturalism in Skyrim, and considered to be a quite annoying man who talked too much and too fast by many people. But however annoying or well meaning Pontus was, he was also incredibly fond of his numerous artifacts and possessions and employed a small army of personal guards to watch them, so they had realised earlier that breaking into his estate was not really feasible.

“I want you to go,” Gallus said. “I would myself, but Karliah and I have... prior commitments.”

The two of them often left for periods of time together. Nobody really knew what they did, most people thought it was something to do with them being a couple, but Brynjolf wasn't so sure. He didn't really worry himself with what they did though. Still, he was a little bit flattered Gallus would choose him in his place. Gallus wouldn't ask just anybody to recover this particular artifact, it would be somebody he trusted not to take it for themselves – it was worth more to him personally than just some expensive item to be pawned off. But Brynjolf had always been close to Gallus so it probably wasn't that surprising.

“You can attend the gala and take it right under his nose,” Karliah continued. “But-”

“We're sending someone with you,” Gallus finished for her.

Brynjolf narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“His gala is about celebrating multiculturalism in Skyrim,” Karliah started. “You're a nord so you're not exactly an immigrant or part of a minority group, you'll need a better disguise to get in without looking out of place.”

He nodded slowly, but allowed Gallus to continue with their plan. “Pontus would be especially thrilled if you went with someone as a couple, but it won't help much to take anybody else in the guild as your partner, a nord and another nord, or even an imperial isn't so uncommon.”

“I hope you have a plan other than kidnapping somebody off the street,” Brynjolf offered. Gallus chuckled brightly in the way that he did.

“No, that won't be necessary. In fact,” he smiled, “we're thinking we can kill two birds with one stone. Mercer seems to think he's found a potential recruit.” Brynjolf could see exactly where this was going, though he didn't mind that much. “She's a wood elf, you can take her along and see how she performs.”

“A wood elf?” Brynjolf frowned. He wasn't sure he could convincingly pull that off, elves in general weren't so popular in Skyrim (in fact amongst some groups of nords they were very unpopular, and wood elves were considered only marginally better than the high elves.) “Do you think anybody will believe that? Most bosmer won't even leave Valenwood willingly let alone mate outside their race, and some nord men are more likely to stick an axe in an elf than court them.”

“Unless they have a fetish,” Karliah muttered a little bitterly.

Brynjolf gave her a somewhat horrified look. So help him, he'd pretend to be a couple with some woman to get this artifact, but he wouldn't pretend to be some screwed up nord who got their kicks out of screwing tiny little bosmer women who he'd hurt more than pleasure.

“Which is precisely the reason why this is going to work so well!” Gallus was possibly enjoying this too much. “Pontus is an arrogant creature, he won't be able to resist boasting about the wood elf and nord couple he invited to his party.”

Brynjolf wasn't sure what expression seemed appropriate for his emotions at the moment or the situation. Eventually, he just murmured, “this is ridiculous,” to himself and went along with it.

o0o

The wood elf that Mercer had found (Mercer was the second in charge behind Gallus in the Thieves Guild) was to be inspected and interviewed before they committed to the plan. They decided to have it take place in one of the rooms above the Bee and Barb, the local tavern (the owners were well and truly paid off to keep quiet.) Brynjolf accompanied Gallus the next morning when it was scheduled. They entered the room together and took a seat each at the same end of a small table. A bosmer woman sat on the opposite end.

She was quite tiny, probably even by elven standards, though all bosmer were slight and short so that didn't mean much. Brynjolf would probably tower over her if they stood side by side. She wore a plain but fine set of leather armour and there were some scars on her features. Her fingers, in particular, had hard callouses on the tips and looked weathered, as if she used them everyday in manual labour. He guessed she was probably an archer, though it wasn't a particularly grand deduction because she was an elf and had a bow on her back, the callouses just confirmed it.

“Hello,” Gallus started. “My name is Gallus,” he gestured to Brynjolf, “and this is Brynjolf. Mercer tells me you're quite talented.”

“I imagine I wouldn't be hear if he didn't,” she replied. It was not arrogant or cold, just simple, neutral and matter-of-fact.

“Quite true!” Gallus became serious then. “Now, we have business to discuss.”

She did not reply, but held their gaze steadily. She had black eyes. They were a bit unnerving.

“You're going to accompany Brynjolf to Windhelm, were you will steal an artifact of particular value to me. If he thinks you're good enough, you'll be invited to join our guild on your return. If not, he'll probably just leave without you.”

Brynjolf studied her reaction carefully. She was not reacting the way most people did. Her features were careful but calculating without being malicious. Usually they had two kinds of recruits, people who were so nervous they almost vomited, or people who were so arrogant it made Brynjolf want to punch them. She wasn't really either.

“Okay,” was her reply, then she paused in thought. “And what if I, say, revealed you to the guard?”

Gallus smiled, though this time it wasn't so much friendly but a warning. “Then we contact the Dark Brotherhood, savvy?”

Chapter Text

Her name was Lucille, apparently. Gallus spent a bit more time explaining to her the details of the heist later that evening, when Brynjolf wasn't around. He himself was informed afterward. They would take the guise of a couple named Björn and Ghardiel Hansson, he was to be an nord adventurer who abandoned his ways when he fell in love with her, the wood elf barmaid he met in a tavern. Or it was something along those lines, at least. Regardless, they left the next morning by horseback and made good progress.

Lucille was particularly silent on the journey, but if he spoke to her and tried to engage her in conversation, she obliged, so he reasoned that perhaps she was just used to minding her own business. Either way, they were at an inn half way to Windhelm by nightfall.

The inn itself was unremarkable but pleasant enough. It had a fire place downstairs were many of the guests were gathered, and a predictably annoying bard singing songs there as well. But if you stopped listening to his music and just focused on the flickering of the flames and the soft murmuring of voices, it was actually quite cozy. Brynjolf offered to fetch some dinner, although it wasn't much more than some bread and fruit, and he brought it to Lucille who he found in a quieter corner in front of the fireplace caring for her bow. She was sitting on the floor with her back to a wooden bench with cushions on it that was otherwise empty. Brynjolf didn't see the need to peruse the floor as a seat, and sat himself quite comfortably on the bench.

He leant down towards her and offered some bread and an apple. She took both with a polite thank you, put down her bow and started picking at the bread. She tore off little pieces and ate them individually, whereas Brynjolf who just took big bites out of his, some would say like a true nord.

“So, lass, tell me about you. How did you come to be in this... profession?” he asked pleasantly.

She shot him a look over her shoulder which seemed a little bit suspicious. He maybe looked a little affronted when he replied defensively, “I'm trying to be polite.”

She relaxed then and returned her attention to the bread she was picking at as she spoke. “My parents were bosmer from Valenwood, but they traveled through Skyrim and Cyrodiil for many years as merchants.”

“So they gave you an Imperial name?”

“Yes.” Brynjolf started on his apple when she continued because his bread was finished. “Then they got ambushed by bandits outside Rorikstead.” She sighed softly. “So the local innkeeper took me in when I was, perhaps, two or three? He and his wife were old, and they were both dead by the time I was teenager.”

“And nobody wanted to adopt a teenage girl,” he predicted.

“Preciously. So I ended up on the streets and picked pockets to get by, and hunted in the woods when I couldn't steal any food.” She shrugged and glanced over her shoulder at him. “Probably not much different from the stories of most thieves out there.”

“Very true.” He twirled the finished apple core in his fingers as she started on her own one. He figured he'd return the favour and tell her a bit about himself. “My pa taught me how to be a thief, ma died when she gave birth to me.” He reached for one of the two daggers that sat on his belt and pulled it out of it's sheath. “I was only a wee lad when he died. So I did the same as you.”

He gestured to the dagger he was holding and she glanced at it. It was well made with intricate patterns on it and a sharp blade. “Didn't realise he was part of the guild till many years later when I wound up joining them. They gave me his things when I did.”

“How did you end up joining?”

Brynjolf laughed softly at the memory and sheathed his daggers. “I tried to pickpocket Gallus, it didn't work of course. Instead of giving me a good flogging though, he recruited me.” He gave her a meaningful look now. “He's a good man.”

Lucille broke his eye contact and looked away, but added a soft, “you seem fond of him.”

“Aye, he's the older brother I never had to look out for me.” He paused for a moment and when he continued his voice was serious. “I would kill anyone who tries to hurt him.”

Her eyebrows knitted together at that remark and she didn't reply at first, and when she did, it seemed forced – as if Brynjolf couldn't tell if she was saddened to hear of such a positive role model she had lacked, or for something else. “Lucky man.”

He muttered a mhmm in reply and the situation once more turned to silence. After awhile he had enough and got up, bid her a good night and left. Except that he didn't so much leave the room, as in that he left her side. He walked over to the counter were one of the maids was drying some mugs and leant on it. She didn't notice him at first until he cleared his throat.

The conversation that passed between them was as predictable and petty as the conversations he had used for every other wench Brynjolf had swept off her feet in inns. He leant close to her at the right time, whispered in her ear just the right words and let his fingers trail down her dress to just the right length. Had he not been so preoccupied with getting her into his bed, he might have noticed the look Lucille gave him. But even if he had, it wouldn't have deterred him much because no amount of head shaking had stopped him in the past.

o0o

They left early next morning on their horses and made good progress to the next town. Like the previous day, if Brynjolf engaged Lucille in smalltalk, she obliged. It was all rather nice, and then the rain hit. It was of course the end of Autumn, which meant that in this part of Skyrim the heavens opened up and the clouds seemed to take it upon themselves as a personal mission to drown the entire countryside. If it was colder, it would have snowed, which would have been quite nice, but it was at that awkward sort of temperature where it was cold and depressing, and the rain just turned into a half assed attempt at being frozen, which only served to completely and utterly soak you to the bone and freeze you simultaneously.

Brynjolf did not do wet very well at all. He was perhaps like any other nord in that he tended to be a depressing man in the winter, and cheerful in the summer, and the rain made him the most depressed of all. And the rain did not do him any favours either. Whereas Lucille got soaked just like him, in her wood elf nature, she wore it much better. For her, she looked almost as if she belonged in the forest even if she was drenched, and her hair curled pleasantly and there was the distinct fragrant smell of when it has just rained and everything smells clean and fresh and vibrant.

Brynjolf was the complete opposite. When he got wet in the rain, he looked like a drowned rat, had the personality of a cat who had just been dropped into a puddle, and smelt like a wet dog. So he was in a particularly foul mood for the rest of the trip. Some might say he had been sulking, if they weren't too concerned of where that might mean his daggers would end up. But at least when they reached the next inn he brightened up a bit, and he returned to his usual self when they told him their room would have a personal fireplace. Only to be consumed with disbelief when he realised they had to share a room because there was only that one free.

Stupid inn with it's stupidly low number of rooms, was something along the lines of what Brynjolf had said when he tramped up the stairs. Granted, it was a very popular inn, less than an hours walk from Windhelm which was appealing to many travelers who didn't want to stay in the city. So maybe it wasn't so surprising that it was in high demand.

Regardless, having their own fireplace was quite nice because it meant they could dry themselves off and only had to worry about being somewhat naked around each other, instead of around a bunch of other strangers. Brynjolf seemingly didn’t have an issue pulling off his sodden shirt the moment he stepped into the room and throwing it to the floor with a wet ‘splat’ noise. Lucille only gave him the most fleeting look this time, and he didn’t even notice it because he was too busy standing in front of the fire with his palms held up to the warmth.

Perhaps wood elves had a bit more modesty, or Brynjolf simply had a distinct lack of modesty in comparison to most other people, but Lucille took off her wet cloak and sat down cross legged in front of the fire in her shirt and breeches. She reached for her hair and started combing it with her fingers but they otherwise stayed there in a comfortable silence for a good few minutes.

Then, Brynjolf broke it. “I suppose this is fitting, considering we're meant to be pretending to be a married couple.”

Lucille glanced up at him briefly. “Indeed.”

“I'm still not sure this disguise is such a good idea, though.” He glanced back down at her. His hair quite possibly might have more knots in it that was strictly physically possible at that moment, though it did rather look amusing. Then, he sat himself down now and started tugging at his boots.

“Why not?”

“Because it might be a bit too over the top,” Brynjolf replied.

Lucille shrugged as she tugged at a particularly stubborn knot that had formed in her hair. “I think it'll probably be more difficult for you tomorrow than me.”

“Aye.” Brynjolf sighed because he knew it was true. Lucille gave a good example of how some wood elves felt about nords – indifferent, passive but not outright hatred, whereas most nords decidedly erred more on the hatred and violence side of things towards wood elves. It was a lot easier to convert indifference into love than despising.

“I don't know...” Brynjolf shrugged. “Nords don't go for elves, I can nay help thinking we're going to attract too much attention tomorrow.”

“They could if they wanted to,” Lucille offered, but it wasn't particularly helpful.

“Yes, but they don't,” he replied. “Even if you ignore history, physically... it's just too much effort.”

She gave him a look that said he'd probably just dug himself into a whole he'd find it very difficult to get back out of.

“Uh-” he started, but she interrupted him.

“Do explain.”

“Lass,” he tried to sound as reasonable as possible, “trust me when I say it's just easier if you're with someone who's more proportionate to you, you nay have to worry so much.”

It wasn't so much that he wouldn't screw an wood elf (because he would, if he thought he'd stand half a chance of seducing one rather than ending up with an arrow in his neck), it was just if he had the choice between an elf and, say, an imperial or a redguard, he'd opt for the latter every time. There was much less effort involved in not hurting them. But he didn't dare try and explain that to her, because he'd probably just make things worse.

“Of course,” she replied. He blinked. That wasn't really what he'd expected. “I mean, if you bedded a bosmer you might actually have to put some effort into it for a change, rather than just thinking about yourself.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but then conceded that he probably deserved that comment. Their eyes met briefly and she gave a soft chuckle, and it was enough for him that she wasn't going to hold this unfortunate conversation against him too much.

After a few seconds of silence, Brynjolf gestured towards the bed. “You take it, I can sleep on the floor.”

“No, it's ok,” she replied, but there was a sense of appreciation for his offer in her voice. “I think I have more experience sleeping on the ground from hunting in the woods than you do, anyway.”

He shrugged and didn't argue the point. Besides, he'd much rather have the bed anyway.  

Chapter Text

They walked to Windhelm the next day – thankfully it had dried up a bit so their clothes didn't get muddy. Brynjolf wore a set of rather pompous looking finery (stolen, of course), and Lucille wore a modest deep blue dress (maybe stolen, he hadn't asked) that revealed very little skin except for a neckline that came down somewhat deep, but was still, all in all, pretty tame and respectable. They arrived at Pontus' mansion sometime before midday, and were greeted at the door by him. Whether Pontus was greeting every guest at the door or just them, Brynjolf wasn't sure.

Either way, it took less than a second for him to decide he did not like the man. Perhaps dislike was not the right word for it – Pontus was highly irritating but not rude.

“Helloo!” Pontus started (he had a very dramatic way of speaking which made Brynjolf arch an eyebrow initially.) “Dahhlings, I am so glad you made it!”

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” Lucille replied with a small curtsey. She was evidently somewhat decent at working with his ridiculous mannerisms. It was a credit to Gallus and Karliah's forging of their identity that Pontus immediately knew who they were supposed to be.

“No, no!” Pontus insisted. “The pleasure is all mine!” He gave them a wide grin. “Truly, you are an inspiration to us all!”

Brynjolf forced a smile. It probably looked a bit awkward, but Pontus didn't notice because he was too distracted being flamboyant.

“Please!” Pontus twirled around ridiculously as he spoke, before gesturing inside. “Do come in!”

They entered, and their host pranced off to do something or other. It wasn't long before somebody came up to them. Truly, Brynjolf thought, this was going to be a long day if everybody was going to approach them due to the novelty of their supposed relationship.

“Ah, a new guest!” It was a woman dressed in expensive clothes with a warm smile. “You must forgive my husband, he gets so excited sometimes. I'm sorry, but I don't recognise you?”

Brynjolf hesitated. He was a good at deceiving people, most of the time, but he realised then he didn't really know how to do married couple acting, or just couple of any kind at all really. “My name is Bjorn,” he started a little awkwardly and gestured at Lucille. “And this is my wife Ghardiel. Whom I love very much.”

He sounded very static and forced when he spoke. Pontus' wife gave him a strange look. Then, he felt Lucille's hand on his arm.

“You must forgive my husband,” she said with just the right amount of faked embarrassment. “He used to be an adventurer, you see – but then he took an arrow to the head... He has had troubles with his speech since.”

There was a moments pause, and then the woman smiled broadly and pinched Brynjolf's cheek affectionately. He could have killed her if he wasn't trying so hard to smile. “Oh, you poor thing! And how you still stood by him! You must really love him.”

Lucille nodded and leant against him affectionately. He wrapped an arm around her as convincingly as he could. Thankfully, Pontus' wife released his cheek and gestured behind her. “Come! You must have some canapes – we bought in a chef from Cyrodiil especially for this event, he's very talented!”

They followed her and after a few moments Lucille leant up to whisper as inconspicuously in his ear as she could. “I thought you were meant to be a good actor.”

“I am,” he replied defensively but obliged bending a little because she was struggling to reach his height, she was so much shorter than him. “But I don't particularly have much experience acting as if I'm in love.”

“Well... just treat me like someone else you know who's in love acts.”

He had the perfect person to imitate, and when they were introduced to another couple (two Imperials who looked so pompous they might even snub Skyrim's king), he affectionately said, “Ghardiel, my little nightingale, what did you think of the last book I wrote about the falmer?”

The woman of the Imperial couple looked surprised, but impressed. “You're a scholar? How lovely!”

Lucille hesitated. “Er, it was very well done, my love.”

When they'd managed to extract themselves from that conversation, she shot him an incredulous look. “What exactly are you playing at?”

He realised now that maybe she was getting suspicious that he was trying to ruin her initiation test. He wasn't, of course. Whether she got in or not was completely up to her and he wouldn't sway it either way intentionally.

“That's how Gallus talks to Karliah,” he replied defensively.

“Treat me like Gallus treats Karliah then,” she replied. “But for not word for word!”

He considered this for a few moments and realised he probably had sounded quite ridiculous. Finally, he figured he'd found the right persona to take on and wound his arm around her waist. She startled a little at first, but then leant into his side as they walked and their disguise seemed to work quite well now that they'd both sorted out what they were trying to be.

They'd made it into the trophy room where, in the centre in a fancy glass cabinet, the artefact was located, when they were interrupted by a large rotund high elf woman who was eating a sweet roll.

“A nord and a bosmer,” she stated between bites, “how amusing. Tell me,” she leant towards Lucille as if Brynjolf was invisible, “do you find him attractive? Most nords are so... brutish.”

Lucille smiled coyly. “Of course.” Then, she winked. “I like my men how I like my coffee, hot, strong... and with a spoon in them.”

Brynjolf had made the unfortunate mistake of taking a glass of wine before she'd started talking, took a mouthful, and almost choked on her last comment. He tried extremely hard not to spit the wine back up on the other woman and coughed quite loudly. Coffee was a bitter drink, imported from Hammerfell, which was exceedingly popular in the winter when every nord and other person in Skyrim found it near physically impossible to wake up in the morning.

The other woman just chuckled merrily, however. “What a funny bosmer you are!” Then, she turned to him (he'd thankfully managed to compose himself by now.) “And what of you? There are not... issues... in the bedroom, I trust?”

Lucille was using the distraction to do something, but he couldn't make it out from the corner of his eye. He obliged by replying to her question and keeping the woman's attention for a few seconds longer.

“Nay,” he said smoothly and with a suggestive look, “she always liked larger men.” Perhaps part of it was payback for almost making him choke on his drink, but he noticed Lucille had stopped doing whatever it was she'd been doing, and he yanked her closer (possibly a bit excessively) and planted a kiss on her cheek (definitely too excessively). She smiled (albeit quite forced) but returned the embrace.

The high elf woman chuckled and took another bite out of her sweet roll. Lucille, he noticed, was glancing around the room. They were the only people in there, aside from a guard standing alert at the door but at the present it wouldn't be feasible to make a crack at stealing the artefact. Then the other woman turned an unpleasant shade of green and wavered a little.

“My dear,” Lucille said empathetically, “are you alright?”

Clever girl had put something on her sweet roll when she'd been distracted.

“No, I...” the high elf started and burped loudly. Brynjolf readied himself to move to the side in case all the food she'd been eating decided to come back up again.

“Excuse me, guard!” Lucille waved and attracted the guards attention. “Could you help this woman, please? She feels unwell.”

He looked annoyed and tried to protest, but the high elf gagged and looked like she was about to vomit, so he hurriedly led her away before something unpleasant happened. So they were alone in the room with just a locked case between them and their prize.

Lucille approached the display cabinet and glanced around cautiously. Brynjolf crossed his arms and observed what she was going to do silently. She reached for her hair, where she had two elegant sticks pushed through her locks, that she'd put in a bun. She pulled them out, and he realised as she twisted them that they came apart and had lockpicks inside. Perhaps she thought they were going to be frisked at the entrance to the estate, and if so, the guards probably would look past her hair do, the most usual places for suspect things was in boots, strapped to legs or down the front of dresses.

Either way, she started fiddling with the lock promptly. She didn't undo it particularly fast or slowly, just within an average amount of time. It didn't matter, she had the artefact in her hand soon enough – it was a small carving of some kind, Gallus would know more about it. She slipped it down the front of her dress (really, Brynjolf wondered sometimes why women didn't just have pockets sewn there, seeing as that's what they seemed to use them for most of the time) and they were done.

Prize in hand, they left as promptly as they could and with as little attention as they could manage. Lucille handed the artefact to him the moment they were out of sight of the estate and they started to return back to the inn where their horses where. With any luck, they'd at least clear the city gates before anybody caught on to what had happened.

o0o

Tonight at the inn, he decided, he would acknowledge that she was reasonably talented and that she had done quite well that day at the mansion. It seemed the polite thing to do, credit where credit was due and such. Brynjolf wasn't a spiteful man, he could give compliments where they were deserved, and in this case, it was so. Lucille was sitting at a table alone in the inn when he found her, he'd gone up to their room first to safely stow away their prize. She had a plate in front of her with a pie of some kind of savory description, and was sucking on the end of her fork in thought.

When he pulled up a chair next to her, it jostled her out of her revere and she returned to actually eating the pie in front of her. Brynjolf waved at one of the bar maids and inclined that he'd rather like some too. It wasn't exactly a private scenario, but, he figured it was as good a time as any to talk to her – so long as he didn't go blurting out specific details of their guild or talk too loudly.

“Lass,” he started and it drew her attention to him. “Credit where credit is due, you did well today.”

She smiled at him, it wasn't broad or cheerful, just simple and appreciative. “Thank you.”

“You're quite good at deceiving people,” he added as his own plate of pie arrived, “most people I know aren't very good at hiding in plain sight, you managed quite well.”

“And I probably couldn't sneak into places as well as they could,” she offered in return. “People have their strengths and weaknesses. True talent is making the most of them.”

He chuckled. “True enough. Still, you put on a good facade... makes me wonder if this isn't another one.”

She gave a little laugh, but it was kind of awkward and she cleared her throat afterward and took another mouthful of pie.

“Lass,” he started once more, but she cut him off.

“I've been wondering,” she said quicker than usual, “why do you call me that?”

He could feel his cheeks heating a little and he waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. “Lucille, it's not-” he struggled to find the right words without sounding rude. “It's nay personal, don't read into it more than-”

“I didn't mean it like that.” She gave him an ironic look. “Besides, I think you made that pretty clear last night anyway. I meant why do you call anybody lass?”

He felt slightly embarrassed now for assuming she'd been prying for something more to their relationship. Eventually he answered her question while pushing an errant piece of pie around on his plate with his fork. “My pa used to call people lass or lad, I just... I got into the habit of copying him.”

She gave him a thoughtful look but didn't reply otherwise. He considered what she'd said and something occurred to him that hadn't the previous night.

“Do you face much racism in Skyrim?” he asked, and his voice was a little softer than he'd otherwise intended.

She stopped eating and sat in what looked like thought for a few seconds, and then replied. “Yes, but...” she paused and he prompted her to continue with a raised eyebrow. “But if I keep to myself and mind my own business, most people leave me alone.” Then, as if eager to change the subject, she added, “what about you? How do you feel about the Empire?”

“I don't really care,” he replied with a shrug and pushed a piece of pie around on his plate. “There's always going to be someone in authority, and in my – our – profession, it doesn't really matter who.”

“So long as there's things to repossess and bar maids to sweep of their feet, you don't care?”

He cast her a sidelong look and couldn't help the smirk that tugged at his lips. “What can I say? I put the effort in.”

She laughed then at his reference to the previous night. It was a pleasant sound, he decided. 

Chapter Text

The artefact glinted off the candle light when Gallus twisted it in his fingers. It had gems in it of some kind – maybe if Brynjolf had intended to pawn it off he would have figured out what kind, but he hadn't bothered because he'd never have thought to sell it. Whatever it was, though, Gallus was interested in it. Very interested, because staring at it was all he'd been doing for the last thirty minutes or so at least. Gallus himself had come back earliier than he had anticipated, and Brynjolf had, to some surprise, found him in the Cistern when he returned from the Windhelm heist. Lucille was somewhere in the Ratways right now, probably. It was sort of tradition for all new members of the guild to find their way to the flagon the first time through the Ratways. People would complain about unfair treatment if they stopped doing it now.

“Poor girl probably didn't have any idea how much this is worth,” Gallus said with a little laugh after a few moments “Otherwise – Lucille, was it? - might have just made off with it and buggered joining us.”

“I'm not so sure,” Brynjolf replied, but he nodded to affirm that was actually her name. He'd go out later and see if she made it there alright (he had an obligation considering he was the one who observed her initiation test.) But, for now he was slumped in a chair in Gallus' private room, one leg across the other and carefully rubbing some oil into the wooden handle of one of his daggers. He took good care of them – some might say spent too much time on them, too.

“Oh?” Gallus cast him a look from where he was lying on his bed, feet propped up on the end of the frame.

“She's nay so material as some of the other people around here,” he continued offhandedly. “She could have taken any number of small valuables while we were in the mansion, but she didn't. At least not that I noticed.”

“But you did, of course.”

Brynjolf grinned and pulled a small purse from one of his pockets and dumped it on the table beside him. It made a jingling sound that sounded suspiciously like gold and jewellery.

“So, honour among thieves, or something like that with her?” Gallus suggested.

“Perhaps.” He didn't really believe that was it and he frowned. “How did Mercer say he found her?”

Gallus returned the frown, pocketed the artefact and stroked his chin. “He didn't.” After a few moments, he shrugged. “I'll ask him when he's back from his job with Karliah.” Karliah, evidently, had not returned straight to the guild when Gallus had, or if she did she was gone by the time Brynjolf returned.

The older man shifted on his bed to prop himself up on one arm. A few seconds passed when Brynjolf felt distinctly as if he was being observed, and it made him uncomfortable, so he eventually glanced up and said, “what?”

“You care for those daggers almost as much as your father did.”

Brynjolf stopped what he was doing and glanced down at them. Gallus had known his father, that much he knew, but he didn't speak of him often. He wasn't sure if he wanted to know more or not – it was kind of like a double edged blade because part of him desperately wanted a connection, and part of him wanted to forget he even had parents so it didn't hurt to think about them.

“He used to sit at the counter of the flagon for hours and carve those patterns into the handles.” Gallus hummed in thought, then added, “he never told me where he got them.”

He considered whether he wanted to push this conversation further or not, but eventually he gave in. “How well did you know him?”

“Very well,” Gallus said, but there was a tinge of sadness to his voice, as if bringing up these memories upset him just as much as Brynjolf was uncertain he even wanted to hear them in the first place. “He was my partner on jobs for years when I first joined the guild.” The imperial sent a pointed look at him. “He used to talk about you all the time.”

Part of Brynjolf was overjoyed to think that his father had cared enough to mention him to his colleagues, but he'd hate to actually admit it to anyone – even Gallus.

“He used to say you had your mother's hair,” he continued.

The nord glanced at his hair. When he was younger, he used to think it was the dumbest shade of red and had rubbed mud into it to make him look more like the rest of the children he'd grown up with. They'd teased him for not being blond or having dark hair like most nords did. In truth, the further north you got in Skyrim the darker haired and stockier people got, maybe to attract and conserve as much heat as possible or something because it was so damn cold up there. Blond hair was typically more common in the south. But red hair was not common anywhere in Skyrim. Still, he'd gotten over it when he grew up. But his hair perhaps had grown a little bit too long in the last year or so, he had to put it in a pony tail now. He'd have it cut soon, he decided.

“But you have your father's eyes – and his grin.” Gallus smiled at him. “I knew who you were the moment I caught you trying to cut my purse in the streets.”

Brynjolf grimaced a little at the memory – he'd been such an fool back then, but in hindsight, it was kind of amusing. A little street urchin with mud on his knees thinking he could pilfer coins from the head of the Thieves Guild itself.

Gallus sighed and turned onto his back to stare at the ceiling. “He didn't really want this life for you.” That hurt a little and the nord briefly considered saying that perhaps his father shouldn't have taught him to be a thief in the first place if that was the case. “But I think he'd be proud of you. Even if you are a dog.”

“Ey?” Brynjolf scowled at him. “I am not-”

“Yes you are, you've slept with half the women in Riften who are within a ten year age gap of you.” Gallus laughed brightly though, as if he didn't really disapprove of his promiscuity at the end of things, even if he thought he could do better with his life. “He loved your mother, would have wanted you to find the same. Not become a heart breaker.”

Brynjolf shrugged. “Maybe in a few years.”

Gallus shot him an accusing look but couldn't stop the grin on his features. “We both know that's not going to happen.”

He'd been caught – though in truth he hadn't been serious in what he'd said anyway. Brynjolf chuckled and stretched his hands up in the air. Maybe he could tone things down just a little bit, it had gotten a bit out of hand in the last year or two.

There was a moment of silence, and then Gallus added quietly, “I wouldn't be guild master if it wasn't for your father. I owe him a lot.”

“Aye, so you're going to make sure his son grows up to be a well adjusted member of society to repay the debt.” Brynjolf cast him a smug look. “I think you may have missed that opportunity.”

Gallus laughed so hard he had to wipe a tear from his eye. After a few moments he stood up and walked over to the nord who just looked up at him blankly.

“I was twenty two when the old guild master retired and your father vouched for me to take the position. I was the youngest guild master in history. He could have taken the position himself without any opposition,” Gallus gave him a pointed look, “and many people expected him to. But he didn't want it, not when he had you to look after... He gave up a lot to raise you.”

Brynjolf sighed. It was exactly this kind of deep meaningful stuff that he tried to avoid, but somehow Gallus always had a way of roping him into it. It was annoying. Eventually he muttered a curse under his breath and admitted what the imperial had probably been trying to get him to say for years.

“Aye, I wish I could have known him better, before...” He didn't need to say it out loud, they both knew what he'd meant. A few moments passed and he added softly, “how did he die?”

Gallus' brow creased and he glanced away, as if considering whether he needed to know or not. As far as Brynjolf was considered, he deserved to know and he was old enough now that he didn't need protecting any longer. But Gallus certainly knew this, because he turned back to look at him with a sympathetic look.

“He was killed on a job a year after I became guild master.” The imperials eye's narrowed and his gaze became a bit distant as if he was thinking back on what had happened. “Some people just said he got careless, or unlucky. But the guards knew he was there and they killed him outright – no arrest, nothing.”

“You think somebody tipped them off?” Brynjolf asked hesitantly.

“Yes.” Gallus stepped away from him and paced the room with his arms crossed, as if this were still a mystery he was trying to solve to this day. “It looked too suspicious. I interrogated every member of the guild, but I couldn't find any real proof. I even turned to the Dark Brotherhood, but they denied it – even went so far as to remind me that accusing them wouldn't be good for our allegiance.”

Brynjolf had his own opinions of their guild's relationship with the Dark Brotherhood. He wasn't keen on it, they were too brutal and sadistic sometimes. But they needed them from time to time and they were useful – and perhaps more important than anything, they were handy to have where they could see them (in the metaphorical sense), instead of skulking behind their back in the shadows. They had a standing arrangement that the assassin's wouldn't accept a contract against a guild member, and they probably didn't like being accused of the contrary. But a very large part of Brynjolf suspected that if their sick faith in Sithis demanded them to fulfil a contract against a guild member, then they'd still do it – even go so far as blame it on the guard or somebody else so nobody figured out it was really them.

“So I never really worked it out, but I wish I could because if I found out who it was then I think it would be me performing the dark sacrament,” Gallus muttered with a hint of anger or annoyance.

He paused in his pacing and shook his head with a frustrated curse, then dropped that line of conversation. “I tried to find you when he died, though. But I think you had long disappeared into the Ratways by then.”

“Thanks for the thought at least,” Brynjolf offered.

Gallus smiled at him. “I think I've made up for it since, hmm?”

Brynjolf shrugged but couldn't stop a small grin tugging at his lips.

o0o

Brynjolf wondered out into the flagon a while later, and by some stroke of impeccable luck, or maybe just coincidence, Lucille seemed to have just arrived. People were staring at her (which they usually did if anybody new turned up, you think they'd put two and two together after a while because new recruits weren't exactly a rarity) and one or two were awkwardly looking as if they wondered whether they should go over and see what she wanted. He figured he'd go over and put them out of their misery.

“Lass.” He waved a hand and caught her attention, and everybody else relaxed in knowing that she was at least known to one of the guild members. Regardless, she walked over. “I see you made it well enough.”

“Of course.”

He arched an eyebrow momentarily, but then gestured behind him to a man standing behind the bar counter. His name was Stig, and he was an old, grumpy nord man who repeatedly stated that he wanted to retire somewhere warm and was just waiting for the right time. When the right time was, nobody knew, but Brynjolf suspected it would be soon.

“That old sod is Stig,” he said and walked her over to the counter. “He'll get you sorted out with some better armour than...” he raked his eyes up her body briefly, then settled on, “whatever that is you're wearing.”

She seemed a little affronted by his comment. Her armour wasn't bad per-say, it was well looked after and had probably been made by a decent armoursmith – but they had better and more specific armour to sneaking, and it was tradition. Thieves were fond of their traditions.

“Eh?” Stig narrowed his eyes at Brynjolf suspiciously. “What you doing going and bringing me an elf, gingerballs?”

The red head managed a thin, but innocently sweet, smile at him. He'd bring up the use of his unwanted nickname later. Regardless, Stig rolled his eyes and added, “you know I stopped making armour for them elves after Karliah figured out how to dodge.”

Stig was being perhaps a bit cruel – Karliah was an archer and had some difficulties earlier on dodging attacks in melee range. Of course she'd improved vastly now but Stig liked to pretend she'd needed a new set of armour once a week because she got stabbed so much – which was entirely untrue.

“Well,” Brynjolf started, “this elf needs a set. So perhaps you could do your job for a change and arrange one, hmm?”

“Yeah.” Stig snorted and gave Lucille a calculating look. “Hmph. You send me your measurements, I'll figure something out.” Then, he added to a very audible aside to himself, “bleeding elves, couldn't just fit into the same armour as everybody else, because no, they have to be different.”

In truth, no member of the guild got a new set of armour that didn't need some tweaking and adjusting to become a good fit. But someone of Lucille's slight frame would not fit into the armour they usually stocked for nord's or imperials, no matter how much tweaking they did. It had been exactly the same for Karliah, and one of the other guild members who was a khajiit – although in his case it was mostly to accommodate for the tail.

“Stig can also fence things for you,” Brynjolf told her and then gestured around the room. “You can see Frederick, Mhar'jazarg or Tove if you want some work.”

He yawned then, perhaps he didn't realise how tired he was up until then, but he waved a hand in front of his mouth and mumbled an apology. When he'd composed himself, he glanced at her and continued. “Well, I'm sure you can get yourself into trouble from here, lass.”

She shrugged but he was confident she could manage to at least not get thrown into jail or do something spectacularly stupid within a week.

“Just make sure you tell the others who you are,” he added. “They have a tendency to shoot first, ask questions later, if they don't recognise someone.”

She laughed a little. “I'll try to remember.”

“Makes nay difference to me either way, I won't be the one cleaning up the mess.” He'd forfeited that responsibility when he stopped being the new person in the guild which he was immensely thankful for. He gave her a brief smile. “Welcome to the Thieve's guild.”

Chapter Text

It was maybe a week since he'd returned to Riften, and Karliah and Mercer had come back a few days ago. People were bustling around, doing their usually thiefy things, but he wasn't.

Instead, he was bored. Really, Brynjolf had to find something to do before he started banging his head against the bar counter and/or pleading for something interesting to happen. He hadn't quite gotten to that point yet, but he was still sitting at the bar in the flagon, chin slumped in one hand and the other wrapped around a mead bottle. He probably looked spectacularly depressing, but it didn't stop Stig taunting him for a reaction.

“Hey,” the older man started, “gingernuts.” Brynjolf didn't even have the motivation to scowl at him for using that term. “Why don't you drag your sorry self out of here and go do something?” Stig leant on the other side of the bar on his big, beefy arms. “Like, go do some woman like you normally do. Or something. Just so long as you quit sitting here looking depressed, it's making me want to cry.”

“I'm trying to stop sleeping around,” Brynjolf replied halfheartedly and without really completely understanding the conversation he was replying to at all.

Stig barked a laugh. “Shave my ass and call me an elf!” He gave him a knowing look. “You'll stop being a dog when the fucking dragons come back.”

The redhead just made a mmmph sort of noise in return. Maybe he'd go out later, but he felt so bored he couldn't even be bothered dragging himself out of the flagon let alone his chair.

After a few moments a ragged, furry(ish – it had large bald patches) creature walked along the counter in front of his face. It stopped nearby him, gave a heaving sort of gagging motion, and spewed up what looked suspiciously like a skeever's head. Stig made an angry motion and grabbed a knife.

“Get out of here!” He stabbed the creature square in the stomach and there was a horrified gasp nearby. Both nords glanced up and saw Lucille standing there with a facial expression somewhere between disbelief, and perhaps disgust.

“Don't worry yourself, you damn tree hugger,” Stig started offhandedly as Brynjolf glumly pulled the knife out of the creature's (which somewhat resembled a bedraggled cat) stomach – as if this were a completely normal thing to do. “Stupid thing's been undead for years. See?” The cat pranced off again, leaving the unpleasant skeever head on the bench. “Got turned into a zombie. Now it walks around eating skeever's and vomiting their heads back up in my bleeding bar.”

“We call her Fluffy,” Brynjolf said in a drawl and used the knife to push the skeever head onto the floor with an unpleasant squelching noise.

“Isn't that a bit... ironic? She's lost half her fur.” Lucille's features looked significantly less horrified now, and more just perplexed.

Brynjolf shrugged. “She was a forest cat before she got turned into a zombie.”

“Looked like a ridiculous walking carpet, she did.” Stig gestured towards the cat which was making another gagging motion on the floor. “Now look at her.”

Forest cats were a common breed of native cat in Skyrim, so named because they, well, lived in the forest before they became domesticated. They were extremely fluffy and had crested fur on the tips of their ears. Some people, mostly immigrants, called them elf cats because of the ears. This cat, though, looked like half of her fur had fallen out – and the other half might soon follow. What bits of skin that were visible were a sickly sort of colour, and her eyes were a creepy white that made her look very hollow.

Lucille glanced gingerly at the cat. “How did she become undead?”

“Frederick brought back some little relic a few years back,” Stig explained. “Put it on the counter one day and got distracted for a few seconds. She'd eaten it before anybody could stop her and it turned her like that.”

“Nobody really bothered trying to cure her,” Brynjolf added. “And it never wore off either.”

“So that's why we have an undead cat walking around the guild,” Stig said. Then added, as if it were a perfectly normal thing to have an undead pet cat, “simple, really.”

There was a moment of silence when Lucille seemed as if she wasn't entirely certain whether having an undead cat was actually simple at all, and Brynjolf continued with his glum expression – albeit this time he was twiddling the knife absent-mindedly in his fingers. After a few moments, Stig broke it.

“You want a mead, elf?”

Lucille glanced up at him. “No, thank-”

She didn't even get the chance to finish her sentence because Stig looked so affronted that one might have thought she'd just killed his mother. Thieves did not refuse mead in this bar, except Karliah – and everybody had heard that argument when the dark elf had quite firmly stated something along the lines of I will never consume this vile excuse for a drink in my life even if you try and force it down my throat. The entire population of Riften, even those who didn't live in the Ratways, had probably heard Stig's response to that. Brynjolf had felt, at the time, as if his ears were ringing for a week afterwards.

“Um, I mean... yes?” Smart girl seemed to have picked up on the fact Stig looked like he might throttle her with his bare hands right then and there. Granted, you'd have to be a pretty special person not to pick up on that.

Stig handed her a bottle of mead and mumbled something derogatory about elves and their pansy no-mead holier-than-thou attitude to himself. She didn't seem to notice, or decided it would be better for her continuing health to pretend as if she didn't notice, and instead gingerly took a small sip of mead. Her brow creased and then a strange expression came over her – as if she was actually a little bit surprised that it tasted nicer than she thought it would.

“Been getting up to mischief yet, lass?” Brynjolf said after a few moments, still twirling the blade in his fingers.

“Yes,” she replied as she licked her lips the tiniest bit – as if still trying to make a decision about if she liked the mead or not. Brynjolf made a concious decision to look away from her mouth at that point, lest his often entirely inappropriate mind draw conclusions he didn't particularly want it to draw at the present time, and far less about her. “I went on a job Frederick suggested, stole a tomb from a dunmer mage passing through Riften.”

He gave her a look of vaguely seeming impressed. “Nice going.”

She smiled and shrugged, but Stig interrupted her as he wiped an incredibly foul looking cloth over a plate to dry it. Brynjolf made a mental note to himself to never eat here again.

“Still working on fencing that tomb for you,” the older nord said in his gruff voice. “Think I got a perfect buyer lined up. But you did a good job of not getting your ass burned off on that job or your pretty little elfy hair turned into ashes. Bleeding dunmer are all pyromaniacs – especially the mages.”

Coming from Stig, that almost-compliment might as well have been a declaration of love. Either way, Lucille did have rather elvish hair. It was a quite nice shade of copper and came down around her shoulders, and unlike Brynjolf's flaming red hair, he didn't think it looked ridiculously out of place on her. But this was mostly because she was a bosmer and copper or red hair wasn't so uncommon for them.

“And I'm still working on your armour,” Stig added. “Give it another week or so.”

“There's no rush,” Lucille replied.

Stig grunted and muttered one of his particularly characteristic phrases. “Yeah.”

o0o

“Ohh, Brynjolf.”

The way she purred his name, it made him want to pounce on her, take her then and bugger all the people watching. But he could draw it out just a little bit more. He always did. It was more than just tumble for him, it was a game. And he always won. Or at least he liked to think so. Regardless, having this woman (what was her name again? He hadn't really paid attention) fawning over him felt good. It far beat the boredom of sitting in the flagon, and here, with one arm against the wall and her pressed between him and it, he felt back to his usual suave, too-smooth self.

He ignored the little niggling voice in the back of his mind which said really, he should stop making a habit of doing this – it was starting to become an unhealthy obsession. He'd been slapped in the face by some woman earlier that day. Presumably one he'd slept with and left hanging (as he did to every single woman he slept with, so it wasn't like she'd been slighted any different but she seemed more than a little bit pissed off at him.)

Regardless, he smiled at the woman he was with. She was a vain sort of beautiful, the kind of woman that had grown up being told she was pretty and firmly believed she was so. So unlike Lucille. Lucille didn't seem to give much bother to her appearance other than ensuring that she didn't look as if she'd just rolled out of bed and started the day without even brushing her hair. Ironic perhaps, that she was probably more beautiful than whoever this woman was that Brynjolf had forgotten the name of, simply because her life didn't seem to revolve around attracting a man.

He frowned and realised he wasn't entirely sure why he was thinking of Lucille. The woman pressed up against him, caught his gaze and bit at her lip. “Is something wrong?”

“Hmm?” he murmured absently. Then, he snapped back to the current situation and smiled at her. “You know,” he purred, “I like my women like I like my coffee...”

She cocked her head at him and made a pouting face which he guessed was meant to signal, do go on.

“Hot,” he started and a hand to run up her thigh, “strong...” He held her gaze and was pleased to note that a little moan escaped her lips (it was probably forced, but he didn't really care.) “...and with a spoon in them.”

Her expression turned to confusion in a snap. “With a spoon in them?”

He gaped, somewhat unable to comprehend he had just in fact said that. What a stupid pick up line, where did he get that one from? He half scowled as he realised where. Lucille. Then, he shrugged. Must be an elf thing, he figured, maybe they were weird like that.

There was an awkward cough from behind him and Brynjolf glanced over his shoulder in annoyance. Frederick, who was another nord thief in the guild, was standing there, arms crossed. The other man gave a brief glance at the woman pinned beneath him, then back at the redhead. “I think you might want to come with me.”

If Frederick had went out of his way to come and get him, then it must be serious. It wasn't so much that Frederick disliked Brynjolf, but in general no thief went around dragging other thieves back to their headquarters without a good reason – and especially not when they were in the middle of trying to get into bed with some comely lass. There was a secret code between thieves not to interrupt each other when you were about to get laid. Unless it was really important, of course. Brynjolf turned back to the woman and gave her an empathetic look. He leant forward and spoke in her ear.

“Perhaps we could continue this another time?” Then, he took her ear lobe in his mouth and sucked on it briefly, before pulling back, giving her a sly smile, and walking away.

It was only when they were walking out the door of the tavern that she screamed at him something that sounded suspiciously like dirty thief!

Frederick raised an eyebrow at him as they walked through the streets. Brynjolf shrugged innocently, raised a hand to his lips and spat out the woman's ruby earring into his hand.  

Chapter Text

“Avast! Die, ye foul thief!”

The rolling pin swung at him so fast that Brynjolf only had the briefest of seconds to dodge it. He ducked almost comically, and then heard the sickening crack of the cooking implement contacting with somebody's nose. Judging by the fact that the somebody who had been walking behind him up until that point was Frederick, the redhead put two and two together and guessed it was his nose.

Brynjolf hesitantly stood up and glanced over his shoulder. There was blood pouring out of Frederick's aforementioned nose and he looked not particularly impressed, not that he blamed him, given the circumstances.

“By the divines!” Frederick shouted. Brynjolf decided he had quite the right to be pissed off. “What is wrong with you?”

The attacker, who was in fact Stig, looked marginally sheepish. He had the rolling pin flung over his shoulder and was wearing an apron. Presumably, when he'd been summoned as Brynjolf had, he'd seen it fit to grab the first weapon he could find. And Stig, being more inclined to working in the flagon, discovered that the best weapon at hand was often a rolling pin. Perhaps he'd run out of knives because he'd been throwing them at Fluffy all day long. (It was fairly common that the biggest supply requirement for the guild was cooking knives because Stig lost them all when he used Fluffy as target practice.)

“Bah,” Stig mumbled. “Thought you were the burglar coming back for a second try.”

“Are you mad?” Frederick gave Brynjolf an appreciative look when the redhead handed him a piece of cloth to staunch his bleeding nose. “Or do you just need to go to the temple to get your eyes looked at? Because you'll definitely need to go there after I kick your good for nothing arse!”

“Enough, both of you,” Gallus interrupted. “And Stig, put that rolling pin down.”

The large nord man reluctantly lowered his impromptu weapon. They were, all seven of them, in the cistern. Them, being Karliah, Gallus, Mercer, Stig, Tove, Brynjolf, and Frederick, where the important people in the guild. Or at least, they were the people that got together when something potentially suspicious within the guild had taken place. If there was something suspicious within the guild, the new or lesser members were strictly forbidden to enter the cistern (or wherever it was they were discussing the situation) while said discussions were taking place, such as in this circumstance.

Frederick hadn't told Brynjolf what was going on when they'd walked back to the guild – whether because he didn't know or didn't want to say, the redhead couldn't guess. Still, he'd put together the reason now from what had been said, and it worried him.

“Did someone try to break in?” Brynjolf asked and there was the sound of Frederick popping his nose back into a more appropriate location.

“Yes,” Karliah replied. She looked worried as she gestured over her shoulder to the door that led to Gallus' private quarters. The keyhole was smoking faintly and spluttering.

“Well, at least now we know the trap on the lock worked,” Mercer muttered in an almost annoyed fashion.

“Never mind that it might have been at the threat of Gallus' life!” Karliah retorted hotly.

Mercer gave her an unimpressed look. “Girl, you're making a pretty grand jump from some upstart's failed theft to attempted murder.”

The dark elf gave him a thoroughly volatile look which probably would have made Brynjolf feel uneasy. “You of all people should know better.”

“While I appreciate the concern,” Gallus interrupted before something unfortunate happened, “I think in this circumstance, Mercer is probably right.”

Karliah calmed down a little bit then, but she didn't seem entirely satisfied. Tove, who was a tall, proud nord woman who coincidentally enjoyed making Brynjolf's life hell (it may or may not be because he slept with her) decided to add her piece then.

“Search the other guild members,” she said. “That trap will have burnt anyone's fingers who tried to break in.”

The lock had been trapped for ages and would trigger if anybody tried to pick it or otherwise open it without the correct key, of which only one and two copies existed. Brynjolf cast his gaze to the door, then to the floor and noticed some gloves. He walked over and picked them up, displaying them to the others. They were singed but not burnt through, so he raised them to one of the torches on the wall and held them in the flames. They did not burn or become hot, instead the leather resisted the heat.

“Whoever did it had fire resistance enchantments on their gloves,” he started and withdrew the gloves from the flames. “The trap would have been hot enough to overcome them, but it looks like they gave enough protection for the thief to pull them off before they got hurt because the material hasn't burnt through.”

The look Tove gave him would have made some lesser men cower in terror. Brynjolf was quite used to the way she treated him by now, though, and merely scowled back at her.

“So unless you want to go and interrogate everybody who wears gloves in the guild, I think we're out of leads,” Mercer said.

Karliah looked as if she would quite like to debate that comment, but decided not too. Frederick muttered, almost only to himself, “are you even sure it was somebody from the guild?”

“Come now,” Gallus shook his head and looked a little bit mock offended, “do you value the security of this establishment so poorly?”

Frederick shrugged. His nose had stopped bleeding now at least, but the cloth he'd used was soaked in blood.

“Although in light of current events, I think some new measures might be a good idea,” Gallus continued with a frown.

“Right,” Stig said and clutched his weapon tightly. “Rolling pins for everybody and a horde of draugr guarding the flagon just in case.”

Frederick looked thoroughly unimpressed. “I'll kill him.”

“Want some help?” Brynjolf offered.

“Really, it's like babysitting children sometimes.” Gallus laughed a little but sobered moments later. “Mercer, Karliah, I think we can continue this discussion in private.”

Although all seven of them were the 'important' people in the guild, Mercer, Gallus and Karliah were the... well, most important was the best way of putting it. Gallus because he was guild master, Mercer because he was the second in charge, and Karliah because she was Karliah and Gallus didn't do anything without her. She was perhaps the unofficial third in charge, if such a thing existed.

Gallus turned to the rest of them with a faint smile. “If you find anything else, let me know. And Stig, find someone to replace the trap on that lock, would you?”

“Right, traps and rolling pins.” Stig saluted their guildmaster with his weapon. Frederick looked like he might just give throttling the other nord with his bare hands a try.

o0o

He was walking casually through the cistern the next day when he found her, crouched in a corner with a bucket of water and a piece of cloth. He didn't think anything of it until he'd passed her, then stopped as his brain informed him that he'd seen something red and suspiciously blood-like, and so he retreated a few steps backwards. Brynjolf peered at her. Lucille was rubbing at her cheek with the wet cloth, and he realised it was because there was a gash of significant size running from just below her eye to her chin. It didn't look very pleasant.

“Ey?” He approached her but she didn't notice at first. “What's happened to you, lass?”

She glanced up at him and paused what she was doing. There was blood running down her neck and under her armour. Then, she looked away and dipped the cloth back in the water. “It's nothing.”

“Nothing?” he scoffed at her and crouched down to be at her level. “That's a very deep wound for something that's supposedly nothing.”

She hesitated with her eyes downcast for a moment. “I got into a fight. That's all.”

He frowned at her. It didn't completely add up, she didn't particularly look like she'd been in a fight, aside from the gash. “You don't have any bruises,” he commented, “and the rest of you looks fine.”

“I was attacked, and I ran away before they got the chance to stab me with a knife anywhere else,” she snapped. “I was under the impression that was an appropriate thing to do in such a circumstance.”

“You don't have to get your knickers in a twist,” he countered with a pointed look. She opened her mouth in a retort, but seemed to decide against it and sighed.

Lucille dipped the cloth in the bucket and squeezed the excess water out. “Sorry.”

Brynjolf shrugged and sat down beside her. There was a moment of awkward silence where she tried to clean the wound herself, before he grabbed at her hand in some annoyance. “Give me that, you can't see what you're doing.”

She froze when he touched her, but relinquished the cloth without complaint. She refused to meet his gaze though as he pushed the cloth onto the gash as gently, but firmly, as he could. Still, even with her eyes downcast he could still see them narrow and her teeth grit when he forced the cloth into the cut to clean it properly. It no doubt hurt, but better that he get any dirt out of it now, then it become infected later.

After a few moments he moved to start scrubbing the blood off her cheek. “Did they attack you because you're an elf?” he asked softly.

She didn't reply at first, as if considering what she was going to say before opening her mouth. Eventually, she settled on, “perhaps, but I didn't really stick around to find out.”

He considered pushing the subject and mentioning that it would be pretty unusual to not even be sure of the reason for why somebody had attacked you. Even in Skyrim, most nords would at least say something before they went at you with a knife, people didn't go around stabbing each other without some kind of threat beforehand. But he didn't push the subject, because he did have some sense about him and realised that if she was being so hesitant as it was, she probably wouldn't appreciate him prying any more.

Her cheek was clean now and he glanced at her neck, but hesitated before continuing with what he was doing. “Lass?” he prompted. She looked up at him. “You've got blood under your armour.”

She gave him a thankful look and took the cloth from him. He gave her the benefit of looking away when she reached under the neckline of her leathers to wipe as much of the blood away as she could before it dried there. After a few moments he heard the sound of the cloth being dropped back into the bucket of water, and a soft laugh. Brynjolf frowned and glanced back at her.

“What?” he prompted.

“I didn't expect you to respect my modesty.” He probably looked more than a little bit affronted, because she laughed again and added, “I was talking to Tove earlier, she said to watch myself around you.”

“Did she?” He maybe scowled a little bit. “I'll need to have some words with her later on, I think.”

In truth, he wasn't so much annoyed that Tove had tried to make it out like he couldn't contain himself around a woman (because in truth, it was somewhat accurate what she'd said), but he was tired of the woman and her snide comments. He'd realised quite quickly that sleeping with her was a pretty big mistake, because she'd been persistently aggressive to him since. And by being aggressive, he meant that she'd go out of her way to be rude and unpleasant to him and spread rumours behind his back, including one that he was diseased which had taken a lot of effort to disperse last year.

“You're better off not listening to her,” he said with an audible hint of irritation. “She's a conniving little bitch who couldn't steal a sweet roll from a wee child because she's too busy screwing with other people's heads.”

“Did you feel this way before or after you slept with her?”

Brynjolf gave Lucille an unimpressed look, because he was fairly certain that amused look on her features meant that she was saying that because she knew it would annoy him, not because she really wanted to know. He chose not to answer the question, and after a few moments she caught his gaze again, but this time she had a curious expression on her features.

“So I don't need to watch my bed around you?”

He gave her the most meaningful but without being patronising look he could manage. “I wouldn't try and get in your bed, lass.”

She gave him an amused look and he distinctly felt as if he wasn't going to enjoy what she was about to say. “Too much effort?”

He only groaned a little bit. Really, he never should have had that damn conversation with her about nords and elves in the first place – she'd never let him forget it at this rate. Still, he figured her teasing him for saying it every now and then was much better than Tove trying to sabotage his entire life just because she seemed to think that him sleeping with her once meant that he was obliged to love her forever after or something.

“No,” he answered, then gave her a pointed look. “It's more because I get the distinct feeling you'd just laugh at me if I did.”

Ironically, she did laugh then, but he couldn't bring himself to get too angry about it. “And here I was thinking you were an honourable man.”

He gave her a sly but pointed look. “I lost my honour a long time ago.”

She held his gaze momentarily, then glanced away. “I never had any to begin with.”

His brow knitted together as he considered what she said, and he had a strong feeling that she wasn't particularly referring to honour in her relationships with other people, as he had been referring to himself. But then, if she'd been a thief since she was a girl then she might consider herself to never have had any honour anyway, even if you were only stealing so you could survive. Besides, she didn't really seem like the kind of person who slept around. In fact, he outright could not imagine her doing that at all, it was kind of weird to think about.

He looked up at her then and saw that the gash had at least stopped bleeding. “You're going to have a scar,” he offered almost sympathetically.

She shrugged. It didn't seem to really bother her, and from what parts of her skin he'd seen up until then, she had quite a few anyway as it was. He figured she didn't really care what one more scar was when her body was already marred by them.

“Just like yours, I guess?”

It took him a few seconds to realise what she meant, and he raised a hand self consciously to the faint scar that ran down his own right cheek. He'd had it for ages, sometimes he even forgot it was there.

“How did you get it?” she asked.

His eyes narrowed in disdain at the memory. “I got in a fight with some older lads when I was a boy.” He sighed. “They said my ma had been careless and stupid, and she obviously didn't love me if she'd gone and gotten herself killed.”

“If she died giving birth to you then that doesn't really make much sense,” Lucille replied. She was completely right of course, but at the time he'd been so furious about what they'd said that he hadn't really stopped to consider if it was total bullshit and they were just trying to wind him up.

Regardless, Brynjolf laughed a little bitterly and shook his head. “My pa shouted at me for hours when he found out I'd been beaten up.”

Lucille frowned. “Not at the other boys?”

“Nay, though I'm certain he would have yelled at them too if he figured out who they were.” He shrugged. “I think my pa was just angry I got hurt.”

Lucille nodded but didn't reply, and he reasoned she probably thought that was the most likely explanation as well.  

Chapter Text

“Bryn, Bryn,” she purred at him, but he refused to be persuaded by her voice. “Why don't you talk to me any more?”

“No,” Brynjolf replied quite coldly. “I do believe we have had this conversation, and you will find my answer has nay changed from what it was before. And you do not have the right to call me Bryn any longer, girl.”

He was serious when he referred to someone as girl. Serious in that he did not want anything to do with them, and that they were well and truly beneath him – that there was things he could scrape off his boot that he would respect more.

Tove pouted at him. She had her arms crossed over her chest in such a way that it pushed her breasts up to ridiculous volumes that, had Brynjolf not thoroughly despised the woman, he would have found it rather difficult to resist her. But his hatred of her easily superseded his more primal urges. Still, it didn't stop her trying, and a few of the newer male guild members in the flagon were swallowing quite thickly. Poor sods probably didn't realise that Tove was the closest mortal thing to a daedra that existed – and by daedra, he meant the thoroughly evil sorts, the kind that would mate with you and then eat you afterwards for fun.

He saw her hand make an attempt to stroke his cheek, but swatted it away before it got the chance. “You're so cold now,” she purred, then smirked at him. “You weren't cold on that winters night three years ago...”

“Yes, well,” he started in a drawl, “there was a fireplace in the room, I suspect that might have had something to do with it.”

She sighed and took a step closer. He felt the cold wall of the flagon against his back and realised glumly that he was rather pinned against it. Tove had a habit of dancing between two different persona around him. One week she was trying to seduce him and get into his pants, the next she was trying to make sure no woman in Tamriel ever got into them again (unless it was her, he figured.) Which of course was never going to happen, because he'd sooner try and get in bed with an elk than that harpy.

“We could start over,” she continued and let her fingers creep up his chest. “Just you and me-”

He grabbed her hand, decided he'd had enough, and span her until he had her pinned against the wall underneath him instead. In any other situation he would only force a woman into such a position if he was really intent on screwing her, but in this case, it was far from it. It didn't stop Tove from giggling at him and he realised she was holding something in her free hand.

His eyes widened in horror as he saw the key dangling from her finger. He hadn't even realised she'd taken it from the pocket on his waist. Sneaky bitch. She'd dropped it down into her cleavage before he could try and stop her and gave him the most seductive come-hither look she could manage. It did stir something inside him, but it paled in comparison to his overwhelming desire to throttle her.

“Oh, silly me!” she exclaimed. He gave her a look of sheer disbelief and loathing. “Was that special to you?”

“Give it back,” he snarled.

She grinned at him. “Why don't you come get it?”

“I have a better idea,” he replied with a hint of sarcasm and reached for one of his daggers. “Why don't you give me the key before I break you so badly that not even your father will be able to save you?”

The blade was pressed against her neck in seconds and he pushed it just hard enough that a single drop of blood rolled down her skin. It was common knowledge that Tove's father was an incredibly wealthy, influential and corrupt man. He spoilt her senseless and half the reason anybody even tolerated her was because having her father on their side was extremely more useful than having him against them. And Tove's father could make their life very unpleasant if he wanted to.

“You wouldn't dare,” she hissed.

He gave her a dark look that betrayed very much the desire he'd get from enacting his words. “I would bleed you until there isn't a drop of blood left in your worthless body.”

She actually looked a little bit worried then. Perhaps she realised that even her father's influence wouldn't stop him if she pushed him too far and that their allegiance with the Dark Brotherhood meant that if they truly needed it, they could have her father dispatched and lying in a pool of his own blood in days. Regardless, she shoved the key back into his hands and sauntered off, leaving Brynjolf scowling at her before pocketing it.

It was the copy of Gallus' key that safely opened the door to his private quarters without triggering the trap. Karliah had the other copy, and Gallus had the original.

Brynjolf turned away and glanced around the flagon, realising with some embarrassment that a lot of people were watching him. The younger or newer men in the guild were giving him a look akin to, how could you possibly be so daft as to reject her?, whereas Stig was giving him an enthusiastic two thumbs up (Stig hated Tove and often referred to her as the guild's resident spoiled princess, which was actually quite an accurate name) and Lucille...

He felt strange as he observed the bosmer's expression. Obviously she'd witnessed what had happened, yet she just looked curiously at him, for what reason however, he couldn't guess. But he felt a bit annoyed that Tove had forced him to act like that in front of the others, and he wasn't entirely sure why that was.

Frustrated, he stalked off in search of Fluffy. He really needed to hit something.

o0o

“I don't particularly have anything against nature,” Brynjolf started as he ducked past a branch that seemed rather intent on beheading him, “but I draw the line at tramping through the woods with trees that are attempting to kill me.”

“Do tell how you know that a tree is trying to kill you,” Frederick replied sarcastically as he walked behind him. “Because I would surely love to know.”

A particularly large branch flung at him and Brynjolf dodged it as best he could. Perhaps too well, if Frederick was concerned, because it hit him in the face instead of the redhead. Maybe one of these days he should apologise for the amount of times Frederick got hit by something instead of him – it was happening quite a lot lately.

Brynjolf glanced over his shoulder at the other nord man. “That is how I deduce it,” he stated.

Frederick pushed the attacking branch out of the way and gave him an unimpressed look. “That branch only hit me because she moved it in the first place.”

He pointed at Lucille, who was in front of them and leading them through this godforsaken forest. In truth, it made sense to have her lead considering she had rather more experience walking through the wilderness than either of them did. On the downside, she was quite good at dodging tree branches, and in this particularly thick bit of forest, that meant that they often got hit by those same branches when they swung back after her. And Brynjolf, being quite quick on his feet, dodged said branches which ended up usually hitting Frederick who was less quick on his feet.

In truth, Frederick was no less skilled in battle than Brynjolf was – but the other nord man had dabbled in magic in the past whereas the redhead had focused entirely on melee combat, and that intense focus on trying not to get stabbed or pummelled by an axe ironically also translated quite well into dodging evil trees. Using magic didn't translate so well.

Lucille, however, didn't catch on to their conversation (or decided not too, maybe she was offended by their anti-nature comments, Brynjolf wasn't sure) and after a few moments they came out into a clearing. There was a cave up ahead and the soft tinkling noise of running water somewhere, though he couldn't see where. They were here because Mercer had came up to him this morning and drawled something about a lead on a rare item in a cave north of Riften that he'd heard about. And naturally, Mercer being far too important for such trivial tasks himself, had stated that Brynjolf should investigate it for him.

And by Brynjolf, he meant Brynjolf and Lucille. And Frederick. Just in case the redhead, oh, ran headfirst into a crypt full of draugr or something by accident and needed help. Really, he wasn't sure whether to be offended or not at having to take those two along with him because Mercer thought he was incompetent – because the second in charge certainly didn't suggest he take them with him because he was concerned for his safety. That was not something Mercer did.

Still, he didn't mind so much. Brynjolf had worked with Frederick many times before, they were almost sort of partners on jobs, and he was a pleasant enough man most of the time – if a bit sarcastic and somewhat depressing. And Lucille had proved useful in actually getting them through the stupid wilderness and to the cave, so he figured it wasn't so bad all in all.

Brynjolf cleared his throat to grab his companions attention. “Thank you for that pleasant tromp through the forest, lass,” he said to Lucille. She shook her head with a little laugh at his words. “However, I think it would best if I lead from here.”

The elf shrugged but didn't complain and fell into line behind him with Frederick. As the redhead advanced towards the cave, he heard the other nord man mutter something to her and rolled his eyes.

“Better this way,” Frederick muttered to Lucille. “Now he won't get distracted because there's a woman in front of him.”

He heard Lucille laugh. “And you are so different?”

“Yes,” Frederick replied a little too smoothly. “I have class and values, he doesn't.”

The elf hesitated then, and Brynjolf realised he was somewhat irritated with the other nord man for what he was saying. It was a bit hypocritical of him, Frederick had really told no lies and his reputation did precede him when it came to matters of the more intimate nature. But yet it still annoyed him, as if he didn't really want to be thought of like that any more. Sometimes he felt as if every encounter he had with a woman just went in a blur and left him wondering what the hell he was doing with his life afterwards. Truly, he decided then, he needed to start making some changes.

“I take pride,” Frederick continued as they entered the cave, “in the fact that I do not hang around the local tavern like some lecherous fool every night.”

Brynjolf could picture Lucille giving the other nord man that amused look she gave him too often and she laughed, but it sounded a bit awkward. Regardless, the redhead shot a look over his shoulder at Frederick as his foot came down on a stone tile in the cave. He didn't acknowledge the 'click' sound that came with his foot hitting the tile.

“As much as this conversation is awfully amusing-” he cut himself off at the peculiar feeling of a bolt striking at his neck. Confused, he raised a hand to pull it out, only to realise that his hand seemed to be quite blurry... and that there were five of them. He figured out quite quickly that he didn't feel right and that the room wasn't in fact swaying, but that he was.

He fell to the ground hard, only to feel another bolt pierce his leathers around his abdomen and the world become so blurry that the only thing he could make out was Frederick and Lucille coloured blobs shouting and running towards him.

He vaguely heard something that sounded like I thought Mercer said this place was abandoned from Frederick, and decided that he quite agreed with the anger in his voice.

Chapter Text

Whatever happened after he lost coherent thought he couldn't even begin to speculate at. All he could remember was somebody tugging at him, quite a bit of shouting and eventually somebody pushing him until he was leant up against something cold and flat. After that, he sort of drifted between a half consciousness where he could make out a fuzzy shape fussing over him and periods of total blackout.

He saw the fuzzy shape (who was probably a person) over him at some point and something that felt like hands grabbing at his leathers. Had he been slightly more coherent he might have been unnerved to think that somebody's hands were digging under his clothes – and even in his dazed mind he had a difficult time deciding whether it felt as if the person was searching him for valuables, trying to rip a bolt out of his stomach, or get him into bed.

Then there was a period of nothing where he could hear somebody sounding rather frustrated and angry. Finally, his eyes opened lazily and he thought he could see somebody advancing on him. Whatever had afflicted him was wearing off a little bit now, because he could distinctly make out that it was in fact a person walking towards him, and they had something in their hand which looked like a knife, which made him quite worried.

He tried to get up and mumbled something incoherent, but it just made him more dazed and the next thing he knew was that there was bottle being pressed to his lips, cool liquid flowing down his throat and the unpleasant feeling of choking. The choking, he figured, was due to the fact that somebody was trying to force him to drink and half of the liquid had gone down the wrong way.

Still, whatever it was that he'd been forced to drink seemed to have cleared his head up a bit, and he had enough control over his body to splutter and cough. When he opened his eyes, he could see clearly again and, aside from the fact his head was throbbing something awful, he didn't feel so bad all in all.

Brynjolf blinked a couple of times then glanced up. Lucille was kneeling beside him with a bottle in her hand and a frown on her face. He shut his eyes once more as the sun seemed intent on trying to blind him – he guessed he was feeling a bit photophobic because of whatever had afflicted him. Then, after a few more seconds, he gingerly opened one eye, and then carefully the other one as well.

He managed to croak out a, “what the bleeding heck happened?” but he sounded a bit hoarse.

“You set off a trap in the cave and were hit by poisoned bolts,” Lucille replied and forced him to take another sip of the potion in her hand.

He groaned perhaps a little bit too dramatically. “Aye, that's grand. Frederick will never let me live this down.” She shrugged and gave a little half smile. “Speaking of which, where has that tosser gone off too?”

“That tosser,” she replied with a pointed look, “has gone back into the forest to get some more thistle branches, the same ones that are in this potion that just cured you.”

“Oh.” He felt a bit awkward now and scratched at the back of his neck. “I, ah... I see.”

She shook her head and rolled her eyes but he didn't notice for his mind decided to concentrate on something else he'd noticed. “You know a lot about alchemy do you, eh?”

He was, of course, presuming it was her that had made the potion. But he knew Frederick was hopeless at alchemy (there was an incident a few years ago with an explosion in the Cistern) so it was reasonable to assume she'd done it instead.

“You can learn a lot about making potions if you've spent a good deal of time living off the land,” she replied and she seemed to consider whether to force him to drink any more of the potion or not.

“It... it's useful.” She glanced down at the bottle in her hand, then back at him. “You should finish this off later, I don't know how much of the poison got into you and it won't do you any harm drinking too much of the antidote anyway.”

“Might do my tastebuds harm,” he mutter mostly to himself, because in fact it was quite a foul tasting concoction with little prickly thistle bits in it and was it not making him feel so much better he wouldn't particularly be inclined to consume it again voluntarily. There was a feeling not unlike Lucille clapping him over the back of the head and he shot her an annoyed look. She smiled at him and he scowled, but he wasn't committed to it and his lips tugged into a grin in seconds.

“By the way,” he started after a few moments, “I would be truly interested to know what you have done to my leathers.”

He spoke of the fact that up until that point he had been rather cold, and the reason for him being rather cold was because somebody had removed his leather vest. He wasn't particularly annoyed that it'd been removed (he guessed it was Lucille, but it could have been Frederick for all he knew, or maybe a passing deer with opposable thumbs), because it would have been rather difficult to remove the bolts that had pierced him without taking off his leather vest too. But still, he'd sort of like it back – and to see what the damage was and to conclude if he'd chance Stig berating him if it needed repairing.

Lucille took a step away and grabbed something from behind a rock nearby, then came back and gave him his leather vest. He realised then that he wasn't actually in the cave any more but rather outside it. Frederick had probably dragged him out of harms way, because Lucille was definitely too slight to do so herself.

“I took it off because the bolts were still leeching poison into you,” she said, then blushed ever so slightly. “Uh, I figured you wouldn't mind.”

“Aye,” he replied and didn't particularly notice the fact she was looking somewhat embarrassed.

Perhaps she was only now catching onto the fact that he was half naked and making a purposeful effort to not look at him. He couldn't blame her – he was quite attractive, and he had the loveliest dusting of red hair on his chest. Not that he was arrogant, of course.

“Though usually when a woman tries to take off my armour it's because she's trying to get in bed with me,” he continued offhandedly and then glanced up at her, “not because she's trying to save my life.”

There was an awkward moment in which Brynjolf finally caught on to the fact of how actually awkward the moment really was, and the tips of Lucille's ears turned red, before she coughed and the both of them looked away quite clumsily and with a great deal of embarrassment. Although why he was embarrassed he wasn't entirely certain of, because surely it wasn't because he was unaccustomed to suggestive encounters. Thankfully, the general awkwardness was saved by the arrival of Frederick.

“Ack, if you wanted some time alone you could have just said,” he drawled as he joined them with some thistle branches in a gloved hand. “Divines know you're probably the only woman in Riften who he hasn't screwed.”

Brynjolf gave the other nord man an entirely not pleased look but he didn't seem to care. Actually, he seemed to be enjoying this a little bit too much, especially when Frederick added, “not surprising I suppose that even while recovering from being unconsciousness you're still trying to get into someone's pants.”

“It's really not like that at all, you troll brained pillock,” the redhead replied a little more angrily than he would have liked. “But I guess the fact that Lucille only half undressed me to get the poisoned bolts out of my chest was too logical for your delightfully small brain to piece together.”

The elf in question was regarding them both with an wholly amused look and was glancing at the both of them every time they spoke. “My,” she started mostly to herself, “if I didn't know better, I'd wonder if you two were married.”

Brynjolf shot her a cold and somewhat disbelieving look. Frederick made a sniggering sort of noise and quickly became the recipient of the same disbelieving look from Brynjolf instead. He threw his hands somewhat melodramatically in the air then and sighed deeply.

“Just once,” Byrnjolf started, “I want somebody to help me without taking the piss out of me afterwards.”

o0o

The snow came early that year. It snowed in Riften every year in the winter, sometimes more than others, but regardless of how many times it snowed annually, people still seemed to get into a state of shock the first time it happened each season. And when the snow came earlier than normal, it was even worse and the entire population of the Rift seemed to run around as if their heads had been chopped off or the world was ending. Then, a day or two later they would pull themselves together and go about their normal business in the way one did when it snowed. Really, one of these years they should get over the chaos of the first snow – because it wasn't like it was unusual, after all.

Regardless, it started snowing maybe a week or two after the trapped cave incident. After they'd returned to Riften there had been much shouting and arguments between Gallus and Mercer. In fact, it had persisted for so many days that Brynjolf was beginning to suspect there was more to it than just him getting hurt (though the fact that Gallus was angry about that as well was touching.)

But the snow had come heavy this season, and very thick. The entire countryside was coated in white and in his personal opinion, Brynjolf quite preferred it when it snowed compared to the rest of the colder months. When it snowed everything seemed lighter and in some ways less cold, because while the temperature might be lower, you didn't get soaked in rain the moment you went outdoors – and being in cold weather dry made a big difference in comparison to semi-cold weather and drenched.

Either way, all in all he quite liked the snow. Well, he liked it for the first month or so – then he got sick of it and wished summer would hurry up, but that wasn't a particularly unique opinion amongst most nords in Skyrim.

This particular day he'd been trudging through the snow outside town with the intention of visiting one of the outlying farms that they often did business with (the ones that produced honey were of notable interest to them, due to their closely intertwined relationship with Black-Briar Meadery.) Regardless, it was on this particular day when he walked, hands stuffed in his pockets to keep them warm, that he saw something that was a bit peculiar.

Brynjolf stopped in his tracks and blinked a few times as he saw Lucille and Mercer in the distance. He couldn't make out what they were saying, but whatever they were discussing it seemed to be making Mercer angry. He recognised threats when he saw them, and Mercer was doing a lot of threatening. Though, Lucille seemed to hold her ground and didn't buckle under the other man – in fact, she was regarding him with an rather cold expression and her arms crossed over her chest. He couldn't blame her, Brynjolf wouldn't be too happy either with being spoken to in the way that Mercer was doing.

There was a few moments where Mercer waved a hand and presumably shouted at her, before he shoved her roughly. It happened in a split second and the next thing the redhead saw was Lucille retaliating and the flash of a knife that was pressed against the older man's neck in such a smooth movement that she undoubtedly had combat experience that extended beyond using a bow and arrow.

Mercer snarled at her, then said something and Lucille retreated after a brief moment of pause. And then it was over, and they were both stalking off in different directions, Mercer away from him and Lucille towards. Brynjolf ducked behind the stables, for he was still barely out of town, until she passed – and then something occurred to him.

He wasn't entirely sure what possessed him to bend down and scoop up some snow. He hadn't done this for years, not since he was a little boy. He'd played with the other kids around Riften in the snow every winter, some of the girls would make snow men or snow angels, but he'd mostly just go around trying to bludgeon other people to death with snow balls. It was fun, and one of the few pleasant memories he had of his childhood. He'd always come back home soaking wet and freezing, but it was worth it every time. And perhaps after having such an unpleasant encounter with Mercer, he reasoned Lucille could do with some cheering up too.

Brynjolf made a thick, dense ball of snow and considered for a few seconds. Then, screw it he figured, and he threw it at her. It landed right on her shoulder blade and she yelled, span around and seethed at him. Though, the seething didn't last long when she realised it was him who'd done it, and she just looked incredulous instead. He grinned at her, and perhaps it was enough distraction but she landed a snow ball right back at him. Owing to her good aim with a bow, it hit him in the cheek, slid down and he felt cold snow drip onto his neck. It made him gasp, and she laughed at him.

That meant war as far as he was concerned. The next few minutes were taken up merely by the both of them trying to hit each other with snow balls – she landed more successful ones than he did from afar, but he figured out quite quickly if he got closer to her she couldn't aim so well point blank, and he had the distinct advantage. One particular snow ball he didn't throw at all but moved until he was behind her, yanked back her cloak and stuffed it down her back.

She yelped and jumped on the spot, clawing at her clothing to try and get the freezing snow out, but to little avail. He laughed at her so much his chest hurt, and he was so distracted bent over trying to catch his breath that he didn't notice her step on an unsteady ledge of snow on the river bank and lose her balance.

The ledge crumbled under her weight and she fell into the lake with a splash. He jolted back to his senses. He hoped she could swim. Evidently she could, because she surfaced quickly with a shrill gasp (the water in Riften was close to freezing in winter, and some shallow bits it did freeze) and he obliged reaching down to help her up. By the time she was back on solid ground, she was shivering so much he actually sobered up significantly and became serious.

“Lass, we should get you somewhere warm,” he offered. Perhaps if she'd been a nord she would have been able to manage it, but even he would feel a little bit uncomfortable in her situation.

There was an shack nearby on the riverbank that he actually had grown up in with his father, but it had been abandoned for years when he became an orphan street urchin and spent his time trying to pilfer coins or food in Riften. But he'd returned to it from time to time now that he was an adult, mostly for sentimental reasons, and knew there was still a fireplace inside.

“Come on.” He gestured a bit further down the lake where the shack stood, the roof covered in snow.

She shoved him away a little, but he could tell it was playful and not angry. He walked her to the shack, filching a log or two of firewood from the stables on the way and led her inside. There he stuffed the abandoned fireplace with wood, grabbed some leftover kindling that sat beside it (he'd come back a few times here before in previous winters when he wanted some time alone, and there was still some left) and started a fire. It took a while, but eventually it was flickering happily and the room was much warmer. Lucille was still shivering though (he could hear her teeth chattering so much he wondered if it were possible for her to break them.)

“You should take those wet clothes off,” he suggested in the least, well, suggestive way he could manage. “They're not helping.”

She shook her head. “I'm f-fine.”

“Lass, if you're options are freezing to death or risking being partially naked around me, I know what I would chose.” He gave her a level look. “And I assure you that I will be able to contain myself.”

“O-of course n-not,” she stammered between chattering teeth. “You don't go for elves, t-too much effort.”

“I really wish I'd never said that,” he muttered, annoyed with himself but also at her in that she wouldn't let him live it down. “But don't take that as a suggestion that I'm going to jump you the moment you show some skin.”

“F-from what I hear, you'd jump any other woman in Riften.” She tried to laugh when she spoke but it didn't sound very good because she was trying so hard to not freeze to death.

Brynjolf sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. Then, he grabbed at her cloak.

“Look, at least take this off.”

She flinched at first, but then allowed him to pull the soaking fabric off her, and he wrapped his own fur lined cloak over her shoulders. That helped a little at least, and after a few minutes she wasn't audibly shivering any longer. There was a moments silence then as they sat in front of the fire as if they were both too intent on watching the flickering of flames than actually converse with each other. After a few minutes, he spoke.

“Just for the record,” he started, “I would go for an elf.”

She cast him a sidelong look which he fleetingly returned, before they both turned away awkwardly. Then, she replied. “I hope you're not going to go to Valenwood and try to use that as a pick up line.”

He stared at her, but she was laughing at him and somehow he didn't care. She smiled at him. “Because really, that was pretty shit.”

He grinned at her and chuckled, before pushing her playfully in the shoulder and dropping the subject.

Chapter Text

The snow flakes fell in his hair and refused to budge. Had he been more interested in his appearance, he might have appreciated how they looked – for it was quite beautiful how they laid delicately on his locks and contrasted so brightly against the red of his hair. But he didn't appreciate it, he just found it frustrating because he knew better. He knew when it melted his hair would become unkempt and only marginally better than the drowned rat appearance he took on when it rained.

Brynjolf shivered a little. Even with a fur lined coat and woollen scarf around his neck he was still cold. Perhaps he would buy (or steal) some mittens because he could only assume the temperature was going to fall even lower when winter really kicked in. He'd never really used mittens before, they got in the way if you were trying to break into places so he never bothered. But he'd rather not get frostbite, either, so maybe it wasn't such a bad idea.

He glanced at Lucille as they walked through the snow back to Riften. She was sniffing with bright red cheeks and nose. Poor lass couldn't handle the cold as well as a nord could, but the flush on her features and the way she scrunched them up every time she tried to stop her nose running was kind of funny to watch.

“By the way,” he started carefully as he considered what words to use, “did something happen with you and Mercer?”

He wasn't entirely sure how to broach the subject. His curiosity had been getting the better of him about what he'd seen earlier before the snow fight, and even a part of him was not so much curious but suspicious. Not that he wanted to accuse Lucille, per say, but Mercer had been making him twitchy for some time now and that confrontation didn't help. There was something odd going on with that old man, and he needed to know if it was for good or ill.

Lucille was giving him a careful look and he decided to add, “I saw you... speaking with him. Though I use that word lightly as threatening might be more accurate.”

She looked away and fixed her eyes on the ground as they walked. “He was just having a go at me because I screwed up a job for him, I... might have reacted a bit over the top.”

That she had only reacted a bit over the top was quite an understatement, but he let that particular detail slide. “What job?”

“He wanted me to get some documents from one of the outlying farms but I slipped up.”

His lips pulled into a faint ironic smile. “I presume it was one of the farms that produces honey?”

Her eyes flickered to him. They still unnerved him, he couldn't see anything in them because they were so black – like obsidian. “Yes.”

“Well, lass, that would do it.” When her features turned to confusion he figured he'd do the polite thing and enlighten her. “Black-Briar Meadery is as intertwined with the guild as we are with the Dark Brotherhood. Sometimes the farms that provide their honey need a bit of persuasion... and Mercer gets the pleasure of dealing with the Black-Briar's when things don't work out.”

“Ah,” was the reply he got from Lucille.

“Trust me when I say that speaking with the Black-Briar matriach holds a reasonable threat that a black sacrament will be performed when you've left.” Brynjolf shrugged. “And Mercer is less forgiving than any other guildmember.”

“Why does he deal with the Black-Briars and not Gallus?”

He laughed a little. “Because it takes somebody with nerves of steal to deal with Maven. That harpy can't be much older than me and she's already bludgeoned the rest of her family into submission.” He sobered and his features became the slightest bit paler. “Or had them... taken care of, if you get my meaning.”

They'd reached Riften and he held the gate open for her – his father had at least taught him some manners. The guards didn't even look twice at them. He could possibly go around screaming he was in the Thieves Guild and not suffering any repercussions in Riften, though he wasn't about to try just in case. It did make his job a lot easier though when half the guards were too scared or bribed to bother trying to do their job properly.

“I didn't realise you had such a close relationship with the Dark Brotherhood,” Lucille replied.

Brynjolf scowled as they walked through the streets. “I can assure you it is not something I am proud of. But...”

“But?” she prompted.

“But I'd rather have them on our side where we know where they are, rather than skulking around behind our backs.”

“Fair enough.”

Something caught his attention as they passed through the market and he dropped the conversation. It was towards the middle of the afternoon and the sun was starting to set, as it often did at this time in the winter (contrary to the summer when it seemed to never bugger off.) But it wasn't the merchants trying to sell their wares that interested him.

There was a little girl standing in the corner of the market, she couldn't have been even seven or eight and her clothes were ragged and torn. He knew she was an orphan. When you'd grown up as one for the better part of your life, you knew how to recognise one. Maybe she was in that poor excuse of an orphanage in town, but that was as good as being on the streets in his opinion. He'd actually been in that hell-hole for a few months when his father first died, but got so sick of the matron (or witch as he'd called her) that he'd ran away. Permanently.

Sometimes he saw the orphanage matron in the streets and had to force himself not to laugh. The woman would always give him the safe huff and disgusted look. A large part of it was because he'd antagonised her relentlessly when he'd been at the orphanage (completely deserved, he thought), but there was probably a significant part of her annoyance devoted to his renowned promiscuity. The woman was a prude and sometimes he'd say something suggestive to her just to see the horror on her face.

Regardless, the little girl before him looked hungry and neglected. Brynjolf grabbed a winter apple from one of the distracted merchant's stall and crouched down beside her. She had grubby little hands and a suspicious, cautious look on her features of one who had stopped trusting adults a long time ago.

He held the apple out in his hand and she hesitated for a moment, her big eyes flickering down to the fruit longingly. Then hunger got the better of her and she grabbed it and took a big, messy bite out of it.

Brynjolf grinned at her as she gave him the smallest shy smile in return.

o0o

It was quite a pretty necklace, he decided. Too bad it would probably never reach it's owner again. He held it up to the light, pleased with how the rubies glinted as he sat with his chin in his palm at a table in the flagon. Stig was sweeping the floors (although why he bothered was beyond Brynjolf because it never made any difference) and sidled up beside him.

“Eh?” Stig peered at the amulet a little closer. “Talos' hairy arse! How did you get that?”

Brynjolf glanced up at him and gave him a cocky grin. “Have I piqued your interest, hmm?”

“Bloody daedra you have!” Stig grabbed the amulet and gave it a thorough examination with his mouth agape. “This is the Jarl's, she wears it round her neck every minute of the day!”

The older man returned the amulet and gave him a look somewhere between disbelief and approval. Brynjolf just shot him a look of arrogant satisfaction and twirled the necklace casually on a finger.

“Yes,” he started, “it was quite wasted sitting around her ugly neck all the time.”

Stig put one hand on his hip and narrowed his eyes at him. “There is no way I'm believing you stole that from her while she wore it, you aren't that good.”

Brynjolf scowled at him. “She took it off because the clasp broke, and gave it to one of her servants to get it fixed.”

Stig's features slowly pulled into a grin as if he knew exactly where this was going. The redhead found himself mimicking the gesture without even realising it. He waved a hand a little dismissively and added, “it wasn't particularly difficult to relinquish it from the servant while she was naked and exhausted on a bed in front of me.”

“You filthy dog!” Stig's grin only widened and he gave Brynjolf a big, hearty pat on the back, which almost sent him head first into the table from the force of it. “I love it!”

At that moment Gallus walked into the flagon and they both glanced up. He looked like he was ready for travel and Brynjolf frowned a little. Stig dropped the conversation and resumed sweeping the floors as the Imperial approached.

“Are you leaving?” Brynjolf asked as he slipped the necklace into a pocket, he'd try and pawn it later.

“Just for a week or so with Mercer,” the other man replied, but there was a frown gracing his usually handsome features. He almost looked delicate sometimes in comparison with the other people in the guild, especially the nords, like he didn't really belong in this trade at all.

The redhead cocked his head. “Trouble?”

“I'm hoping to stop it before it becomes trouble.”

There was a moment of silence and Brynjolf narrowed his eyes at the other man in slight suspicion. “Why do I get the feeling you're never telling me the whole story?”

Gallus' features faintly mirrored guilt. “There's a lot I haven't told you,” he replied a little softer than the redhead had expected. “And there's probably a lot you deserve to know.”

The Imperial reached out and let his hand curl around Brynjolf's cheek. His features scrunched up a little at being coddled, he hated it.

“But not now,” Gallus added as he stepped back. “It wouldn't be fair to make you a target.”

Brynjolf scowled as the other man walked away, and half shouted after him. “Why do you always have to be so annoyingly vague?”

Gallus turned around and saluted him with a grin, to which he only received an eye roll from the redhead in return. And then he was gone, and there was just Brynjolf and Stig in the flagon in a somewhat awkward silence. Stig looked as if he wasn't entirely sure if he should say something or not, so just continued attempting to clean the floor. Brynjolf, however, leant back in his chair until he was leaning against a pillar and balancing on the two back chair legs.

He closed his eyes and had started drifting off into a pleasant little snooze when he heard more commotion. He decided against opening his eyes and just listened instead with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Got your armour done at last, elf,” Stig said before his tone turned slightly more accusing. “Wouldn't have taken so long if I didn't have to try and get a certain idiot's armour fixed because he likes to get shot at.”

Brynjolf highly suspected that had been directed at him, but he refused to give Stig the pleasure of a reaction. So he forced his features to remain annoyingly oblivious and very near grinned when the older man huffed loudly.

“Thank you,” Lucille replied politely and there was a noise that sounded like a chair being pulled out from a table and her presumably sitting in it.

There was a clink of glass and the sound of liquid being poured, probably from one of the jugs of water that often got left on the tables because Stig was too lazy to put it away. Brynjolf never drank the water he found in the flagon though, because it carried the reasonable threat of getting cholera. But he guessed Lucille didn't need to worry so much, being naturally hardy against diseases as bosmer were and all.

There was once again a moment of silence, before Stig interrupted it again. Quite loudly, too.

“Hah! Look what's come through the Ratway today!”

Brynjolf actually opened one eye at that comment. What Stig was speaking of was a newcomer that had joined them, though newcomer wasn't really the best word for it. The man who'd arrived wasn't exactly new to the guild, he just wasn't really officially part of it. The breton who had arrived had a habit of drifting in every few months or so, doing an odd job for them, and then leaving when he was done. Nobody really seemed bothered by it, partly because he was quite good at what he did and most people were confident he wouldn't sell them out. Except maybe Mercer, but he probably wouldn't even trust bunny rabbits.

“Finally stumbled back to us, eh, Cynric?”

There was the unpleasant noise of glass smashing and Brynjolf jolted upright out of reflex. Lucille's hand was bloody but she didn't really seem that phased by it, because she was staring so intently at Cynric, and he her, that Brynjolf highly suspected there was an elaborate silent conversation transpiring between the both of them.

“Be careful!” Stig shouted. “You owe me another glass, elf!”

Lucille didn't appear to really listen to him and instead rose to her feet, grasping her new armour and murmured a rather tense, “would you excuse me,” and stalked towards Cynric.

The look she gave the breton was so volatile it made Brynjolf feel rather uncomfortable, and he wasn't even on the receiving end of it. Lucille grabbed Cynric's arm and whispered something to him. The breton's features darkened and he sneered at her, but left with her regardless as she made for the cistern.

Brynjolf blinked in confusion, and judging by the expression on Stig's face, he figured he was equally confused. Then, Stig glanced at the redhead.

“I tell you,” the older man started a little cautiously, “there's something not right about that elf.”

“Give her a break, it's not easy being an elf in Skyrim,” Brynjolf found himself saying, though he was still frowning in thought and didn't really feel overly committed to what he was saying.

“Well, there's a perfectly good Valenwood open to her-” Stig stopped as he received a hard look from the redhead. Then the older man's features flickered to an ironic but somewhat disbelieving expression. “Oh god's, you're sweet on her,” Stig said flatly. “You idiot.”

“Bah.” Brynjolf scoffed and glanced away in perhaps the way an indignant child would. “I am not.”

“Sure,” Stig replied sarcastically. “Mark my words, you'll be having fucking mutant half elf babies before you know it.”

Brynjolf decided to ignore that comment and returned to closing his eyes and pretending the other man didn't exist. Unfortunately a certain undead cat, who may or may not have been biding her time up until that point, decided on that opportunity to leap up onto him at such a force and velocity that he lost his balance and crashed to the floor.

He cursed and groaned, finding himself staring into Fluffy's big creepy looking eyes. The cat meowed at him as if to state she was quite pleased with herself. Brynjolf, however, just fumed at her, until his features turned to horror.

“Oh no, no no no-” he cried, but she'd wretched a skeever head up onto his chest before he could hope to stop her.  

Chapter Text

He was walking the cistern a few days later on the way to Riften's topside when he first noticed them arguing. In fact, it was only chance that he noticed it at all because he'd been thoroughly in his own thoughts and paying rather little attention to anything going him around him at all. A pretty poor thing for a thief to be doing, but he wasn't in the mindset for pickpocketing at that particular moment and, being too consumed pondering the greater meanings of the universe. And by that, it meant that he was pondering what the best way to pawn off the Jarl's amulet was – as in, the way that got him the most money. Brynjolf had toyed with the idea of ransoming it back to the Jarl, but that was risky. He had a contact in Whiterun however who he suspected would be very interested in the amulet.

Regardless, he'd only noticed the heated conversation between Lucille and Cynric because he almost started walking down a wrong hallway that led off the cistern. In fact he often did this, the cistern was circular with lots of passages coming off it and it still confused him if he wasn't paying attention. As soon as he'd heard them talking, however, he'd paused. Both because he realised he'd taken the wrong corridor, and because he was curious.

“What are you even doing here?” Cynric's voice floated over to him.

Brynjolf couldn't see them and as he glanced around he realised this particular passageway lead to the training room and armoury, so he figured they were in there. There was no one else around that he could see.

“I could say the same about you,” Lucille replied. She sounded guarded and perhaps with the slightest hint of barely suppressed anger. It didn't sound normal for her given her usual passive temperament.

“I thought I'd never see you again!” Cynric growled. Brynjolf had a hard time deciding if it sounded threatening in a despising or possessive sort of way. “And now you turn up here?”

“Don't even-” Lucille started.

“What do expect me to think?!” There was a pause. “You knew I had ties with the Thieves Guild. I know you're here for me.”

“Don't flatter yourself,” she spat in response. “After everything you put me through-”

“I put you through?” There was a flash of steel and Brynjolf contemplated intervening, had he not suspected he might get stabbed by accident. Interrupting two armed people didn't always end well, and he didn't like getting a blade to the gut if he could avoid it. “You conniving little bitch! You were the one who wanted me-”

“Because somehow I didn't realise what a pathetic excuse for a man you are.” There was the sound that Brynjolf suspected was somebody pushed the other roughly away. Who was pushing who, however, he couldn't guess. “Believe me when I say I would have been happy to never see you again.”

“You'll forgive me if I don't believe that,” Cynric replied dryly.

There was a pause, and then Lucille spoke so darkly that it made a little cold shiver run up the redheads spine. “Stay away from me, or I'll gut you where you stand.”

And the conversation was over and he heard them coming towards him. Keenly aware that it wouldn't be so good to be caught eavesdropping, Brynjolf quickly walked away with his brow furrowed and chewing his lip in thought.

o0o

He hadn't seen the little girl from the market in several days. In fact, he hadn't really intended on seeing her ever again. But then later that morning when he emerged from the graveyard and made his way into town he felt the most peculiar touch of a tiny hand grasping his. Brynjolf blinked and looked down.

The girl was trotting along beside him, he realised now she was an imperial, straining to hold his hand because he was so much taller than her. He smiled just the tiniest bit and stopped. She stopped too. When he crouched down to be at her level she gave him a big toothy grin.

“They say your name is Brynjolf,” she said with such big and bright eyes he couldn't help but sigh a little. What he'd give to have had a little sister like that, or even a daughter.

“Oh? And who is they?”

Her features became a mixture of cheeky and secretive. “Nobody. Everybody. Just the stuff I hear on the wind.”

Hmm. He hadn't considered this girl might be a budding thief before. Maybe he should start considering it now. After all, he wasn't much older than her when he first started out.

“They say you're a thief,” she continued. He hushed her a little to discourage her from saying the word too loudly. Even if she might have potential, she was still a kid and lacked the tact or wisdom of an adult.

“They say a lot of things,” he replied with a little grin.

She crossed her arms over her chest and gave him a determined look. “I know you're a thief.”

He raised an eyebrow at her but try as he might, he couldn't stop the amusement on his face. She looked ridiculous trying to be tough and perhaps just the littlest bit cute. “Aye?”

“Teach me to be a thief!” She grabbed his arm and gave him a pleading look with those big innocent eyes. Manipulative little thing. He loved it, she had the potential to be brilliant.

“Well, I don't know...” he started slowly and gave her a mock serious look. “You'd have to be very brave-”

“I've been so brave since mother died,” she interrupted.

He winced a little. But perhaps he could teach her a couple of things to make her life easier. He pointed at the market. “I'll show you how to swipe some food from the merchants when they aren't looking,” he told her. “But that's it.”

She seemed to consider his proposal for a few moments, but then nodded. He stood up and she grabbed his hand again. He decided against pushing her away, and if any in the guild gave him shit for it he could make them regret it anyway. Something prickled on the back of his neck as he walked her towards the market and he felt uncomfortable, rather like he felt when was being watched. And his instincts were rarely wrong.

Brynjolf glanced over his shoulder. There was nothing there, not that he could see at least. Except... he frowned. One of branches on a tree that hung close to the wall of the temple was shaking, and too strongly for it to be from the wind. He narrowed his eyes and tried to get a better look, but the girl tugged him and grabbed his attention.

“You didn't even ask my name,” she stated flatly.

“Hmm?” Brynjolf was still a bit distracted, but then let his suspicions slide and focused on her. “So, what is it then?”

She smiled at him. “Vex.”

o0o

The problem with Cynric, Brynjolf decided, was that he didn't know what was good for his continuing health. Namely, he didn't quite understand that if he kept pissing off Lucille then possibly bad things might happen. People were starting to notice, and given that Cynric wasn't officially affiliated with the guild and Lucille was, it was making people uneasy. It was only Cynric's luck that both Gallus and Mercer were away which made most people hesitant to enact any justice on their own without the guildmaster or his second in commands approval.

It even spilled over into public conversations too. At first, Cynric had only argued with Lucille in somewhat privacy (although everybody ended up knowing what happened regardless) but after a few days he'd started attacking her in front of other guildmembers too. It was over a week now that he'd turned up and tensions were running high amongst almost everyone because of it.

This particular day Brynjolf had been sitting at the bar talking with Frederick and Stig (or more watching Stig berate Frederick for refusing to eat any of his food, which Frederick somewhat aptly described as tasting like 'something you managed to squeeze out of your ass, mixed in with the distinguishing taste of rotting fish.') It had been a rather amusing conversation, but it had faded when Cynric and Lucille's voice drifted over. Judging by the way their footsteps were becoming louder, Brynjolf reasoned they were walking in their direction from the cistern.

“Don't lie to me,” Cynric spat.

“I'm not lying about anything,” Lucille replied through what sounded like gritted teeth. “I didn't come here looking for you.”

“Bullshit!” They emerged from the cistern and Cynric stopped in his tracks, staring her down. He wasn't as tall as a nord, but he still managed to seem intimidating compared to her because she was so slight and short. “You could never keep your hands off-”

“Shut your worthless mouth,” Lucille interrupted and crossed her hands over her chest.

“Someone ought to break those two up,” Stig murmured to Brynjolf and Frederick as quietly as he could.

Frederick gave the redhead a faux innocent look. “You're the one who's sweet on her, go play prince charming.”

Brynjolf shot Stig such a furious look that the only thing the bartender could do was give him a big, outrageous grin. He was stopped from throttling the other man by the sound of Cynric backhanding Lucille across her cheek. The silence that followed felt like it could have lasted for hours. It was enough for Brynjolf. He'd deal with whatever shit his 'friends' tried to lay on him afterwards, but he'd not put up with this prick antagonising, and far less striking, a fellow guildmember any longer – regardless of who it was.

He pushed himself off his seat, eyes narrowed in anger and stalked over to Lucille and Cynric. He didn't realise he was puffing himself up to look more intimidating, perhaps it came naturally – when he put in the effort he could actually look particularly menacing. Even more so when Cynric was a breton, the redhead would tower over him with every inch of his tall, sturdy nord body if he had to.

He caught Cynric's attention with two words, slipped from his mouth with such venom that the other man actually paled a little bit.

“Ey, boy.”

Cynric hesitated and glanced at him. It was all the distraction Brynjolf needed, and he'd shoved him against the wall of the flagon roughly in seconds. Cynric, however, just cast him an extremely annoyed look.

“You aren't a member of this guild,” the redhead continued, “so believe me when I say that you nay want to piss me off, if you don't fancy the idea of lying in a ditch.”

“I haven't done anything to you,” Cynric spat.

“Not directly.” Brynjolf gave him a look so dark the other man actually quivered a little momentarily. “But you'd be wise to leave any guildmember well alone while you're walking our halls – and far less attack them at every turn.”

“Attack?” His voice was incredulous, then it dawned on him and he made a noise of disgust. “You think I'm the one looking to start a fight? I don't want anything to do with her. She isn't worth the trouble.”

Brynjolf hesitated. It wasn't exactly the answer he'd expected, but before he could accuse Cynric of lying (or at least acting to the contrary of what he was saying), the breton continued, and judging by the half pitying look on his features he'd cottoned on to something the redhead would quite rather he hadn't.

“You're a fool if you want to get close to her.” His voice was a mixture of anger and warning. “She'll rip your heart out the first chance she gets. It's her favourite goddamn pastime.”

Brynjolf frowned and he suspiciously felt the gaze of a very pissed off person searing into the back of his head. He cautioned a look over his shoulder and saw Lucille standing there, she looked like she could throttle Cynric with her bare hands, and then turn and finish him off too. He'd completely forgotten she was there. Cynric snarled and used the distraction to get away, but it wasn't a big priority in Brynjolf's mind, because the furious expression on Lucille's features was worrying him much more.

“We need to talk.” The words left her mouth in barely more than a guttural snarl. “Alone.”

Chapter Text

He allowed himself to be led into the Ratway, and it was only seconds after they were far enough away to be out of earshot from the flagon, that Lucille span around and shouted at him. He figured in her current state she'd gut any of the lowlife that lived in here if they dared disturb them.

“What in Oblivion do you think you're doing?”

“I don't think you're in much of a position to-”

“Oh, but I am.” He'd never seen her this furious before. It didn't look natural, or suit her. “I don't need you defending me, so you can take that idea and shove it up your ass before I do it for you.”

“Aye?” He snarled at her and crossed his arms. Two could play at this game. “Because you didn't seem to be doing a particularly good job of doing so yourself.”

“And that gives you permission to take matters into your own hands?” She looked a mixture of shocked and pissed off now.

He gave her a level look. “I think you're over reacting perhaps just a little bit.”

She hesitated and something flashed across her features that he couldn't make out, but she backed down after a few seconds and seemed less likely to kill him.

“Sorry.” It sounded a bit forced when she spoke, but he figured it was better than her shouting at him. “I just... I don't need another idiot running around after my heels all the time thinking he can protect me as if I'm a fragile glass doll.”

He briefly contemplated mentioning that if everybody in the guild had to go toe-to-toe with a pissed off bear, or say a daedra, she'd come out of it the worst out of everyone, but decided against it. She was good at getting around without being seen, but she'd be too vulnerable in a sword fight. Eventually, he relaxed his composure and settled on saying, “what do you mean?” instead.

“I worked with Cynric a few times and he helped himself into my bed,” she replied. She didn't seem so much angry now as bitter. “But he only wanted me because he liked the idea of being able to dominant a little vulnerable elf.”

He stared at her with what was probably a pretty dumb look on his features. If she was angry because she thought he was on some sort of sick power trip, then he could easily assure her that was quite untrue. He considered cautioning a response, but she beat him to it.

“I was stupid enough to think he loved me once upon a time,” she half whispered. “But he was gone the moment I pressed him for something more.”

She glanced away and he realized she seemed the slightest bit ashamed. Something twisted in him and he wasn't particularly sure what it was, or why exactly she was being so open with him either for that matter. Lucille cursed below her breath and twisted her fingers together as she continued.

“I... I wanted a family once.” She sighed and shook her head. “But he didn't, and he made me realize I'd lost any chance of having a normal life a long time ago.”

“I find it rather disappointing you let him make you believe that,” Brynjolf replied flatly.

Lucille shrugged. “I think when you never really knew your parents the thing you want most is children yourself to recreate what you didn't have.”

That was quite probably very true. Part of him had only joined the Thieves Guild for some connection to his father, and even then it wasn't enough. And a very, very large part of him had always toyed with the idea of having a family. But sometimes it felt like a stupid dream, something he'd certainly never achieve while he continued on his current path. He liked to wonder though, and maybe that was part of the reason he doted on the orphan children he found in Riften so much.

Eventually he muttered a somewhat absent, “you're probably onto something there.”

She gazed up at him then and he fidgeted a little awkwardly. He hadn't realized she'd been standing so close to him up until that point. Hmm. His brow furrowed because he wasn't entirely certain why his fingers were touching hers either, because he certainly hadn't moved them at all. Perhaps the better thing would have been to jerk his hand away, but he didn't and he found it grasping hers. Then her head was becoming suspiciously closer to his, and her other hand somehow found it's way to his abdomen and this was all starting to go downhill rather fast. Until-

“Ahem.” Stig was giving him the look. The look that spoke volumes that Brynjolf was going to get a lot of shit about this later. “Gallus is back.”

It took a few moments for that to really transmit properly to him. Stig narrowed his eyes at him and seemed as if he might have been considering whether he needed to take him to the temple or not. Brynjolf took a step towards the flagon to assure him he was quite fine. Lucille just sort of followed him hesitantly.

So they walked back to the flagon together, all three of them, in a rather painful silence. As they did, he peered at Lucille as inconspicuously as he could from the corner of his eye. She wrenched her gaze from his and blushed a little bit, which just left him more uncertain. Then, something occurred to him.

“Cynric made it out as if you were the one who hurt him,” he pointed out.

Lucille's features tugged into the faintest of grins. “He's just trying to save face. I made sure he couldn't get laid for a year in Falkreath because every woman was convinced he was diseased.” She bit her lip a little. “I think he decided to pin the blame on me in case I tried it again, thought it might help.”

“Do you think it would help?” He was almost unsure if he wanted to hear the answer.

Her lips curled into a dark, mischievous look. “Definitely not.”

“You really scare the crap out of me sometimes,” Stig muttered offhandedly in front of them.

o0o

“So Frederick tells me you're sweet on that new elf girl,” Gallus started casually.

Brynjolf could not stop himself fuming and scowled. “I'll kill that tosser,” he muttered to himself. “And Stig too.”

Gallus chuckled. They were walking through Riften's streets a day after he'd returned from his trip. “So it's not true?” the imperial replied. “Pity. Everyone in the guild thinks it is.”

The redhead groaned ever so slightly. How precisely had this gotten so completely out of control in such a short period of time? Gallus gave him a most curious look from the corner of his eye and added, “or is it true?”

Brynjolf shrugged somewhat helplessly. “I don't know.”

“You don't know? How can you not know?”

“I just don't!” Brynjolf sighed and gave him an almost pleading look. “How did you know when you loved Karliah?”

“Hmm.” Gallus pondered for a few seconds, fingering his chin as if it would help him think better. “I knew when I looked at her and the only thing I wanted to do was kiss her until I felt faint from lack of breath.” He paused and gave the redhead a somewhat serious look. “I knew when I realized I'd slit my throat if there was even the smallest chance it would save her life.”

“I don't know how you could feel that way about Karliah,” Brynjolf mumbled with a frown. “She's mean.” Perhaps he sounded like a child when he spoke, but he didn't care.

“You just don't like her because she's the only person who consistently berates you for your loose morals,” Gallus pointed out. “I think she knows you much better than you give her credit for.”

The redhead cautioned a look at the other man. They were passing through the market now but he was so distracted by their conversation he didn't think to pilfer anything. Eventually Brynjolf decided on murmuring a hesitant, “in what way?” because he wasn't entirely sure it was something he wanted to know.

“She sees that you're just drifting day to day, year to year, never really knowing what exactly it is you're doing with your life.”

That stung a little bit, mostly because it was rather true. Gallus shrugged, his fingers effortlessly grabbing a jeweled bracelet from a nearby market stall as they walked. Nobody even noticed when he stuffed it into a pocket.

“Personally, I think it'd do you a lot of good to find someone to steady you.” Gallus paused and chuckled a little. “Of course, doesn't have to be Lucille, but she's probably the only woman in Riften who doesn't believe you're completely incapable of holding down a serious relationship.”

“Only because she hasn't been here long enough to know better,” Brynjolf pointed out.

“Yes, but more than that.” When the redhead raised an eyebrow in questioning as Gallus continued. “Do you really see her as shallow, like Tove or Helga?”

He shuddered a little at both names. Tove for obvious reasons (as in that she was still a harpy bitch and probably always would be), and Helga because she scared the crap out of him. Helga was extremely insistent and so forward in her sexual needs that it even made Brynjolf uncomfortable. She'd tried to feel him up once in public and it'd damn near scared the life out of him. Literally in fact, he'd been so shocked he'd jumped, tripped and bashed his head against a brick wall so hard he'd been in the temple with a concussion for two days.

“No,” he admitted eventually. In truth, if he considered what she'd said the previous day about Cynric then there was a lot about her which could appeal to him. Though whether that was only because he longed for a family or actually was interested in her as well he wasn't sure.

Brynjolf's brow furrowed as he thought. He'd be lying if he said she wasn't attractive, and maybe he wouldn't be that adverse if he somehow found himself in bed with her – even in spite of all the awkward things he'd said when he first met her, he could make it work if he tried. He let out a deep sigh and made a resolution to at least try and figure out how the heck he felt about her.

“This is where I leave you,” Gallus said and snapped him from his thoughts.

“Aye?” Brynjolf glanced around. “You're going to the docks?” Gallus nodded. “What for? Half the water will be frozen over this time of year.”

“I know.” When the redhead raised an eyebrow at him, the imperial continued. “I'm teaching Karliah to iceskate.”

“Oh. Well, eh, have fun.”

Gallus nodded and marched off, before Brynjolf remembered something and called out for him. “Wait! You never mentioned what happened while you were away.”

“Didn't I?” Gallus smiled in that infuriatingly pretending-to-be-innocent way that he so often did and Brynjolf rolled his eyes and stalked off.

o0o

“Ohhh, Brynnie-kins!” Frederick fluttered his eyelashes so outrageously and with such a preposterous look on his features that Brynjolf wondered if he might be sick. It was nearing a week since Gallus had returned, and Cynric had bitterly bid his farewell a few days ago. All in all, the mood was quite pleasant in the Thieves Guild – at least when Frederick and Stig weren't taking the piss out of Brynjolf.

“Yes, my elfy darling?” Stig replied with a painful imitation of the redheads accent. If he was to put up with them mocking him, then at least they could put the effort into actually sounding right, Brynjolf decided. Because at the moment Stig's fake accent sounded not too dissimilar to the noise a dying animal made, instead of the smooth sexy one the redhead liked to think he had.

Frederick giggled and waved a lady's fan in front of his face. Where he had even got a fan from Brynjolf didn't even want to know. “Te-he! Nothing, my darling, I just do so love to say your name!”

“I swear to the god's, I will kill you both if you don't shut up,” the redhead growled. He'd been putting up with their idiotic teasing in the flagon for a good ten minutes or so. “And call me 'Brynnie-kins' once more-”

Frederick's lips curled into the most mischievous smile that the redhead knew he was going to dread the next few seconds very much. The other man held his gaze for a few painfully long seconds, then murmured tauntingly, “Brynnie-kins?”

“That's it!” Brynjolf lunged onto the other man and tackled him to the ground from his chair in seconds, pinning him quite successfully. He swiftly flew both his hands to Frederick's side, finding exactly the spots that he knew would make the other man beg for mercy.

And it worked so, so well. Frederick was quite possibly the most ticklish person to ever grace the country of Skyrim, and he was half screaming, half laughing so hard that tears were forming in his eyes.

“Oh god's!” Frederick pleaded and tried in vain to free himself. “Please stop!”

“There is not a person in this wretched country who could make me stop, you worthless excuse of a friend!” Brynjolf growled but try as he might he couldn't stop the smallest hint of amusement seep into his voice. Stig was laughing so hard he was banging his arm loudly on the barcounter, tears practically streaming down his cheeks.

“What in Tamriel are you doing?” came a rather perplexed sounding voice.

Brynjolf froze. That was definitely Lucille. Both him and Frederick glanced up awkwardly at her, Stig was unable to do anything given that he was heaving for breath so hard from laughing too much.

“Uh,” both Brynjolf and Frederick started, before the redhead got awkwardly off the other man and they both stood up.

“Really,” Lucille mused to herself, “I don't think I will ever understand you nords.”

She gave them one last amused look, and then walked off to presumably continue with whatever it was she'd been doing before being sidetracked in her path. Brynjolf simply stood there in a mixture of embarrassment and disbelief until Frederick murmured something in his ear.

“Stopped for her though, didn't you, eh?”

Brynjolf cuffed him around the back of the head in such a swift, comical motion that Stig very literally collapsed to the floor in laughter.

Chapter Text

He hadn't seen her train before. In fact, he'd never really seen her fight ever. All he knew was that she carried a bow on her back which he made the grand deduction of meaning that she was an archer of at least some talent. But that was all he knew, and a part of him was curious to know how she'd actually fare in a fight at all. She was thin and perhaps a bit scrawny, so she couldn't rely on strength to get an edge – only speed and skill.

Brynjolf hadn't really intended either on watching her this afternoon, but it'd sort of happened by accident. And by accident, he meant that he'd actually been intending on training himself, but paused when he entered the room because he saw her already there. She'd drawn her bow and had an arrow poised. Had he not seen the slight rise and fall of her chest, he'd have wondered if she was a statue, her focus was that intense and her body barely twitched.

Lucille's gaze was focused on the bullseye of the target, eyes narrowed teeth gritted. Then, in a flash, she released the arrow and it shot across the room at the target. It hit the bullseye perfectly in the center, no small feat – but the amount of concentration and time it had taken her to perform the shot meant it would be utterly useless in a fast paced melee fight. Still, it'd probably be useful under the right circumstances.

“How are your melee skills?” he asked. She didn't even jump, her eyes simply flickered to his. Then she put her bow away and the tension in her body dissolved.

“Enough to get by,” she replied.

Brynjolf grinned ever so slightly and took a step towards her, hands gliding to rest on the hilts of his daggers. “Maybe I should be the judge of that,” he mused, nodding towards her. “You don't even have any real blades, just that small dagger.”

Dagger was perhaps even too kind a word for the weapon that lay sheathed on her side. It was tiny, better for skinning animals than fighting. But it was quite a pretty dagger with a fine hilt. Lucille smiled ever so slightly and drew the weapon.

“Is that a challenge?”

He noticed now the dagger had a jagged edge which looked quite unpleasant and, if he hazard a guess, might be glass or elven in design. But no matter how dangerous it looked it still was inappropriate for a full on close range dogfight.

Brynjolf cocked his head at her and drew his own weapons. “If you want it to be, lass.”

There was the slightest pause when they held each others gaze and he read only one word in her eyes: yes.

He was the first to attack (he probably shouldn't have been using his actual daggers, but he liked to think he had enough self restraint to not kill her, and hoped she had the same to not kill him in return.) She dodged him with the kind of agility and grace that only an elf would be able to manage. It wasn't that Brynjolf himself was clumsy or oafish like many nords, but she had the distinct racial advantage in terms of swiftness. Then again, he had the advantage in strength so it probably evened itself out in the end.

Still, he was having a difficult time trying to lock onto her. She wasn't attacking him at all, simply avoiding him at every turn. He got a few lucky swipes in here and there but they still all missed by the barest of margins and after a while it started to frustrate him. Perhaps this was the way she fought in melee, dodging her opponents until they lost their calm and went berserk, and subsequently also became vulnerable.

But he would not give her that pleasure, even if he was getting perhaps a little bit irritated. Again and again he slashed at her to no avail – though he did note happily that she was getting tired. Then again, so was he because he was panting ever so slightly.

Lucille dodged around the back of him and he span on the spot to try and follow her. He only just managed to wrench himself somewhat awkwardly out of the way when a small throwing knife traveled in his direction. Surprised and perhaps a little bit impressed, he paused entirely and stared at her.

“Do I even want to know where you were hiding that knife?”

A smirk tugged at her lips. “For you, I might consider showing.”

He couldn't suppress the feeling that was meant in a not-so-innocent way. He narrowed his eyes and she raised an eyebrow in question.

“Reminds me of a question I've been trying to find the answer to,” he replied.

“Hmm?” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “What question?”

“That would be cheating.” He lunged at her in her brief moment of distraction and there was the resonating sound of metal clashing with metal.

Now he knew things would be different. He'd forced her into a sword fight, and agile and crafty as she was, she couldn't slip out of this so easily once he'd engaged her in a duel. Still, with that little dagger she was holding and her own dexterity she was managing to evade his strikes quite effectively. But not forever and her luck ran out eventually. It was in the briefest of slip ups that he pounced, literally, tumbling her to the floor until she was pinned beneath him with one dagger against her neck and the other poised to ram into her abdomen.

Perhaps the fall had knocked the wind out of her, because she was breathing quite heavily. The shock wore off quickly however and then her lips curled into a smirk.

“Did your father never teach you not to hurt a woman?” she murmured.

His lips pulled into a cocky smile. “Not if she's trying to kill me.”

She moved ever so slightly and he pressed a little firmer on his daggers, but she tsked him and his smile disappeared into a curious look as her hands found his chest. One she placed flat against his armour near his abdomen, and the other she let travel to his waist. When she glanced up at him with what he could only describe as a forced (but possibly quite effective) seductive look. He swallowed a little thicker than he'd intended.

She grinned at his reaction, but he was better than that. Perhaps he wouldn't deny that he was feeling the slightest bit hot and bothered, but he could reign himself in enough to still win this fight. He wasn't that much of a slave to his base needs.

When Lucille's fingers started to worm under his belt and her head tilted up at his, he retaliated. Brynjolf took the briefest moment to collect himself, and then put more pressure on the dagger against her abdomen until she had to drawn in her stomach to stop herself from getting stabbed. Not that he would hurt her, but he needed her to realize that under other circumstances he might.

Brynjolf gave her a steady, determined look. “I'll concede that might work on a lot of men out there, lass.” Her features flashed with irritation. “But not me.”

“Are you sure?”

He wasn't entirely sure what she meant at first, but then he felt something touch his neck. He glanced down as much as he dared. Her hand wasn't on his chest any longer, in fact her fingers were pulled back as far as she could make them. But there was a thin, nasty looking blade extending from under her wrist that was touching his neck with just enough pressure to make him caution against making any sharp movements.

But he still had his dagger perfectly placed to gut her, and he wouldn't admit defeat so easily. He couldn't help an amused look crossing his features.

“Draw?” he offered.

She considered for a few moments before replying. “Draw.”

The blade against his neck retracted smoothly into her glove and he got off her, sheathed his weapons and reached a hand out to her. She took it and he helped her up.

Lucille gave him a curious look as she put away her own dagger. “Did you find the answer to your question?”

He smirked. “I think so.”

o0o

The shack was beautiful in the spring. It was abandoned enough that nature took back, and when the sun and warmth came out, flowers would poke up through the ground right next to the wooden walls, and the little brick path that had, many years ago, led up to the front door, became consumed in moss and grass. Bushes of juniper berries had sprouted up nearby a few years ago, and he'd gone down and picked them a couple of times before in previous years. He grabbed a couple off a bush and offered them to Lucille. She took one and ate it. It was maybe a bit sour because her lips pursed and she made a strange face. He'd leave the rest for a few more weeks to ripen up a bit more, he decided.

The snow had melted a few weeks ago and spring was well under way. Not much had happened over the last couple of months, he'd been sent away for a good deal of time on jobs and this was the first time he'd been back in Riften for a considerable period of time in a while. There had been rumours and whisperings going on, hints of tensions between Gallus, Mercer and Karliah, and also a good deal of people gossiping about Brynjolf and Lucille (as if they didn't have anything better to do.) None of the latter was true of course (especially the rumours Stig started that Lucille was carrying the redheads child which was completely outrageous), in fact he'd barely seen her in the last month or so he'd been so busy. But people always liked to gossip.

Still, perhaps he'd invited her to join him today because he'd been meaning to spend some time with her again. Regardless, Brynjolf led her to the small wooden pier that jutted out into the water beside the house and sat down. He pulled off his shoes and was dangling his feet in the water in minutes. Lucille just sat cross legged next to him.

“You grew up here, didn't you?” she said after a while. There was a frown on his features when he replied.

“Aye.” He leant back on his hands and breathed deep the fresh air – what Riften lacked in winter, it made up for a hundred fold in spring and summer. A little butterfly was fluttering annoyingly over his head, but he felt too lazy and content to do anything about it. After a few seconds, it landed on his nose and he became cross eyed trying to look at it. He shook his head and the butterfly flew off again.

“Ma used to pick those juniper beries and make sweet rolls out of them,” he said. “Or... that's what my pa told me.”

Lucille was glancing down at her hands intently, but she obliged to continue the conversation. “Do you wonder if it'd be different if they were still alive?”

“Perhaps.” He cast a look over at her but she only briefly met his gaze before looking back down at her fingers. “I imagine your life would be a pretty stark contrast to what it is now if things were different with your parents.”

She gave a dry life. “I probably wouldn't be such a screwed up excuse for an individual.”

He scoffed at her comment. “You're an angel compared to some of the guild members.”

She shook her head and muttered, more to herself than him, “you have no idea.”

That comment caught him a bit off guard and he considered for a few seconds if he wanted to pry. But, he decided, he had enough secrets and regrets he wouldn't really want to share with her, so it would be hypocritical to begrudge her the same privacy. After a few moments the peace and spring air got the better of him. He stood up, pulled off his shirt and breeches and dove into the water. She gave him a momentarily shocked look when he'd undressed, but it subsided when she obviously realised that he probably didn't want to swim in his clothes and that was why he'd done it. And anyway, he still had his small clothes on at least.

She was glancing at the pile of material he'd dumped on the pier when he surfaced and it was enough of a distraction of him to reach up, grab her arms and pull her in as well. She gasped when the water hit her and he laughed at her – at least this time he could tease her without worrying she might get frostbite. She surfaced with a bit more elegance than him and couldn't stop a smile tugging at her lips.

“What, you going to swim in your clothes, lass?” he mocked. “Is this some bosmer tradition?”

“No, but I'm starting to consider trying to get women out of their clothes by dumping them into lakes is a nord one,” she retorted. He chuckled at her and took (or, perhaps, waded?) a step closer.

“Please,” he said with mock innocence. “If I wanted you out of your clothes, they'd be shredded hours ago.”

She considered what he said, and for a change she said nothing. Perhaps this was owing to the fact that he'd closed quite some distance between them or something else entirely, he didn't really care. Still, her back was pressed against the river bank and he could feel the fabric from her clothes waving against his legs in the water. He really did tower over her – he forgot sometimes if they kept a respectable distance – but in that moment, she looked tiny underneath him. It was maybe just a little bit exciting to him.

Either way, something came over him then – maybe it was the spur of the moment, or he'd been meaning to do it for a while now – but he leant down, took her chin in his palm and kissed her. She hesitated and froze at first, becoming so rigid and unwelcoming that he actually almost pulled away to apologise, but then she returned it and he felt her hand on his chest, so he figured he'd at least partially assessed her interest in him correctly.

It got out of hand maybe a bit quickly and he'd pulled her away from the bank with his arms around her waist, and hers around his neck, within a couple of moments. And he was tilting his head to get a better angle, his tongue pushing at her lips until they gave way under him and opened up. He didn't doubt that he could easily have taken her right then, voyeurs be damned, but she broke it off and pulled away from him when one of his hands started to wander under her shirt. Still, there was a half shy, half embarrassed, smile on her lips and he knew he hadn't been entirely inappropriate, even if she wasn't about to screw him right then and there.

He could wait a bit longer he decided, he was a patient man when he wanted to be. Perhaps she was a bit surprised he hadn't been more pushy, because once she'd stepped out of his arms she gave him a curious look. “You're not doing your reputation any favours.”

He cocked his head at her and crossed his arms over his chest. “I've been thinking I'll make an exception for you.”

She smiled at him faintly, then said, “how generous of you.”

He grinned at her, and there was one of those pleasant, hinting laughs that passed between them again.

Chapter Text

He did not often frequent the Bee and Barb unless he was trying to pick up a woman. In fact, he sometimes felt disloyal doing it, as if Stig would know he'd consumed alcohol in another place. Stig would always give him these suspicious looks whenever he returned, as if he could smell the competitors mead off him or something. But sometimes Brynjolf had business dealings there, and sometimes he just needed a good shag and had found that the tavern was particular good for finding comely wenches.

Today it was of the more business dealing variety. Brynjolf had just finished having a somewhat tense discussion with a 'client' (or more, somebody who needed to pay their debts) upstairs when he got completely sidetracked. The downstairs of the Bee and Barb was busy and loud, like it usually was during the evenings. But Lucille was there, which he considered mildly unusual because she didn't really drink and she didn't appear to be here for any other reason. In fact, she was sitting at the counter downing a shot of something he suspected was rather high in alcohol content. Maybe she had some sorrows to drown or something. He'd vaguely remembered overhearing that she'd been arguing with Mercer again recently, so perhaps that was it.

After a few moments she got off her chair and turned around, then hesitated as she saw him. Something flashed across her features – uncertainty perhaps, or regret, he wasn't sure which. But it was quickly replaced by a look of determination as she strode towards him.

It happened in a flash. She leant up onto the tips of her toes, grabbed him by the scruff of his armour (he liked to wear it when he needed to intimidate people, and nobody in Riften was brave enough to confront him) and pulled him into a rough kiss.

It took him completely offguard and he stumbled a bit at first, before his hands instinctively reached to cup her shoulders and then reality sunk in. He pulled her away just enough to make eye contact and the look he received made him swallow thickly.

There was only one word he could use to describe it. Desire, heavy and unadulterated – not that it really bothered him in the least. He couldn't stop the twitch at the corner of his mouth as he gazed at her.

“Why didn't you say anything?” he whispered.

“I'm saying it now, aren't I?” she retorted and pushed another kiss to his lips.

This time he wrapped his arms firm around her, tilting his head and opening willingly under her insistent tongue prying at his lips. Perhaps other people were feeling uncomfortable at their actions, but it wasn't exactly unusual in Riften, far less at the Bee and Barb.

Still, he obliged leading her somewhat clumsily up the stairs and back into the room he'd just been using for his business dealings. The room was still booked for the rest of the night (just in case things didn't go so well with his client, which, happily, they hadn't.)

He slammed the door behind him and fumbled slightly with the lock as Lucille seemed insistent on removing his armour while trailing a kiss down his neck. He groaned a little bit but managed to secure their privacy before grabbing her and pushing her backwards firmly. Her calves hit the back of the bed and she fell onto the mattress. He grinned, freed himself of the chestpiece of his armour and climbed on top of her.

It wasn't how he imagined it, and yet in some ways it kind of was. In truth he'd never actually been with an elf before (mostly because they were so unusual in Skyrim) and perhaps that uncertainty made him more hesitant than he usually was. Or maybe there was more to it than just a casual fuck.

But it didn't matter either way. He did hurt her, it was inevitable, but he was careful, cautious and perhaps too much so – because eventually Lucille growled at him in frustration and took control, and all his worry was replaced with desire and lust. And a lot of satisfaction.

o0o

“I love you.” It sort of just fell out accidentally really. He didn't even realise he'd said it for a good few seconds or so, but when he did he didn't feel particularly shocked.

Perhaps he was too content and dozy but Brynjolf just stared at Lucille on his side, one hand cupping her cheek. She glanced away, her brow creased and only meeting his gaze again when he brushed his thumb over her cheekbone.

He smiled at her, but was drifting to sleep too soon after to notice that she didn't return it.

o0o

When he slept, he dreamt about what they had done. He dreamt about running his hands over her body, over her back and the vague disappointment he had felt because it was too dark for him to make out any intricate details of her features, and he'd had to map out every part of her by touch.

It was a broken, light sleep though, and he woke with a frown when a noise disturbed him – being an orphan and a thief had made him a light sleeper and probably saved his life at least once before. How much time had passed he couldn't guessed. The first thing he noticed was that he was alone.

Confused, he sat up in on the bed and held his head in his hands for a few seconds. His hair was tangled and unruly. Then he glanced around the room before his eyes fixated on his clothes and armour on the floor.

Lucille's was gone. Unsure what to think, but reasoning to not jump to the worst conclusions, he got out of bed and reached for his garments. He pulled on his underclothes, then the leggings of his armour and paused as he went to do up the laces.

He froze as his fingers passed over the spot where Gallus' key usually sat. It was empty.

He was running out of the tavern and to the cistern in a split second, not even bothering to finish getting dressed.

o0o

When he arrived at the cistern people gave him bizarre looks. Truthfully, it was to be expected. He was frantic and they probably didn't understand why. He almost crashed straight into Frederick, had the other man not quickly dodged him and shouted in annoyance.

Brynjolf paused and looked at him. “Where's Lucille?”

Frederick narrowed his eyes at him, obviously putting at least some parts together given his chest was bare and who he was asking for. Then Frederick pointed in the direction of the corridor that lead to Gallus' quarters. “She went towards Gallus' room. Why do you ask?” Frederick gave him a critical look. “What did you do?”

“Spare me,” Brynjolf growled and rushed down the corridor.

The door was ajar. He took a moment to collect himself, praying perhaps it was just a misunderstanding but knowing deep down there probably wasn't a pleasant explanation for any of this. When he pushed the door open, nothing could have prepared him for what he saw. He'd expected to see Lucille snatching some of Gallus' more prized possessions perhaps – but not this.

He witnessed it exactly as it happened in every heart wrenching detail. Gallus stood before him, his features blank as the dagger sliced his neck open. The imperial collapsed to the floor in a pool of his own blood, and it was all Brynjolf could do to stare helplessly at the person who'd murdered the closest thing he still had to a family.

Lucille.

She didn't notice him at first, but when her gaze flickered up to his, her features contorted into such a pained look he might have even noticed had he not been so full of rage.

“Murderer,” he breathed through gritted teeth.

She did not stop to reply and made to run past him. He grabbed at her, fully intent on ensuring she wouldn't escape so easily, but she span in his arms (again, so swift and agile.) He dodged her dagger as she swiped at him, but he missed the blade that shot from her wrist and embedded deep in his shoulder.

Brynjolf cried out as the blade retracted and his distraction was enough for her to break free. He grabbed at the wound with his other hand, wincing as his fingers became stained with blood. Then he realised Lucille was fleeing and ran after her.

“Stop her!” he screamed to anyone that could hear him. “She murdered Gallus!”

Frederick was the first to respond, but it was too late. The woman who stole the life that meant most to him had already brushed past him and pulled herself up the hatch, out into the graveyard and was gone.

o0o

He chased her through the streets of Riften. It was late into the night and nobody was out but the guards and them. The guards didn't even bother to bat an eyelid at them, they'd gotten accustomed to turning a blind eye to things like this after years of bribery from the Thieves Guild. It was one of the few times that Brynjolf wished they would interfere.

Lucille was fast on her feet, but he was stronger than her and had more endurance. Still, chasing her through and between the houses and market was a test of dexterity to which she was at the marked advantage. But determination and rage counted for a lot and eventually he cornered her. She could have made an attempt at escaping, there was just the two of them and she might have been able to slip past him into the alleyway to her left. But she hesitated, her body poised for flight as she regarded him carefully.

He realised in that moment that he did not recognise the person standing before him. She was not the woman he'd grown affectionate for, not the quiet, passive elf he thought he'd known. Her gaze was cold, calculating, her black eyes dead to feeling.

After a few moments he spoke, and his voice was quiet, hesitant, as if he didn't really want to know the answer to his question. “Was any of it real?”

Her lips curled into a faint snarl. “It was never about you,” she replied. “I was bound to this contract before we even met.”

“Contract?” he spat and clenched his fists. “Is that all a life means to you?” When her expression didn't change he shook his head as he understood. “You're in the Dark Brotherhood.”

“Didn't half take you long enough to figure it out.” She laughed bitterly. “Cynric almost gave me away, but you solved that problem for me quite nicely. Better than I'd have hoped, actually.”

“I loved you,” he said flatly.

She sneered at him. “Love's foolish.” Her eyes narrowed and she glanced to the side into the alley. He didn't really notice. “It just means you need a shorter knife.”

And then she darted away again, leaving him stunned and in disbelief. He didn't have the motivation to follow her, and really, what would have been the point? Gallus was dead, exacting revenge wouldn't bring him back, and might just bring down more trouble on their heads from the assassins if they killed one of their kin. Although to say that the Thieves Guild would have a continuing working relationship with those murderers after tonight would be a vast understatement. Brynjolf would make sure every tie was cut with them even if he had fight every other guildmember for it.

He fell to his knees a broken man after a few moments, wincing at the ache in his shoulder and blinking back a tear. It would not be the last one that night.  

Chapter Text

“How did nobody see this coming?” Mercer was, understandably, furious.

Tensions were high in the flagon where every guildmember had gathered. Brynjolf was sat at a table with his head in his hands, barely thinking anything at all let alone really knowing what was going on around him. He didn't even know what to feel any more. He'd flitted between fury, guilt, anguish and self-loathing for a good few hours until Mercer had convened this meeting. It was almost morning now and his body was screaming at him for rest. By now Brynjolf was too emotionally drained to do anything, and longed to collapse into his bed in the cistern and beg sleep to take away his pain.

“Don't you think if we suspected we would have done something?” Stig replied sharply. His arms were crossed over his chest as if he were daring Mercer to challenge him.

“Didn't you say yourself there was something off about Lucille?” Tove interrupted. Instead of anger over Gallus' death in her voice, there was the cocky hint of superiority. As if the woman couldn't be more vile than to try and put others down in a situation like this, Brynjolf couldn't even believe why he'd slept with her sometimes.

Judging by the murderous look the beefy nord gave her, Stig would have none of the spoiled princess gloating at proving him wrong. “I thought it was a bosmer thing, it's not like she went around whispering the damn Black Sacrament to herself.”

“Of course, because that's the only thing that would have given her away,” Tove replied snidely.

“Bitch.” Stig shoved her roughly on the shoulders and she seethed at him. “Don't give me a reason to wring your neck, because nothing would give me more pleasure, you spoilt-”

“Stig,” Mercer interrupted forcefully. The bartender fumed but reluctantly stepped down, even if he continued sending menacing looks at Tove.

“As for you though,” Mercer continued and Brynjolf felt the breton's accusing eyes land on him. “Couldn't keep it in your wretched pants, could you? She only had to give you a smile and you would've given her Gallus' bleeding heart yourself.”

There was a screeching noise as the redhead leapt to his feet. Emotionally and physically drained as he was, Mercer's words would draw a response from him, and the breton would regret provoking him. Still, Brynjolf had to bite back the pain in his shoulder from his sudden movement, Frederick had sealed and bandaged his wound a couple of hours ago, but it still hurt.

“There's nothing you can say that I haven't already said to myself,” Brynjolf growled, his eyes locked onto Mercer's. “Don't think for a second that there's anybody in this room that wants to gut Lucille more than me.”

Mercer held his gaze for a good few moments, then hesitated and sighed. “I know that.” His eyes softened and it was the closest thing to an apology Brynjolf knew he'd ever get. Mercer didn't admit he was wrong, ever.

“I think it'd be better to figure out who wanted Gallus murdered,” Frederick interrupted softly as the redhead slumped back into his chair again. “Lucille was only the weapon.”

“A conniving, ruthless little whore of a weapon,” Stig added flatly. Frederick winced a little bit but nodded. Regardless, Brynjolf would admit that he had a point. As much as he wanted Lucille to suffer for what she'd done, he wanted the one who'd ordered Gallus' assassination dead even more.

“Karliah,” Mercer said suddenly. Every eye in the room jumped to him.

“You're mad,” Frederick said. “She loved him.”

“Did she?” Mercer challenged. “I always thought it was pretty one-sided.”

Brynjolf frowned as he considered what the breton was saying. He didn't want to believe Karliah was to blame, but Mercer was right at least a little bit. Gallus was the one who'd always doted on her, not the other way around. If you only considered how Karliah acted towards the imperial, it wouldn't even seem as if they were in a relationship at all. Brynjolf had always thought it was because Karliah was shy, perhaps, or that she'd had issues of her own that only Gallus knew of... but perhaps if she never really loved him in the first place it would explain a lot about how cold she acted.

“That doesn't mean she wanted him dead,” Stig pointed out. It meant a lot that Stig was defending the dunmer, he'd always given her a hard time, yet... yet Brynjolf had always suspected that perhaps the old grumpy nord had always had the smallest affection for Karliah, as if she was the daughter he never had.

“You know as much as I the amount of arguing they did behind closed doors,” Mercer replied. “Something was wrong these last few months between them.”

“Does anyone even know where she is?” Brynjolf mumbled offhandedly. He certainly didn't know, he hadn't seen her in days.

“I saw her leaving Riften yesterday morning,” Frederick said. The nord frowned a little. “She looked... tense and on edge, kept looking over her shoulder like she thought somebody was following her.”

Stig cursed softly. Brynjolf's brow knitted together. He didn't particularly like where this was going. There was a moment of silence, and then Mercer spoke softly. “Frederick, Brynjolf, go to Snow Veil Sanctum.”

Frederick gave him a perplexed look. “Why?”

The breton grimaced. “I did a job with her there right before Lucille showed up. We camped overnight.” He paused a moment. “I woke up while she was keeping watch, she was... doing something, chanting.”

“You're not saying-” Frederick started, but Mercer interrupted him.

“I didn't think anything of it at the time, and we were ambushed by draugr and had to flee not long after.” Mercer gave them a pointed look. “If she did perform the Black Sacrament there, she wouldn't have had time to hide it.”

“She might have gone back afterwards and covered it up,” Brynjolf pointed out.

“Perhaps, but it's worth a shot.”

The redhead nodded slowly, but then he remembered something and narrowed his eyes at Mercer. “If I remember correctly, it was you who brought Lucille to the guild in the first place.”

Mercer grimaced and looked almost the slightest bit guilty or regretful. “Karliah was the one who suggested that I investigate her as a recruit.” He pursed his lips and glanced away momentarily. “She said she didn't have time to do it herself.”

“Oh god's,” Frederick whispered.

It was an accurate comment for how everyone in the room felt.

o0o

It was a gruesome sight. The human flesh was decaying, the blood dried onto the floor, the nightshade petals shrivelled. But the worst part was the heavy, oppressive stench of death and evil in the room. Brynjolf shuddered as he stared at the pile of body parts heaped on the floor, surrounded by a circle of extinguished candles. There was a dagger, stained to the hilt in blood and the human heart in the centre had been repeatedly stabbed.

“I can't believe Karliah did it,” Frederick murmured. They'd travelled to Snow Veil Sanctum and found the remains of a Black Sacrament ritual in a small room inside.

Brynjolf was silent. He didn't know what to say, he was so consumed with disbelief and hurt that nothing seemed appropriate. Several moments passed, and then he gingerly took a step towards the grotesque effigy. As he did so his foot landed on a circular tile on the floor and there was, again, that characteristic, dreading click sound.

Frederick groaned as the redhead stilled. “What is it with you and traps?!” Frederick had a point. He needed to stop making a habit of these kinds of things.

There was an unpleasant noise of gas seeping into the room. It took only a few moments and they were both staggering, clutching at their throats and gasping for breath. Brynjolf collapsed to the ground, pain wracking his body and curling into the foetal position. His lungs felt like they were on fire and he couldn't see straight, his head aching worse than any hangover he'd had.

But he could make out the eyes observing them on the other side of the gate that had closed to seal them into the room. They flashed in the torchlight, and then a lithe female body jumped down from a high ledge delicately. They'd been watched the moment they walked into the crypt, Brynjolf cursed himself for being so stupid as not to notice it. He'd been too choked up in his emotions to pay proper attention to anything else.

And now he was suffering the consequences for it.

The woman stalked off. As she left, the torchlight flickered across her features and he saw a pointed elven ear.

“Karliah,” he growled with the last of the breath left in his lungs.

The hissing of gas stopped abruptly, perhaps the trap was exhausted of it's poison, but he couldn't do anything, even with the overwhelming urge to retch he didn't have the strength to actually do it. Then Frederick grabbed his hand and he felt the beautiful relief of restoration magic pouring through his body.

Frederick wasn't adept at casting restoration spells, though, and it was only enough to stop the both of them from dying outright before Brynjolf lost consciousness.

o0o

When he woke next he felt, surprisingly, not that bad all things considered. His head was a bit sore and his skin was itchy, but apart from that... nothing.

It didn't feel right.

Brynjolf cast a look around the room before his eyes landed on Frederick. The other man was still passed out. Concerned, the redhead gingerly crawled over to him and shook him gently. Frederick awoke a little groggily, but seemed as well as Brynjolf was himself.

“Are you alright to move?” the redhead asked.

“Yes, I think so.” Frederick sounded a bit hoarse but he sat up regardless.

They paused for a few moments before carefully getting to their feet. Eventually they picked the lock on the gate sealing them in and tumbled out of the crypt, found their horses mercifully still tethered outside, and rode as fast as they dared back to Riften. Neither of them knew how much time had passed, and the guild had to know Karliah was guilty.

o0o

Whatever lapse or latency in effects from the trap wore off as they returned to Riften. Progressively throughout the journey Brynjolf began getting a headache and twitchy, to the point where he was doubled over his horse and clutching at his temples by the time they were approaching the city gates. By the time his horse came to an automatic stop before the gate guards, (considering he wasn't even directing the animal any more it was left to it's own devices to do as it deemed appropriate) he felt so nauseous he couldn't stop himself retching over the side of the horse's neck. He swayed a little bit and would have fallen off, had one of the guard's not lunged forward and caught him.

Somebody was speaking to him but he couldn't understand it, and every word hurt his throbbing head even more. Behind him, the other guard helped Frederick off his own horse, his companion faring little better than the redhead.

Brynjolf barely remembered being helped to the temple, and the trap's effects hit him in full force less than an hour later.

It was unpleasant and easily the most revolting experience he had ever had.

First he started vomiting uncontrollably until the only thing that came up was blood. But it was not the only place he saw red, because his nose, ears and eyes bled to the point that he wondered if all his internal organs might be haemorrhaging. His skin flecked with a bloody rash, before it blistered and peeled off in chunks.

It would have been worse if he remembered every horrible detail, but his body succumbed to shock and disorientation within hours and he couldn't even recall accurately what happened after that. The next thing he experienced with any reasonable measure of coherency was waking up and finding himself in a bed in the temple with Mercer standing above him.

He still felt awful and he stung all over – before realising that he was covered in bandages. Brynjolf glanced at his hands. He noticed then that the reason he was bandaged up so was not because somebody had repeatedly stabbed him or similar, but because the skin on his fingers was new and raw, as if it had all fallen off not so long ago. He reasoned the rest of his body hadn't fared much better.

“You alright?” He glanced up at Mercer when the breton spoke. “Had us scared for a while there.”

Brynjolf blinked a little. The light was hurting his eyes, but he got used to it after a few moments. He tried speaking and found that he at least was able to do that, if his voice was a bit raspy. “Karliah, she trapped the crypt... where-”

“She's long gone,” Mercer replied bitterly. “But I've got every contact I have searching after her, I'll find her eventually if it takes every coin I have.”

Brynjolf nodded slowly. He'd consider how he could assist in the future when he didn't feel like he'd just woken up from being dead. “How long was I out for?”

“More than a week, the priest kept you in an induced sleep so you wouldn't be in so much pain.”

He frowned. Perhaps the faint hints of dreams he remembered of writhing in agony and screaming hadn't actually been dreams at all. “And Frederick?”

“He hasn't woken up yet, but the priest says he'll make it,” Mercer replied. Brynjolf let out a sigh of relief. He raised a hand to his head, then realised his long red hair was no longer there any more.

Mercer gave him a faint look of pity. “Your hair fell out days ago.”

Brynjolf sighed but shrugged a little bit. “I suppose I was meaning to cut it.” He laughed weakly but it hurt his throat so he stopped. At least he would try and look on the bright side of things, if there even was a bright side.

“Mmm.” Mercer gave him a serious look then and the formerly-redhead sobered. “I've taken over as leader of the guild, nobody protested and I assumed you and Frederick wouldn't either.”

Brynjolf nodded. It didn't surprise him. He couldn't really imagine who else might do the job, Stig certainly would have refused because he was so hell bent on retiring to some tropical paradise that he didn't want to be tied down to the guild indefinitely by becoming guild master.

“I want you as my second in charge.”

Brynjolf hesitated momentarily, unsure if he was qualified let alone wanted the responsibility. But then he reasoned it was probably expected of him... and it would have been what Gallus wanted. His heart twisted a little thinking of the imperial and he shoved the thought away. He still really hadn't come to terms that he was gone.

“Aye, I'll accept,” he replied eventually. “But we cut every tie to those worthless assassin's straight away or I'm gone.”

Mercer nodded. “Of course. I might even be able to dig up some information on the one they sent to kill Gallus.”

“Lucille?” Brynjolf snarled. “If you find her for me, I'll bring you her head on a platter.”

“I doubt that was her real name, but I won't turn it down if you do.” Mercer stood up a little straighter then and glanced away. “I need to leave. Stay here a few more days until you're well enough to come back to the cistern, then we'll talk.”

Brynjolf murmured his agreement, his gaze drifting to the ceiling as the other man walked off. His eyebrows knitted together and he bit at his lip a bit. He'd have a lot to think about while he stayed in the temple recovering.  

Chapter Text

“Come out of the shadows, I tire of your games.” The breton bristled and twitched as someone appeared behind him. She always did this, toyed with her prey and played with them until they begged for death. He refused to play to her tune.

“Games?” The nord woman purred. She was blonde and had the kind of wolfish eyes that made you wonder if she was sizing you up for dinner... or worse. “There's no games, just business.”

He span around and she grinned at him, cold and sadistic. It even made him shudder a little, and his heart was black as coal.

“I need you to find the dunmer,” he said carefully.

The woman raised an eyebrow at him, then jumped up onto table in the room, playing with her dagger as she spoke. He did not meet her in public, only in remote inns or abandoned houses and as infrequently as possible.

“Still so bent on her?” she replied lazily. “It's been twenty five years, give up already.”

“She has something I need,” he growled and his eyes flashed with a barely suppressed fury and obsession. “Something that you failed to deliver-”

“And you were meant to ensure the death of the assassin I sent you twenty five years ago!” She snarled at him and the dagger in her hand flickered hinting in the torchlight.

“Do you know she's the Listener now? I have to take orders from her!” She got up from the table and advanced on him. “You were meant to ensure she would never escape alive after completing the contract, yet she came back without even a scratch on her!”

He drew his blade and there was a clash of steel. He stared her down as she seethed at him, her eyes narrowed into such slits it made him swallow thickly because she unnerved him so. He knew she was a dangerous woman, and it made him uncomfortable every time he had to meet with her which was, mercifully, rare.

“Help me find what I need and I'll make sure your Listener falls into an ambush that even she won't be able to get out of.”

She considered this for a moment, but then smiled cruelly. “She leaves for Solitude in two weeks, deliver her to the Penitus Oculatus and I'll track down your precious dunmer.”

He gave her a hard look and sheathed his weapon. “Don't fail me.”

She laughed menacingly but had disappeared into the shadows before he knew it.

o0o

It was a cold, unpleasant day that she chose to travel on. The sort of day when it drizzled a fine haze of rain constantly that didn't quite make you feel wet but still managed to make you entirely miserable anyway. She was travelling to Solitude with her hood up and her head down to fend off the rain. Her horse was a lean, black steed, thinner and less sturdy than most horses native to Skyrim with a fine, glossy coat and the kind of amber eyes that looked at you as if it just knew something you didn't.

But even if her horse was foreign, with her hood drawn up and a hunting bow strapped to her back she did not look that out of place. An elf travelling between cities, not common but far from suspicious either.

Which was why it surprised her when she was approached by a group of imperial soldiers and they did more than just nod their heads and wave her on. Usually they did not bother her, given that elves weren't particularly known for being Stormcloaks, and that was all the imperials did this day it seemed – hunt Stormcloaks. The leader of the soldiers waved a hand and she pulled her horse to a stop. He approached and looked her over.

“Dismount traveller,” he ordered.

She narrowed her eyes momentarily. They were black and calculating. But she obeyed and got off her horse. The soldier approached her and sneered. She bristled, her body poised on edge because something didn't feel right.

“Just a standard search, need to make sure you aren't carrying any stolen goods,” the captain of the soldiers continued.

“I can assure you I have nothing illegal,” she replied calmly.

The captain's lips curled into a sneer. “We'll see.”

Then someone kicked her in the back and she fell to her hands and knees. A gasp escaped her lips and anger flashed through her eyes, but before she could retaliate a boot pressed on the back of her neck and a sword point was thrust inches from her neck. There was a whinny nearby of a horse in distress.

“Shut that animal up,” the captain ordered. She would not allow it. She made a short series of clicks with her mouth and her horse reared it's hind legs. There was a shout from one of the soldiers and the draw of steel, but the horse had charged off before any of them could have stopped it.

The boot on her neck pressed harder and she growled viciously. Then the captain spoke again. “Rip her cloak off and armour.”

Her eyes widened in concern but there was nothing she could do to stop them. When they pulled off her cloak it almost strangled her, they didn't even bother to undo the tie around her neck. She choked for breath, her copper hair dishevelled, and then was greeted by the unpleasant feeling of somebody grabbing her leather chestpiece and slicing up the back of it with sharp blacksmith clippers. They didn't care if they hurt her, and even if they did it hardly mattered in comparison to the triumphant look splashing across the captains features. Her back was bare aside from her smallclothes, and she knew she was done for now.

“Just like they said. Take her in,” the captain announced, satisfied. “And one of you ride ahead and tell Maro we've found ourselves the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood.”

She was not filled with dread at his words. Only anger, so dark and vicious that she would slit the throat of every one of the soldiers loved ones as punishment once she was free... if she got free.

On her back was all the proof any of them would have needed. There was a tattoo there of a large black hand that stretched the width of her small frame. Above it was the image of a human face with a black hood drawn up and it's eyes concealed. The only visible part of the face was it's chin, jaw and mouth. A mouth with it's lips stitched together.

o0o

He did not feel comfortable waiting here in this inn. It smelled of a trap, he'd been in the business too long and knew better. But what he needed from this encounter outweighed his hesitation, so he sat and waited, drumming his fingers together and flinching every time he heard a rat scurry or someone shout from the floor above.

It was not a pleasant inn, but it was the one that she'd demanded as a meeting place. In hindsight, it was probably because, down here in the cellar, if she wanted to dispose of him it wouldn't be difficult. Not that he'd let her do it easily, but there was the threat of it. You did not deal with women like her without being on your guard – unless you wanted your throat slit.

But she arrived eventually, slinking down the stairs and falling into the seat opposite him at the table he sat at. He knew who she was even if she was trying to disguise herself as a traveller, the hint in her malicious eyes betrayed everything if you knew to look for it.

“A little bird tells me you need someone dead,” she purred and twisted a golden lock around a finger casually.

“Such grand conclusions you make,” he replied sarcastically. He had an ugly face for a breton, as if he'd spent the better part of his life glaring at everything and eventually it'd just become permanently etched into his features. “Do you jump to the same ones for anyone who performs the sacrament, or just me?”

Her fair nord features flickered with annoyance, but she seemed to let the comment slide and sat up straighter. “Who needs to die?”

“Gallus Desidenius.”

Her eyebrows rose and she leant back in her chair, fingering her chin in thought. “I know who he is... and what he's the head of. That's a tall order, the Thieves Guild will have him protected better than the emperor.”

He gave her a hard look. “I'll get your assassin entry to the guild.”

She smiled but shrugged. “Not necessary, though useful... and it'll make the job easier.”

“I need Gallus' diary as well.”

She nodded. “That can be arranged.”

He considered for a few moments and leant his head in his palm, with his other hand he played with the strange trinket that hung on the pendant around his neck. “How much is this going to cost?”

“Normally it would cost a fortune for a target this difficult to reach, but...” Her eyes glinted with a sick kind of desire for violence. “But I'm willing to let the payment slide if you help me with something in return.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, unsure if he should accept anything from her without being wary. “What do you need?”

“The woman I'm sending you for this job has become a festering, infected thorn in my side.” Her expression turned to one of dark loathing and fury. “She's the best we have, I know because I trained her. She's my Silencer.”

He went to make a reply, but she continued and interrupted him.

“But she's also the Listener's pet, and in doing so has devoted her little black heart to enacting the Nightmother's every will, because it makes him happy.”

“You don't share their devotion to your – what is it you call her? - Unholy Matron or something ridiculous like that?”

“No, I don't,” she growled and leant forward across the table. “The old ways are dead, Xael can barely hear the Nightmother's whisperings any more, but he still clings to tradition. My Silencer will take his position when he dies, and everything will continue.”

She took a deep breath and some of the anger coursing through her seemed to dissapate. When she continued her voice was calmer, and somehow, more disturbing. “I'm sending you my Silencer because I want you to make sure she doesn't make it out alive. I want you to make her burn.”

“That shouldn't be a problem,” the breton replied carefully.

“Good.” Her smile sent a shiver down his spine. “With her out of the way I will be made leader when the current failure meets his end.” She was baring her teeth now and he edged away ever so slightly. “And there will not be a Listener any more, there will be no Black Hand. The Dark Brotherhood will arise stronger than ever from the ashes of it's outdated traditions.”

“If your Listener meets his end,” the breton pointed out.

“Not if.” She grinned maniacally. “When.”

o0o

Riften had changed over the years.

It was not the corrupt, easy city to be a thief in any more. Now it was vicious and cruel, the guards had grown competent, and the shop keepers bolder and resistant to their intimidations. Brynjolf wasn't sure where it had all gone wrong. It happened over years, decades even. Jobs started to get botched, leads turned up with nothing fruitful, and the money that once flowed through the guild was drying up. People were depressed, some thought it was a curse, and a lot had left their flock for work elsewhere.

It was not a good time to be a thief. But Brynjolf had been with the guild longer than he'd been without it by now, and he felt a responsibility to it... it was like family, if a somewhat dysfunctional one.

Most of the people who'd been in the guild when Gallus was alive had left. Karliah never returned (although Brynjolf wished she would so he could address their unfinished business), Tove eventually left after a particularly volatile argument with Stig and Mercer (nobody cared that she was gone.) Stig himself had retired to his tropical paradise... although his tropical paradise was a house on Lake Honrich during the summer, and he spent exorbitant amounts of money to escape further south in the winter to get away from the snow. Most of the other people around had left as well once the guild's luck had gone downhill. In the end, it was just Mercer, Brynjolf and Frederick behind from the old times.

But new people had come and joined throughout the years. Some of them Brynjolf got along with, some of them he had to keep in line (namely a woman called Sapphire who had questionable methods, but was also quite attractive) and some of them he had to apologise bitterly to (namely Cynric, although the breton had been gracious enough not to mock him and instead had been pitying.) Vex, the little orphan girl, eventually wound up in the guild. She'd grown into a pretty young woman now, with an awful temper, rude mouth and deadly skills, but still, Brynjolf doted on her like she was his little sister. She hated when he did, which was of course half the reason that he kept on doing it.

Regardless, when he'd taken up the role of second in charge in the guild, he'd started doing less jobs himself. Usually that was left to the younger, lower ranking people. Now Brynjolf mostly liaised with Mercer or other higher ranking guild members, gathered information and put together plans. And anyway, he was getting older and his back had started to give him trouble the last few years. He couldn't run around everyday pilfering mansions and climbing down into caves like he used to be able to – though of course he could still fight well enough to give most people pause at taking him on.

So that is why he found himself in the market that day, pretending to sell his potions at his 'stall' when in reality it was a guise to keep an eye on the people in Riften and an ear out for anything useful. Plus he did a fairly convincing job of it when he put on some finery and played up the charm. And if nothing was happening he could always goad and toy with Brand-Shei (taunting the poor dunmer had become somewhat of a pastime for Brynjolf when he had nothing else to do.)

“Might I interest you in this falmer blood elixir?” he purred at his customer. “I guarantee it will enhance your performance in private endeavours, boost your endurance and-”

“Really Brynjolf, why do you even bother?” Frederick shook his head at him, his thinning blond hair shaking a little as he did so.

The redhead's lips curled into a smirk. His hair wasn't as long now as it once was, but it still fell around his shoulders and he'd started growing scruffy facial hair over the years. “I have faith that one day you'll be stupid enough to buy it.”

Frederick sighed dramatically and rolled his eyes. “Why am I even friends with you?”

“Because I'm dashing, charming, and have a very sexy voice,” Brynjolf offered helpfully.

The other man simply stared at him in disbelief. Then, after a few moments he chuckled and Brynjolf returned the gesture.

“What's in those bottles anyway?” Frederick asked and gestured to the vials of red liquid.

“This particular batch is corked wine from the Bee and Barb,” he replied. “For some reason people seem more likely to believe a tonic will help them if it tastes awful.”

Frederick shook his head but he was cut off replying by a suspiciously ominous sound, not unlike a rather large lizard roaring. The redhead ducked instinctively as something massive swooped low over the city and screeched a noise so distinct that the marketplace fell silent in shock.

It took a good few moments, but Brynjolf eventually murmured cautiously, “just so I'm clear, a dragon did just fly over the city, aye?”

“I do believe so,” Frederick replied with a frown.

“Good.” The redhead paled a little bit. “Because if my drinking is catching up to me, I'm stopping right now.”

Frederick grinned momentarily, then glanced around. People were starting to panic and the guards were rushing to the city gates. “Do you think we should help out?”

Brynjolf scowled. Frederick gave him a hard look and the redhead groaned. “I'm too old for this,” he whined, realising that his 'friend' would drag him into this because unlike him, Frederick did have some sense of morality.

At least he'd have to let Brynjolf get changed first. He absolutely refused to fight in finery, that was just ridiculous.  

Chapter Text

It was surprisingly easy to defeat a dragon when you had an entire army of guards on your side. Brynjolf decided that there perhaps was one up side to Riften's guards pulling their act together over the years – they actually knew what the hell they were doing when a giant lizard fell out of the sky and started trying to incinerate everything in sight.

But it was still a taxing battle, a few guards got injured, at least one got squashed and one maybe got eaten. They brought defeated the dragon though and as the creature screeched one last time and fell to the ground, Brynjolf let a large sigh escape him and hung his head. That was the most exercise he'd done in weeks. He made a note to himself to get back into shape, sitting around playing important in the guild instead of going out on jobs had made him complacent and lazy.

Frederick walked up to him, he had a small gash on his forehead but raised two fingers to it and it disappeared quickly under his restoration magic. Brynjolf sheathed his weapons and they made to return to the city, only to find a female guard standing in front of them with her arms crossed. Under her helmet she looked quite pretty, which made Brynjolf wonder why on earth she'd chosen this career for herself. Then he realised it was probably out of some sense of greater good or something equally stupid and suppressed the urge to roll his eyes.

“Stop there, you two,” she said carefully as she looked them over. “I saw the way you fight... I know who you are, you're thieves, no doubt about it.”

Brynjolf groaned a little and reminded himself to call Frederick several insulting names later for dragging him into this.

“You're kidding me,” Frederick replied flatly. “We helped you bring down that stupid beast and you're going to try and arrest us?”

She paused for a moment as if considering whether that was what she intended to do, and then nodded finally.

“Please, don't feel the need to do this,” Brynjolf purred and leant forward ever so slightly towards her. She didn't even flinch. “A woman so alluring as you shouldn't be stuck in the guard.”

Her features scrunched up into a look vaguely resembling disgust. Then she drew her sword and Frederick edged away ever so slightly and tugged on the redhead's arm.

“Er, I think we should leave,” Frederick whispered.

Except Brynjolf refused to give up and splashed a charming smile across his features. “The scars you must have marring your perfect body... such tragedy-”

“Seriously Brynjolf, run.”

He rolled his eyes but when the guard pointed her sword at him he finally grew some sense. It took a second, and then almost comically, the both of them sprinted away towards the lake. The guard shouted after them, drawing the attention of her comrades.

“Thieves! Stop them!”

But they were fast, and the guards were exhausted from killing the dragon and busy tending to their wounded, so they managed to escape and lose any that followed them in the winding docks. Eventually they came out into Riften's marketplace and paused to catch their breath. When they realised nobody had followed them, Brynjolf stole a tomato from a nearby stall and smashed it onto Frederick's cheek.

“You idiot,” the redhead scolded, then waved his arms in the air as he put on a voice to imitate his friend. “Oh, yes, let's go kill the dragon, for the greater good! Never mind that we might get arrested afterwards.” Brynjolf sent an accusing look at the other man. “Tosser.”

“I do not sound like that,” Frederick protested.

“You're right. You sound much more girly and stupid.”

Frederick sighed and shook his head. “You really need to get laid.”

Brynjolf stilled as the comment caught him slightly off guard. Sure, it would be difficult for his friend to not notice he'd changed over the last two decades. He didn't sleep around as much like he used to, though he still wound up in bed with women occasionally - his reputation had changed from being an insatiable sleaze to a skilled and charming older man. Actually it almost made women more attracted to him. But there was always something sort of missing the next morning when he left them hanging, an urge deep down for something more and a fear overwhelming him of never trusting someone after what had happened with...

A growl escaped his lips and he shoved that thought away rather quickly. Instead he glanced at Frederick as casually as he could and asked, “why?”

“Because you turn into the biggest prick when haven't gotten some in ages,” Frederick replied with a shrug.

Brynjolf rolled his eyes and started walking back to the cistern. Frederick chuckled and followed him. The redhead bit at his lip before speaking again. “Remind me to apologise to Vipir when we get back.” He frowned ever so slightly. “I accused him of lying when he said he saw a dragon in Whiterun a few weeks ago.”

“Sure.”

Brynjolf glanced at the other man and his frown deepened. He stopped in his tracks and reached a hand up to Frederick's face. “You've got a huge bruise on your forehead.”

“Hmm?” Frederick swatted his hand away. “It's nothing.”

He healed away the bruise quickly and continued walking. Brynjolf shrugged and followed.

o0o

They showed her off like a prize in Solitude. The assassin, the leader of the Dark Brotherhood, caught and ordered for execution. A grand example of the competency of the imperials and so on and forth. She was silent the entire time, her lips firmly pressed together and her eyes narrowed into a perpetual glare. First they paraded her through the streets, gathering a crowd and drawing attention to their conquest, until final they shoved her up onto an executioners platform right next to the city gates. By now a large group of people were watching, including an important looking leader in imperial armour and the Queen, her husband was conspicuously absent, but then the elf remembered hearing something about him being murdered by another Jarl not so long ago.

The leader of the imperial soldiers who had caught her grabbed her hard and span her around until her back was on show. She seethed as he spoke.

“Citizens of Solitude!” he announced. “I give you - the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood!” There were several oohing noises in the crowd. “What more proof do you need other than the evil etched onto her back?”

The elf rolled her eyes as the crowd reacted with a mixture of yells and cheers. The yells of anger, she presumed, were directed at her, probably because they'd known someone who's life had been taken by a Dark Brotherhood assassin. In her opinion, if someone had made a big enough enemy that a contract for their death had been ordered, then they probably deserved to die anyway.

“Kill her!” a woman shouted.

“Yes,” an official looking man said as he walked up beside her. He sneered at her but she held his gaze steadily. “She will die, but not after suffering like every family she has torn apart.”

“Commander Maro-” the imperial soldier who'd captured her started.

“Tie her up,” the man she assumed was Maro continued. “Give her just enough water to live but no food, and when she's almost starved to death,” he paused and turned to face the crowd, “burn her alive at the stake.”

The crowd cheered. Of course they would. They loved a public execution, even more so if it was drawn out over weeks or months. But she wouldn't go so easily, and starving her in public as a punishment gave her a much better chance to escape than a swift chop of an axe.

o0o

She knelt with her head bowed the way he had shown her. She tried to do this all the time, to commune with the Nightmother, to hear who needed to die because she was the Listener, it was her duty. Except she never truly heard anything, there was no voice in her head instructing her. It frustrated her but she tried to keep her calm.

The last Listener, Xael, had been the one who taught her to commune with the Nightmother, for it was what he had done before her. He'd groomed her as his replacement from the moment she'd stepped into the guild – she owed him everything, and even in his death, she still felt bound to him.

She was his slave because without him, she wouldn't be alive. He'd given her a home when she'd needed one, provided her shelter and sanctuary. He'd taught her to stand up for herself, to divorce herself from feeling and close her heart off from the world, from everything – except him. He'd said he loved her and that they'd meet again at Sithis' side one day. But she never heard like he had, no matter how hard she tried.

Frustrated, the elf sighed and stood up. She marched out of her room in a foul mood, drawing the attention of her underlings, the other assassin's who took shelter in this sanctuary. Few of them liked her, at least one of them hated her.

“What's got her knickers in a twist?” a little vampire girl, Babette, wondered aloud. In truth Babette had never expressed any dislike for her before, but the elf knew she was getting frustrated because their contracts had all but dried up and she hadn't had the chance to kill in months.

“Same reason as always,” a blonde nord woman, Astrid, sneered. “She can't hear her precious Nightmother. Never could.”

The throwing knife left the elf's fingers in such a smooth, quick movement that the nord barely had time to dodge it. Astrid glowered as the knife embedded into the tapestry behind her inches from her face. The elf simply stared at her, daring her to challenge because she knew the nord had been itching to take her position for years.

“What's the matter?” Astrid started eventually. “Don't like to hear the truth? Or are you choosing to ignore that I'm the only one who still brings gold into this place any more?”

It was true. Unable to hear the Nightmother, she had no contracts to offer and no contracts meant no money. Astrid had taken no issue with tracking down rumours of people who'd tried to perform the Black Sacrament, and it was the only way they got any coin these days.

It had been this way ever since their last Listener died years ago. The elf had taken his position but every time she prayed to the Nightmother there was nothing – and eventually, with no income, everything went downhill. She didn't know why she couldn't hear the whispers, she was certainly cold and cruel enough. Xael had heard – albeit only barely. Her failure put her in a foul mood at the best of times, and at the worst, at risk of killing her own people in frustration.

The elf took a deep breath and turned on her heel, stalking out of the room and ignoring the blonde woman who'd been goading and taunting her since the moment they met. She needed to get out and clear her head. Preferably by killing someone.

o0o

Skyrim truly hated her, for if it didn't, it wouldn't rain on her so profusely. She seethed in her soaking wet clothes, a prisoners garb that they'd forced onto her. They'd stripped her of her armour, she knew well enough she'd never see it again. Still, the novelty of a captured assassin had worn off after a few days. At first, all the local people had come up to throw things at her, or spit and shouted in her face. Now they just glared at her when they walked past.

It had been days, a week even that she'd be trussed up on the execution platform. The guards gave her water when it was their shift to watch her, but sometimes they claimed to forget and she went thirsty. But it paled in comparison to the hunger growling in her stomach, and her body ached from the way they'd tied her up. She was starting to feel delirious and faint that night when the guards changed shifts.

There was nobody else around that night but the guard who'd been watching her and his relief, and as the two of them got caught up in a conversation away from her, she knew it was her best chance. If she waited any longer, she'd be on the pyre before she knew it.

With the two guards paying her insufficient attention, she wriggled her fingers and wrists in their binds and after some work, unnatural twisting of body parts and scrapping of wet rope against her skin, she managed to free herself. It wasn't that difficult for her, she was more flexible than the average person, and very bendy, able to manipulate her joints into positions that weren't normal. She waited for a few more minutes as the previous guard walked away and her new one approached. She recognised this one, he'd watched over her before. He was nicer than the others and always brought her water.

He stepped closer and raised a flask of water to her lips to let her drink. She didn't really care if he was distracted or not, she just needed him within range. And now that he was, she flew her hands to his neck with expert precision and cracked his neck in one swift movement.

“Fool,” she muttered with a brief roll of her eyes.

She twisted her body and joints to remove the rest of her restraints and groaned softly as her shoulder popped out. With her other hand, she jerked her joint back into place and stretched.

Now that she was free, she bent down to where the guard was lying on the ground and rifled through his belongings for anything useful – nothing, just a key to the barracks (actually she would keep that, keys to private places were always a good thing to have) and some trashy poetic scribblings, probably to his sweetheart. She felt sorry for this guard's lover for putting up with his horrendous drabble. She'd hoped for a knife or dagger though, and perhaps a confiscated lockpick, but he had none. He didn't even have any food, and the flask of water he'd been holding had smashed when he fell to the ground.

She grabbed his sword at least and glanced around. There was a house nearby she could rob – she didn't dare take to the road as she was, it was too obvious. So she moved swiftly towards one of the windows and glanced inside. In the moonlight she could make out the kitchen. She turned to the window and realised it was locked (unsurprisingly) and for lack of any lockpicks, she bashed the glass with the hilt of the sword. It smashed but she managed to unlock the window by reaching through the hole in the glass, before hearing footsteps rushing down a set of stairs.

“No, Hilda, stay in bed, I'll see what this nonsense is about,” a male voice said.

She retreated back and pressed herself flat against the wall of the house, right beside the broken window. The foolish man leaned out of it after a few moments and she poised herself with sword in hand, before moving from the window and ramming it into his chest in one swift movement. He gurgled a bit and she allowed his body to fall from the window and onto the floor of the house. She leant in, placed the sword on the floor, and climbed through the window.

Whoever Hilda was, poor woman, would be joining her husband soon. The elf grabbed a kitchen knife, stuffed a piece of bread into her mouth from the table, and climbed the stairs, her bare feet silent under the wooden floorboards. She crept into the master bedroom and the woman on the bed stirred, began to speak (probably to question if it was her husband) but the words never left her throat because it was slit in seconds.

Witnesses dealt with but still on edge in case there was anybody else in the house, the elf quickly took off her sodden clothes and eased into some of the dead women's garments. They were a bit baggy, but she dressed herself in a peasant's dress and a thick, long cloak that hid most of her body. She briefly considered wrapping a scarf around her face to conceal herself, but she'd look out of place in Autumn dressed in such a way, so she opted to have the hood of her cloak pulled as low as possible. If the weather persisted in being miserable and raining, it wouldn't so unusual for a traveller to have their hood up to keep the rain out.

Suitably disguised, she searched quickly for any kind of proper weapon that wasn't a giant sword or axe. She only found a small dagger and holster, but it was better than nothing and fixed them under her cloak and around her waist. Then she stuffed as much food from the kitchen into her pockets as she could manage without looking out of place, left the house and walked as calmly as she could to the city gates. She passed with ease and nodded politely at the guards on the outside of the city but the facade didn't last long. Still, it lasted long enough and when the guards started shouting after her she was far enough away to make a run for it.

She whistled as the guards gave chase and her horse came charging quickly. She jumped onto it's back and gave the animal a firm kick. The horse responded with the kind of speed unmatched by the sturdy horses in Skyrim, and she was charging off into the night in moments. She would need to stick to the roads, while her horse was fast it was incapable of crossing mountains like Skyrim horses could.

Still, once she was out of the Haafingar it would be easier. She had no doubt a bounty would be placed on her that would stretch every single hold in Skyrim, but the further she got away from Solitude the more distant the news would be, and the more hazy her description. But she would still need somewhere to go for a while until at least the witch hunt for her calmed a little bit.

She could not return to the Dark Brotherhood sanctuary or risk drawing her pursuers attention right to her home, and she did not trust that the sanctuary had not been comprised, either. She knew exactly who would have sold her out, and Astrid would have her fingers wrapped firmly around her guild by now.

And that left her with only one place to go, an option that she dreaded because it might just as easily result in her death or being handed over to the authorities. She could only hope that they would want information out of her more than they wanted her dead, because the people she had to seek help from surely wouldn't hide her because they liked her.  

Chapter Text

Today had not been a particularly eventful day. He'd hawked his wares in the marketplace a little, scouted out the area a lot, and generally just remained at the top of Riften's current affairs by keeping his ears open. So perhaps it was a little surprising when the guard's starting shouting and everyone slowly caught on that they were chasing somebody. Maybe this wasn't so unusual in Riften, but usually it happened at night, not in the middle of the day, and the person they were chasing was no guildmember Brynjolf recognized.

Except they did seem kind of familiar. They had a hood up, but he could see their lips, and their body seemed so much like the one that he'd fallen tragically for so many years ago...

And then it dawned on him, and he scarcely dared believe it. She was either a fool for coming back here, or desperate. He was erring on the side of desperate, but he didn't have much time to judge because so help him he'd grab her himself before any of the guards could – she and him had a lot of unfinished business.

But that was just it. The guard's weren't trying to capture her, they had their weapons drawn almost as if they were going to... kill. The word sunk deep in Brynjolf's stomach like a bad meal at the Bee and Barb and she didn't react quick enough when he saw the arrow flying through the air. There was no way she could have dodged it, and he heard something akin to a cry when it struck her in the shoulder.

He was tearing through the marketplace faster than he knew, shoving people out of the way and grabbing a glass globe from his pocket. The guards were already advancing on her, one was moving to swing his sword down on her body until-

He threw the globe and it shattered, spraying smoke everywhere and clouding the area. He dropped to his knees and covered his mouth, feeling his way across the ground until he reached her body. He grabbed her in his arms a little more roughly than he probably should have and she groaned in pain, but thankfully the exit through the graveyard to the cistern was close by. She had probably been running to use it – to see them. Which was, he realized, probably more of an indication of how desperate she must be than anything else.

o0o

Mercer was seething at his desk, which made Frederick hesitate in actually approaching him. He'd intended on talking to him about about an opportunity he thought he'd stumbled across, but rethought his plan when he noticed how angry their leader was.

“What do you want, Frederick?” Mercer growled eventually.

The nord took a deep breath and calmed himself. “There was just a lead I came across, thought I should mention-”

There was a loud thumping noise of someone arriving unceremoniously down the trapdoor from the graveyard, followed by some shouting and commotion. Both of them jerked their heads in the direction of the noise and a gape graced Frederick's features.

“What in Oblivion...” Mercer mumbled as they both saw Brynjolf carrying someone roughly over his shoulder into the cistern.

The breton hurried over but Frederick hesitated. He glanced at Mercer's desk and frowned as he saw a letter open on it. Walking over, he took a closer look and read what was written on the paper.

Mercer,

The deal was for the worthless elf to die, not for her to escape custody. I have had enough of your short comings and I will give you no information on your precious Karliah or the journal she has. Do not contact me again, or I will send an assassin for the Thieves Guild leader a second time.

Sincerely,

A.

Frederick's frown deepened but his attention was drawn away by the shouting and commotion following Brynjolf's arrival.

o0o

He threw her onto a bed in the cistern roughly, and there was an honest, excruciating cry that left her lips. She was trembling; her breath in heavy ragged gasps and her eyes squeezed shut. Maybe he should have sympathized with the amount of pain she would be in from the arrow alone, not including his rough manhandling. But sympathy was something she’d forfeited from him many years ago.

Brynjolf climbed on top of her and grabbed her chin so forcefully in his hands that his nails dug into her skin. His face was inches from hers, but as she opened her black eyes the rage flowing from him stifled any previous attraction he might have felt towards her.

“Hello, girl,” he snarled, and it was a predatory one, but this time it hinted at how much he wanted to hurt her, not roll in the hay.

“Bryn,” she started, but he cut her off quickly.

“Oh no, you lost the right to call me that a long time ago.”

“Please,” her voice was weaker than he'd ever heard it before, “you're hurting me.”

“Am I?” The sarcasm in his voice was so thick it was like a slap to the face. He raised a hand and pushed it purposefully against her arrow wound. Her cry filled the cistern's hall. “Funny that, I'm sure Gallus felt the same when you slit his throat.”

Her eyes snapped to his and a guttural growl resonated deep in her. The look she gave him would have made lesser men tremble at the knees. It was pure, unbridled fury, the kind of look that spoke volumes of how much she'd enjoy slitting his throat for revenge the moment she got the chance.

There had been no pleading in her voice before he realized, no desperate cries for help. It was just another facade to try and save her own neck.

By now other people had come over and started to see what all the commotion was about, some of them looked rather shocked. Then again, perhaps that wasn’t so surprising because most of them had probably never seen him act like this before. It was a far cry from his usual suave and grace.

“Brynjolf,” Mercer started and made a pathetic attempt to pull him off her. “You don’t want her dead.”

He reluctantly climbed off her and stood beside the bed, but his arms were crossed and his body was so rigid and hostile one of the younger guildmembers, Rune, actually squeaked a little when he looked at him.

“There is only one person I want dead more,” he spat.

“And I’m thinking she can help us find her,” Mercer replied. Brynjolf just let out a snarl and did nothing when Mercer leaned towards Lucille and gave her a sadistic sort of grin. “Isn’t that right, elf?”

o0o

“Coming back to this city was the biggest mistake you'll ever make.”

Mercer slapped her across the cheek. A gasp left her lips as one of his rings tore into her skin, but she refused to submit and shot him a defiant look.

“No, it wasn’t,” she replied through gritted teeth. When his features flashed with confusion, she grinned. They were alone, just the two of them in the cistern, Mercer had kicked everybody else out. “I have every hold in Skyrim vying for my blood, this is the safest place in the country. They'll never find my here.”

“You think we're going to protect you, girl?” he sounded incredulous and crossed his arms over his chest from were he stood beside her bed.

Her grin turned to one of triumph. “Brynjolf might say he wants me dead,” she started, “but he won’t let me die while he thinks I have information about who wanted Gallus murdered.”

“Brynjolf thinks Karliah ordered Gallus’ murder,” Mercer replied in barely more than a snarl and her look of triumph faltered. Then his eyes narrowed into a glare and he took a step closer to her. “That’s just the thing though. I need Gallus' diary that you failed to get when you killed him.”

“I didn't have time with that fool-”

“It was never in Gallus’ room in the first place,” Mercer interrupted. She hesitated. Her contract had been to kill Gallus and deliver his diary to Mercer, yet at the time she'd been unsuccessful in stealing it because Brynjolf had blown her cover when he saw her murder Gallus.

The breton continued. “I know Karliah made off with it when she fled, there's no other option.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Your friend Astrid won’t speak to me since you escaped custody, and she promised to give me Karliah's location. But with you in my hands I have power over her.”

“Astrid doesn’t play by the rules.” She laughed bitterly. In truth it didn't surprise her that much Mercer might have been involved with her ambush, after all he and Astrid would have known each other from when the nord approached him about the contract on Gallus. “Kill me and she’ll have what she wanted, she won’t hold up her end of the bargain. You need me alive until she tells you were Karliah is.”

What she failed to mention was that it was highly unlikely Astrid even knew were the dunmer was to begin with. Astrid might like to think that she was a successful, ruthless assassin, but she only got her leads from rumours, not the Nightmother. If the nord had promised to find Karliah's location by speaking to their matron, she was flat out bluffing.

“Yes,” Mercer replied carefully and a cruel look stole over him. “But I'm going to have a lot of fun with you in the mean time. Nobody will believe you if you tell them the truth about Gallus' murder.”

Her features flashed momentarily with fear as he advanced on her, grabbed one of her hands, and drew a scream from her lips as he twisted her fingers until they wrenched painfully out of their joints.

o0o

Mercer tortured her, that much he knew. The noises coming from the cistern could be heard even from the flagon, and it didn't sound pretty. Brynjolf almost felt bad. Almost.

Some of the other guild members looked quite perplexed, presumably because nobody had actually told them who the heck the elf that had turned up that morning was. Judging by the way Brynjolf was sitting at a table playing with a dagger and with such a hostile look on his features, it was unsurprising nobody actually approached him about anything. He looked like he would attack the first person that tried to talk to him.

“Would somebody please explain to me what in Oblivion is going on?” A woman, Tonilia, shouted eventually after some moments of tense silence.

Brynjolf didn't even look at her. After a few minutes Frederick sighed and took it upon himself to reply. “That elf, her names Lucille-”

“No, it's not, it was just a disguise,” the redhead interrupted. Frederick gave him an exasperated look but continued regardless.

“She was the assassin that killed Gallus.”

“You're shitting me,” Vekel, the new bartender and owner after Stig left replied. “Why would she come back here?”

“Who cares if it leads me to Karliah?” Brynjolf grumbled. Everybody in the guild knew who Karliah was and what she'd done. “And then I'll slit both the elves throats.”

There was a nervous swallow from Niruin, the male wood elf who was in the guild.

“Give it a rest,” Frederick snapped. The redhead was so shocked that he actually stood up and stared at the other man. Frederick simply glowered back at him.

“I'm sorry, did you forget what that bosmer bitch did?” Brynjolf hadn't put away his dagger, but regardless of how aggressive he looked, the other man stood his ground firmly. “Because it sounded to me like you were defending her.”

Frederick crossed his arms over his chest. “Something doesn't add up.”

“It doesn't need to add up!” Brynjolf shouted. “She killed Gallus, and I'll take her own life the moment I have what I need from her!”

“You killed Gallus just as much as she did because you were so desperate to get into bed with her!”

There was a moment of painful silence. Brynjolf could only stare at the other man in complete disbelief, unable to comprehend what had been said and far less thinking someone he considered a friend would ever be capable of saying that.

A look of pure loathing came over the redheads features after a few minutes and when he spoke it was with such hatred that it sounded foreign to himself. “Get out.”

Frederick didn't budge at first until Brynjolf shoved him and repeated himself. “Get out. Now.”

Hesitation flickered over the blond's features and he narrowed his eyes, daring the redhead to attack him. Eventually Frederick snarled, turned on his heels and stalked away, leaving Brynjolf fuming and everybody else speechless. The silence was only broken by the sound of Fluffy, (who was still alive thanks to her undeadness) meowing and pouncing on something in a corner.

After a few moments Mercer stalked into the flagon and every eye in the room snapped to him. Brynjolf noticed the breton had blood on his fingers and his brow creased ever so slightly. Then he reminded himself who's blood it probably was and he scowled.

“Did you get anything out of her?” Brynjolf asked. “Does she have any information on Karliah?”

“Not yet.” Mercer's features flashed with annoyance. “But I'll break it out of her eventually.”

“Why would she even know where the dunmer is?” Vekel interjected.

“She might not,” Brynjolf conceded and slumped into his chair again. “But any lead helps.” The redhead groaned and put his palm in his chin. “Why is she even here?”

“She's got a bounty on her head that stretches every hold of Skyrim, probably even beyond that,” Mercer replied and narrowed his eyes. “She knows we can keep her from the authorities, maybe even clear her name if we had enough money.”

Brynjolf gave him an incredulous look. “Please tell me you aren't seriously thinking of helping her,” he said flatly.

“She's smart, Brynjolf, and manipulative.” Mercer held his gaze. “She knows you'd never let her go while she's got information on Karliah. She's going to bide her time here until it's safe for her topside again.”

“She's not going to tell us anything while there's still a manhunt on for her,” Brynjolf mumbled as he put the pieces together. And he couldn't kill her yet either or pass up the best chance he'd had in years of avenging Gallus' death. “I hate this.”

Mercer shrugged. “Is protecting Lucille really that bad if it helps find Karliah?”

“Don't call her Lucille,” the redhead snapped.

Mercer chose to ignore what he said and continued. “She'll fold eventually. Once it's safe for her again on the surface and she figures out she can't escape a second time, she'll tell us what we want.”

“Aye, and just hope we still have enough influence to hide the most wanted person in Skyrim until then,” Brynjolf added bitterly.

He was right though. It would have been a lot easier protecting such a wanted fugitive two decades ago.

o0o

She wasn't sure why he was helping her. Everybody in the guild was, at best, ignoring her. At worst they had struck or shouted at her. Brynjolf wouldn't even look her in the eye. After he'd brought her to the cistern he only regarded her from far away, with a vicious kind of look in his eyes that sat somewhere between loathing and utter disgust.

So it surprised her more than a little bit when Frederick walked over late into the night with a bucket of water and a cloth. He sat down beside her on the bed she was still lying in but didn't meet her gaze as she narrowed her eyes at him. When he reached for the neckline of her dress and tugged at the fabric she jerked away, before wincing in pain.

“Let me heal you,” Frederick said sternly. “Unless you want to get an infection?”

She hesitated, then scowled and glanced away. Even with her disease resistant bosmer blood, she'd truly rather not risk having a festering wound if she could help it. Frederick seemed to take it as all the permission he needed and carefully pulled down her dress. It was far too big for her so it wasn't difficult to expose her shoulder. The arrow was still in her and she bit into her lip as he snapped the tip off and then carefully removed the shaft. It stung, but when he pressed his fingers to the wound and let the soft light of restoration magic flow into her it felt better.

A sigh left her lips before she could hope to stop it. It felt blissful compared to the stinging sensation she'd been putting up with for hours. Then, Frederick wiped away the blood and grit from the closed wound and bandaged it as best he could.

She was silent when he finished, the only hint of her thanks being a softening of her features. Frederick frowned and grabbed one of her hands. She resisted him at first but he'd seen more than he needed to know in seconds.

“What did Mercer do to your fingers?”

She lowered her gaze, but eventually replied. “He dislocated them.” She hadn't been able to force them back into position because he'd done it to both her hands, which was also the reason she hadn't been able to tend to her arrow wound, either.

Frederick sighed and held her hand tighter as he pushed her thumb back into it's correct orientation. “Why?”

She cringed as he relocated each of her fingers and thumbs. It hurt more when somebody else did it. “It's not like it was difficult.”

When Frederick gave her a questioning look she raised her left hand and twisted her thumb until it fell out of it's joint. She then relocated it with her other hand, only wincing the slightest bit when she did it herself. She did it often and it didn't hurt if she did it right, it had helped make her into a better assassin.

“I can manipulate most of my joints and contort my body,” she muttered. She'd been able to do it for as long as she could remember and had figured there was something inherently flawed in her body that made her like that.

“But...” A sigh left her lips. “It also means I get unintentional dislocations easily and aching ligaments.” It had gotten worse over the years. Sometimes it felt like her joints and tendons were physically incapable of supporting her body.

Frederick regarded her carefully for a few moments. “I guess there's not much point tying you up then?”

“Not if you're aim is to restrain me as a prisoner.” She glanced up at him. His expression gave away nothing and she slumped back onto the bed as he stood up and begun walking away.

He stopped after a few steps and glanced back at her carefully. “When was the last time you ate?”

She was skinny from her imprisonment. During her trip to Riften she'd eaten what she stole in Soltidue or found other food, but most of it she couldn't keep down and she'd retched violently quite a few times. Frederick sighed deeply and shook his head when she didn't reply.

“I'll bring you something, try eating it slowly in small amounts so you don't make yourself sick.”

She frowned as he walked away then turned onto her side, her eyes boring holes into the wall of the cistern beside her.

Chapter Text

He hadn't realised when she first arrived back in his life how malnourished she was. Perhaps the clothes she had been wearing were so baggy that it hid it, but now it was plainly obvious. She was older now as well, which was unsurprising given it'd been more than two decades since he'd seen her. But she'd aged better than he had, probably because she was an elf. Even if she looked more mature, she still had that frustrating aura of youth. It was more like she'd just gotten wiser rather than actually aged physically. It annoyed him.

Brynjolf watched carefully everyday as Frederick fed her, slowly at first in tiny amounts until eventually she was able to keep that down and then he starting giving her something more substantial. It'd been going on for days, Frederick kept visiting her and nourishing her back to health or tending to her wounds after Mercer beat her.

It infuriated Brynjolf. Everyday he stood against a wall, just far enough away to not draw their attention but still within earshot, and observed them. That particular day he had enough. As Frederick walked away from her side he met the redhead's gaze ever so briefly. They hadn't talked since their argument before and the blond ignored him until Brynjolf spoke.

“Why don't you jump into bed with her?”

Frederick shot him an exasperated look and stopped walking. “That's beneath you.”

“Aye?” Brynjolf replied bitterly. “Because it seems to me that you've forgotten who she is given the way you're treating her.”

“I know there's something more going on here.” Frederick gave him a steady look. “Something isn't right.”

“Then by the God's tell me what it is that I'm missing!”

“You wouldn't listen,” the blond muttered. “You're too choked up in your hate.”

Something inside Brynjolf snapped and he jabbed the other man in the chest with a finger. “Just admit it! You always wanted her.”

“What in Oblivion is wrong with you?” Frederick shouted and took a step backwards. “I never wanted her.”

Brynjolf scoffed. “You're lying.”

“I'm gay, you idiot!”

The redhead stilled. He hadn't really seen that coming. Truthfully he'd never really known much about Frederick's romantic life at all, but it caught him offguard. Perhaps reacting to his shocked expression, Frederick gave him a look of disgust and walked away. The redhead realised then that he'd royally screwed up this time and he experienced the unpleasant feeling of guilt. But it was guilt mixed in with anger and he snarled, turned away and convinced himself Frederick deserved it for his questionable loyalties towards the bosmer.

o0o

“Never done an honest day's work in your life for all that coin you're carrying, eh, lad?” His voice was smooth, so silky smooth he could have swept a women off her feet even if he was telling her she was ugly.

“Excuse me?” There was a man standing in front of him. An altmer, to be precise. Wearing such silly mage robes that he was probably very arrogant to prance around in them like that. But he was an anomaly in Riften – completely out of place. And completely interesting, which was why Brynjolf had even bothered approaching him.

“I'm saying you've got a lot of coin and-”

“No, I do believe that I don't want to get involved with the likes of people such as you.”

Brynjolf blinked at him in disbelief. That didn't usually happen, usually people were drawn up into his intrigue and pretty words in seconds. The altmer was giving him such a look that the redhead wondered if he were physically capable of smiling at all. But then annoyance welled up inside Brynjolf.

“And what do you precisely hope to imply by that?” he challenged.

“I precisely hope to imply that you're a thief of most despicable repute,” the altmer replied. “And, you see, I find myself in the need of assistance in finding somebody in this city. But.” The elf actually towered over him a little bit, it was embarrassing. “I would sooner stab myself in the eye with various sharp pointy objects than seek it with you.”

Then the altmer was stalking off and perhaps stupidly in his anger Brynjolf grabbed him by the arm, a retort poised on his lips. Except that he didn't even get the chance to say anything because the altmer shouted at him in some strange sort of language and he experienced the bizarre feeling of being propelled backwards with such a force that he crashed into his stall. His head was throbbing and there was the unpleasant feeling of liquid dropping onto his head.

Brynjolf groaned and gingerly opened his eyes, realising that he was lying amongst the ruins of his stall, covered in his potions and being stared at by a good deal of people. One of them was Brand-Shei who looked most pleased. There was also a rather sharp pain in his arm and he grimaced as he wrenched a large piece of glass out of it. He'd need to tend to that later.

Perhaps it was owing to the other merchants dislike of him that absolutely no one offered him assistance as he got to his feet, clenched his teeth from the pain, and stumbled towards the graveyard. He couldn't see the altmer anywhere. But there would be repercussions.

Oh yes, there would be many repercussions.

o0o

The first thing he did when he got back to the cistern was to scull a healing potion and then wrap the wound on his arm up in a bandage. It wasn't actually such a bad wound once he'd taken the potion but he figured he should take the precaution anyway. After that he leant over the edge of the pool in the centre of the room and dumped a bucket of water over his head. He didn't want his hair to get sticky from his 'falmer blood' (or more correctly, wine) elixir. But he'd wash it properly later, for now it would do.

Brynjolf grabbed a piece of cloth and dried himself, then roughly brushed his hair and plaited it. He often did this when it got wet. Having hair that long meant it was impossible to dry completely with towels and he hated the feeling of soggy locks hanging around his shoulders. So he would tie it up or plait it to keep it from annoying him. Some might say the more intelligent thing would be to cut his hair shorter, but he liked having it long... plus he was fairly certain it made him more attractive.

Once he was finished he glanced around and saw someone in a crumpled heap on a bed looking remarkably worse for wear. Brynjolf rushed over and Vex gazed up at him glumly.

“God's,” he whispered as he noted she was shivering, “what happened?”

Vex scowled up at him. She was drenched and looked like she'd been chased within an inch of her life. Brynjolf sighed and grabbed someone (he didn't care who's) blanket from another bed and wrapped it around her shoulders. She glared at him but didn't shrug it off.

“I told him Goldenglow was too dangerous,” the redhead growled to himself as he put the pieces together. He knelt before Vex. “Are you hurt?”

“Stop babying me,” she protested. He raised an eyebrow and gave her a stern look. She pouted and added softly, “just my pride.”

A relieved sigh escaped Brynjolf's lips. He'd take things up personally with Mercer if Vex had been seriously hurt. Whether she liked it or not, she was the little sister he'd never had and he wouldn't let her get endangered unnecessarily. Even more so because the redhead had protested to sending her on that mission in the first place. She was meant to infiltrate Goldenglow estate and figure out why the heck the owner had suddenly decided to stop dealing with Maven. But Brynjolf hadn't liked the idea, it was dangerous. Aringoth, the estate's owner, had hired dozens of guards recently. And it turned out now the redhead was right, though the satisfaction was bittersweet.

“If you tell anyone I screwed up-” Vex started.

“Ey, shut it,” Brynjolf interrupted with a chuckle. He rubbed her soaked hair with the blanket and she shot him a seething look but it just made him grin.

It was probably a novelty seeing Vex huddling on a bed and Brynjolf coddling her, so they drew a crowd after a while. The bosmer wasn't in the cistern any more, she'd been moved and locked into the training room which consequently wasn't in use while it was being used as a prison instead. Mercer was one of the people that joined them and the redhead gave him a stern look.

“I told you Goldenglow was too dangerous,” Brynjolf said accusingly.

“I thought you could handle it, you certainly boasted enough that you could,” Mercer drawled and shot a pointed look at Vex. He didn't seem to care she was lucky to be uninjured.

“I'd like to see someone else try and get into that wretched place!” she spat back at him.

Mercer paused and seemed to consider something. Brynjolf frowned as the breton replied. “Actually, I do think there's someone who can get in there.”

“Just give up on Goldenglow,” one of the younger guild members, Vipir, muttered.

“Are you joking?” Niruin interjected. “Do you want to try and explain to Maven we can't go through with the job?”

Vipir paled a little bit. Maven would probably eat him if he tried to tell her they'd given up on one of her demands. It was actually kind of an amusing mental image but Brynjolf suppressed a laugh.

“Send Lucille on it,” Mercer continued.

Brynjolf didn't even complain this time for using the assassin's fake name. Actually it was almost easier to call her that rather than saying 'the assassin' or 'the bosmer' all the time. Niruin got twitchy when they said the bosmer anyway. Still, the redhead shot Mercer an incredulous look.

“No,” he stated flatly. “That's not happening.”

“We need that job completed,” Mercer retorted. “If Vex can't manage it, nobody else in the guild can.”

The woman in question actually smiled a little bit at his vague acknowledgement of her abilities. Then she scowled when she realised Mercer was suggesting there was somebody more talented than her, and even more so that that person was the one who'd killed Gallus. She didn't get a chance to retort though because Brynjolf was arguing with the breton.

“What, and you think she can? Never mind the fact we can't trust her!”

“She's assassinated a Jarl's firstborn child before,” Frederick muttered offhandedly. “I think Goldenglow would be less secure than the bedroom of an heir to one of the hold's in Skyrim.”

“How do you even know that?” Brynjolf scoffed at the blond. They still weren't really on friendly speaking terms.

“I've been talking to her,” Frederick stated simply with a shrug.

The redhead seethed at him, his disgust at the man he'd previously considered his friend was rising more each day. Mercer interrupted them before it got any worse.

“We can put a geas on her to force her into obedience.”

Brynjolf sighed deeply and pinched his brow. “We wouldn't even be able to get her out of the city without her getting arrested.”

“We can clear her name, or at least disguise and smuggle her out,” Frederick offered. “Some of the Ratway tunnels lead out of the city.”

“Yeah, because giving the bitch exactly what she wants is a great idea,” Vex pointed out with a roll of her eyes.

“If you hadn't screwed up the job in the first place we wouldn't be in this situation,” Mercer spat at her. Brynjolf stood up and stared down the breton with a sneer on his features. Eventually Mercer shook his head and mumbled a pathetic excuse for an apology.

“If we're making her do this with a geas then we can use it to force her to tell us what she knows about Karliah,” Brynjolf said softly.

Mercer shook his head. “Not until the Goldenglow job is done.”

“But-”

“Don't argue with me, Brynjolf,” Mercer snapped. The redhead's brow creased. “Maven's one step away from ratting the lot of us out to the guard, we don't have time to waste on interrogations until the harpy calms down.”

Brynjolf decided not to argue. He dearly would have loved to, but something told him not to. The look in Mercer's eye when he'd shouted at him was... bizarre. It had been maniacal, obsessed, unlike any other the redhead had seen before. It made him wonder, but he dismissed the thought when Mercer spoke again.

“Frederick, go find Esbern,” the breton demanded. “It's time we call our due on the debt he owes us.”

The blond nodded and slipped away. After a few moments Mercer turned to Brynjolf and raised an eyebrow at him. “And why in Oblivion do you smell like you fell into a barrel of wine?”

The redhead blushed a little bit and made a note that he really needed give himself and his clothes a thorough wash.

o0o

“Just so I've got this straight, you're going to call it due by making me put a geas on this slip of an elf?” An old nord man drawled as he stared at her.

She was sitting on the floor in the thieves guild training room. She was dirty and ragged, but she'd put up with it with the kind of steely determination that made her into such an effective assassin. It'd been more than a week that she'd been stuck in this room, but while she might be filthy she was better nourished now and the breton hadn't beaten her for a few days, so she was mostly healthy. Mercer and Brynjolf were there too. The redhead was scowling at her, it made him look quite unattractive and she had to stifle a laugh.

“Yes, Esbern,” Mercer replied eventually.

“Right,” the old nord man, Esbern, said. “Just making sure you haven't completely lost your minds, this poor girl hardly looks like she would hurt a fly.”

“You have no idea,” Brynjolf growled.

Esbern rolled his eyes and held up two cups in his hands. He gestured towards Mercer. “Put one of those rings in each.” The breton obeyed and Esbern continued. “I need a drop of her blood in one cup and a drop from whoever you want to control her in the other.”

Mercer grabbed her hand and stuck the point of his blade into her fingertip. She refused to watch out of stubbornness as a drop of her blood rolled down the side of the cup. Brynjolf did the same and a drop of his own blood fell into the other cup.

“Put the hagraven feather into the one with your blood,” Esbern instructed to the redhead and did as he said.

The older man closed his eyes and said some kind of enchantment. The cups flashed and there was a spark of magic, the cup with her blood in it fizzled and a puff of red smoke came off it. After a few moments Esbern offered the cup that had had Brynjolf's blood in it to the redhead and he took the ring out of it and slipped it on a finger.

Mercer took the ring from the other cup, grabbed her hand roughly and forced it onto one of her fingers. The moment it was firmly in place she felt a peculiar sensation fall over her. It was as if the weight of the ages had fallen on her shoulders and a dozen tiny hooks had latched onto her soul. Brynjolf glanced at the ring on his finger momentarily, then looked at her.

“Stand up,” he commanded.

An overwhelming compulsion to do as he commanded came over her but she hesitated at first and in that moment of hesitation an excruciating pain wracked through her body. She jumped to her feet in an instant and the pain vanished. A thin smile pulled at Brynjolf's lips and she glared daggers at the ground.

Esbern coughed loudly and drew their attention. “Well, now that I'm finished...”

“You're free to go,” Mercer said and took the cups from him. “The debt's paid until the next time you need protecting from the Thalmor.”

“Which might be sooner than you think,” Brynjolf mentioned casually. “I met an altmer in the market a few days ago that said he was looking for someone.”

Esbern groaned and stomped off, cursing to himself. Which left Brynjolf narrowing his eyes as he considered something and her refusing to meet any of their gazes.

Chapter Text

They were barely out of the city bounds when Brynjolf stopped in his tracks, span around and stared at her. Her bounty was cleared through some effort by the Thieves Guild, but they'd taken an exit through the Ratways as a precaution because of her notoriety.

“Why did Karliah want Gallus dead?” he asked abruptly.

There was a split second when she hesitated and then the spell took effect and she was forced to answer him. Except what she said wasn't what he wanted to hear. “I don't know.”

He frowned but then added, “why not?”

Again her body went rigid ever so slightly as another compulsion overwhelmed her. “I never met the person who ordered Gallus' assassination.”

When Brynjolf narrowed his eyes at her she continued of her own free will in a mildly annoyed voice. “I was just told to go to Riften and meet a man named Mercer in the Bee and Barb. My superior would have spoken to Karliah and formed the plan with her.”

Brynjolf sighed then scowled at no one in particular. “You don't even know anything about Karliah,” he muttered to himself. Then he turned to her again. “After this you will help me find your superior.”

“I can't,” she stated flatly.

“Why?” he demanded. “Answer me.”

Again his command flashed a sort of compulsion over her body and she narrowed her eyes at him, evidently quickly becoming tired of being ordered around. “I no longer have a mortal superior,” she replied. “I am the head of the Dark Brotherhood.”

That made him shiver a little bit, to think she was the Listener somehow made things more... disturbing. As if being the one to commune with their sick Nightmother was somehow more evil than simply killing people on a regular basis.

“The one you want is the woman who sold me out to the guard and is trying to usurp my position in my own guild,” she continued calmly, but there was a sort of violent, murderous flash in her eyes. “I would happily take you to her if it means her throat gets slit.”

Brynjolf stared at her for a few seconds in surprise. He hadn't really thought of where her bounty had come from in the first place, but whatever her relationship was to her previous superior, it didn't sound pleasant. Still, he didn't like the idea of giving her what she wanted... but if it helped lead to Karliah, maybe he could live with it. After a few seconds he sighed and looked away. Eventually he glanced back at her.

“Tell me what your real name is,” he commanded.

“Phaeril.”

He considered for a few moments and then pointed ahead of him at Goldenglow in the distance. “You will infiltrate that estate and find proof of why it's owner has refused to deal with Maven Blackbriar. Then, to teach the owner a lesson, you will burn down exactly three of his bee hives.”

“Yes, master,” she replied sarcastically.

He continued, ignoring what she said and the tone of her voice. “Finally, you will return to the cistern immediately once that is completed, no detours.” He hesitated, and then decided to add, “and you will not attack me or anybody in the guild.”

She snarled at him but the faint spasm of her body and twitch in her eye told him the spell had taken effect.

“Go,” he said and she began walking towards Goldenglow.

He watched her leave with a frown on his features. Part of him didn't entirely trust the ring on his finger, so he decided he would follow her as best he could without arousing suspicion just in case.

o0o

Brynjolf stole a fisherman's boat and rowed out onto the lake surrounding Goldenglow at a safe distance. There, he watched the estate as inconspicuously as he could with the stolen fisherman's rod in his hands. He actually tried to fish to enhance his disguise but quickly figured out he was awful at it. Regardless, it didn't matter because he was too busy watching the estate to worry about whether he was catching anything.

He couldn't see Lucille, or more correctly, Phaeril. which made him worried. Even if all the evidence he'd seen suggested the ring was working, he wasn't so sure... and if it wasn't working it meant he couldn't trust what she'd told him about Karliah earlier. Brynjolf sighed.

Mercer hadn't wanted him to interrogate her about Karliah until Goldenglow was finished... which made him wonder. The breton had also been livid when Brynjolf insisted he personally take control of Phaeril and had only barely agreed when the redhead had started pushing him about why they couldn't interrogate the elf immediately. As evidenced by Brynjolf, it hadn't taken long to get information out of the elf, they could have spared the time, but Mercer would have none of it. The breton would probably be furious Brynjolf had gone against him by questioning Phaeril behind his back.

Mercer's behaviour was making Brynjolf suspicious, and that added with Frederick's bizarre actions made him unsure. And he hated it because he felt like he was being torn between avenging Gallus and digging deeper into the doubt festering in a dark recess of his mind.

The sight of a short, slim figure popping up out of a sewer grate nearby the estate distracted him and he fixed his gaze on Phaeril was best he could. She seemed to be trying to infiltrate the house, which gave him the proof he needed that the spell was working. If it wasn't, she'd have fled the moment she could now that her bounty was cleared. She wasn't stupid, even if she was disturbed and had a severely warped view on life.

But she was doing quite a good job of not being seen so far. Rather than take the front door she was climbing through a window... and she was doing it by bending her body in such a way that it definitely did not look natural to him. She disappeared through the window minutes later and Brynjolf returned to trying to figure out what the heck to do with a fishing rod.

o0o

Stealing a letter that stated why Aringoth, the owner of Goldenglow, had decided to stop dealing with Maven Black-Briar wasn't that difficult. There hadn't been that many guards in the house itself, and the ones that were in the estate she killed. She wasn't bound by the rules of the Thieves Guild, and Brynjolf hadn't told her not to kill them, so why make things harder for herself? With them out of the way, all she'd had to do was steal a key and open a safe in the basement.

But Phaeril soon realised when she went to burn the beehives that the reason there had been so few guards in the house was because there was an outrageously huge number of them patrolling the grounds outside.

It would have been suicide to try and burn the beehives by going up to them on foot, so rather than risk dying, she tried to find an alternative. If approaching the beehives on foot had been what that other girl Mercer mentioned, Vex, had tried, it wasn't surprising she'd failed and very near been killed.

Phaeril wasn't sure precisely how the enchanted ring on her worked (she'd tried to remove it but couldn't) but it seemed to allow her to climb a tree on a river bank close to the estate without complaining. She grabbed the bow she'd been given and loaded an arrow, figuring she could probably ignite the beehives from a distance instead and therefore not have to risk her neck.

The thieves had only given her the absolute basics in equipment – some ragged ill-fitting leather armour and reluctantly a bow, arrows and a rusted dagger when she'd argued with them that she'd need some means of defending herself if things went badly. Still, she'd managed to filch some possessions from the estate, including several potions, a bottle of oil and some expensive jewellery and clothes she'd intended to sell in case she somehow managed to get free of her geas. The clothes at least would serve some purpose, though she felt like it was a bit of a shame as she tore a strip of material and fixed it onto the tip of an arrow.

She then poured some oil onto the material until it was soaked. Quickly, she let a small flame from her hand set the flammable material on fire and shot the arrow as fast and accurately as she could. It landed in one beehive and started to smoulder. Phaeril continued the same process twice more on different beehives, and by the time she was done the first was consumed in flames.

Still, it had worked, and she deftly jumped down from the tree and sheathed her bow. She'd need to get out of there pretty quickly before someone caught her, but she was compelled to return immediately to the cistern anyway. Phaeril glanced around for the best path to take and her eyes settled on a small boat on the lake. Brynjolf was sitting in it, his hair gave him away like a sore thumb. She wasn't surprised he'd been watching her, but he was doing a pretty awful job of pretending he could fish.

Amusingly, in the moment she took to watch him, he actually managed to hook a fish. It caught the redhead so much by surprise that he jumped, lost his balance and capsized the boat. Phaeril couldn't suppress a snigger as she saw Brynjolf's head pop up from the surface of the water. Then she felt the same annoying tugging sensation on her conscious and reasoned she needed to start heading back to Riften right away before the spell on her deemed that she was disobeying her orders.

o0o

“That's not good,” she muttered to herself. That was an understatement, a big one judging by the dragon that had just landed between her and the path to Riften She was quite sure she could see smoke coming out of it's nostrils.

She tried to run away but the moment she took a step backwards she doubled over in excruciating agony and cursed the fools who forced this ring on her finger. Unable to escape, she stared up at the creature gingerly, unsure if there was really anything she could do because she was compelled to return directly to the Thieves Guild and her path would take her right through the dragon. A path which was entirely suicidal.

The creature opened it's mouth and she experienced the unpleasant feeling of knowing she was probably going to get incinerated within the next few seconds. At least it wasn't such a bad way to go, she reasoned. There were worse ways of dying.

Except she didn't die because someone ran up and stabbed the creature in the side. The dragon screeched and span around, it's tail knocking Phaeril to the ground. The person who'd attacked the dragon jumped on it's back and dug his daggers into the beasts back. A very redheaded someone, Phaeril noticed with a groan.

“Could you possibly consider helping?” Brynjolf shouted as he tried not to get eaten.

“Not while I'm under your geas, you idiot,” she replied angrily and got to her feet.

The dragon bucked Brynjolf off but he broke his fall with a roll, landing on the opposite side from her of the beast. “By the Eight,” the redhead grumbled then jumped to the side as the creature's tail almost hit him. “Just attack the damn dragon!”

A new compulsion overtook her and she reached for her bow, readied an arrow and took aim at the dragon. It actually didn't look very powerful, it was probably still a juvenile, which made it slightly easier to kill. Regardless, Brynjolf, surprisingly, was doing a rather good job of distracting the beast and she focused as the dragon's head jerked around as it tried to follow the redhead's path.

“Stay still!” she shouted in frustration after a few moments.

“Aye? Well forgive me for not wanting to get set on fire!” Brynjolf yelled as he leapt out of the path of the dragon's maw. Fortunately the redhead stilled after that, staring down the creature as it raised it's opened mouth, a bellowing sort of sound rising in it's throat.

She let the arrow loose before the thief got scorched and it landed straight in the dragon's eye. The creature screeched and whipped around to face her. She jumped out of the way just in time and it give Brynjolf the perfect distraction to skid under the dragon's stomach, stab his dagger into it's vulnerable underside and rip it's belly open several metres. The beast made a horrific kind of noise and lashed out at the redhead. He wasn't fast enough to dodge it this time and grunted as the dragon smashed him in the chest and raked him with it's claws.

Brynjolf was flown several metres by the impact and crashed into a tree. In the split second she had to look at him, she noticed his eyes were shut and his head slumped. Still, she used the distraction to jump onto the dragon's neck, holding on for dear life and finally managing to stab the creature in the head with her dagger. She twisted the blade and it made an unpleasant squelching sort of noise. The dragon collapsed to the ground dead.

Phaeril jumped off the creature, let out a huge sigh and took several moments to collect herself before glancing at Brynjolf.

He'd opened his eyes now and was holding her gaze. He had three gaping wounds on his chest from the dragon's claws. They nearly stretched the width of his body and his armour was bloody. But he was conscious so she guessed, however awful it looked, the wounds didn't penetrate that deeply. Regardless, he looked like he was in pain and was breathing heavily.

It was then that she realised she felt different, like a power had been lifted over her, as if she was... free. Her eyes flickered down to the redhead's hand. The gem on the ring that sat on his finger was smashed, probably from where he'd been flung into the tree.

Brynjolf followed her gaze and there was a moments pause, before their eyes met again and they both realised the geas was broken.

Chapter Text

Every second passed like a year as he held her gaze. She could have run, he wouldn't have been able to catch her while he was wounded - and her bounty was cleared. She could have been free. But she didn't and eventually she walked over to him and knelt in front of him. She grabbed a red potion from her armour and lifted it to his lips.

Brynjolf fumbled and clasped a hand around hers to steady the vial as he drank. Where she'd got it he didn't know, but his best guess was that she'd looted it from Goldenglow. The potion was effective though and he felt better quickly. His wounds closed up and the brunt of the pain disappeared. He didn't feel completely mended and reasoned if he made any rash gestures he'd probably rip open his wounds, but it was so much better than before.

Phaeril took away the bottle with her left hand and there was a moment of silence as their gaze met. Her right hand was pressed to his cheek with his on top of hers. Something flashed in her eyes and perhaps for the first time he saw something that wasn't cold and manipulative in her.

But it didn't last. He snarled at her, stood up (carefully) and pulled her into his side. He wrapped an arm around her waist, pressing the blade of one of his daggers firmly against her abdomen in case she tried to run.

A scowl stole over her features but she reluctantly obeyed when he walked her back to Riften.

o0o

“You really need to stop getting beat up all the time,” Vex drawled as she wrapped a bandage around his chest. He'd been right about his wounds – they were closed up but not healed and Vex insisted someone bind them. Having them scratching against his clothes and armour would only make things worse.

“I don't do it on purpose,” Brynjolf protested and gritted his teeth. It hurt but she was trying her best.

“Why don't you get Frederick to heal you?” she challenged.

Brynjolf grunted and glared at the floor. She rolled her eyes and stepped back now that she was finished. “It's ridiculous you're letting that bitch get between you.”

Phaeril had been locked up again in the training room the moment they returned to the cistern. With the geas ring broken and Esbern suspiciously absent, Mercer had resorted to torturing her again for information – which wasn't working.

“Do you expect me to not protest when he treats her as if she didn't murder Gallus?”

“No,” Vex admitted with a sigh. “But it's sad you're letting her break up almost three decades of friendship.”

The redhead hesitated and, reluctantly, admitted that she had a point. Still, it wouldn't quell the frustration and confusion that was still festering in him. It was making his head hurt so he dropped the conversation.

“I'm going to Whiterun tomorrow,” she announced after a while. “So you might want to find someone else to help change your bandages.”

“Mercer's sending you on the Honningbrew job?” he mused.

Honningbrew Meadery was a competitor for Maven that had sprung up in an unnaturally short amount of time, so it was only a matter of time before she demanded they be 'dealt with.' The letter Phaeril had recovered from Goldenglow had, at the moment, not been very useful. It had mentioned someone called Gajul-Lei which Brynjolf knew he should recognise but couldn't (which was annoying) and it had had a symbol on the top of it that he also knew he should recognise (and even more annoyingly couldn't.)

“Yes,” she replied with a frown. “I think he's giving me an chance to prove that I'm not hopeless.”

“You'll do fine.” He gave her a smile but she shrugged it off. “I'll come with you.”

“I don't need a babysitter-”

“I know, but I need to go to Whiterun as well,” he interrupted.

Vex narrowed her eyes at him and cocked her head. “What for?”

“We got a letter a few days ago that Etienne Rarnis' worthless hide has turned up again.”

Vex's eyes widened in surprise. “How in Oblivion...”

“He's claiming he was captured by the Thalmor for information on Esbern,” Brynjolf continued and crossed his arms, before realising that was uncomfortable with his bandages and stopped. “I've wiped things off my boot that I have more faith in than that git, but...”

“But?” Vex prompted.

“Given the altmer that showed up in Riften last week, and the fact Esbern has gone missing makes me inclined to think Rarnis is perhaps telling the truth for a change.”

“You think he ratted Esbern out to the Thalmor?”

“I'm not sure, but I'm hoping to find out once I get to Whiterun.” Brynjolf sighed and fingered his chin. “He said he's too scared to return to Riften after what happened.”

“Coward,” Vex growled.

“Aye.” Brynjolf shrugged and gave her a lopsided smile. “So you don't mind if I tag along, then?”

She paused for a moment but then grinned. “Oh, alright.”

o0o

Etienne was a depressing sight. He was nursing a mead in a private room in Whiterun's inn and looked like he might be sick sooner or later. Brynjolf made a note to keep himself at a reasonable distance to avoid getting puked on.

“I'm telling you,” Etienne started with a hiccup, “I saw the Dragonborn!”

The redhead shook his head. “Right.”

“He was big, tall!” Etienne waved his arms around and knocked over an empty bottle of mead. It smashed to the ground and Brynjolf wrinkled his nose in disgust. “An altmer! Kind of ironic actually, I was wondering what in Oblivion was happening at first when he was fighting all the rest of them Thalmors.” Etienne gave him a very serious look, which looked quite ridiculous on him. “And then he shouted something real weird and I knew who he was.”

Brynjolf sighed, and then Etienne added quieter, “also I heard one of the Thalmor call him Dragonborn.”

“Why didn't you say that in the first place?” the redhead groaned and rolled his eyes. “You're such an idiot.”

Etienne scoffed. “I'd like to see you survive being stuck in the Thalmor's prisoner like I did!”

“I wouldn't have been caught in the first place, you fool.”

The breton glowered at him and turned away in a huff. Brynjolf shrugged and moved towards the door, before turning back to Etienne. “Get your arse back to Riften right away.”

“But the Thalmor-”

“By the Eight, just do it!” Brynjolf snapped. The breton gave him a somewhat sheepish look but then nodded quickly.

The redhead had the suspicious feeling now that the altmer who he still needed to exact vengeance on in Riften might actually have been said Dragonborn... if he was, Brynjolf might need to reconsider his need for revenge because it would probably get him killed, he reasoned.

o0o

“I can't believe you're letting her in here,” Tonilia growled and shot a vicious look at Phaeril. Everybody knew her real name now.

The elf, however, ignored her and stared at the table. Frederick, who was sitting in front of her, sighed. He'd unlocked the door to her prison and dragged her out a while ago to get her out of confinement and some fresh air, but even in the flagon she was still caged. If she tried to run she'd be dead in minutes.

“Just ignore Tonilia,” Frederick murmured, but not quiet enough for the redguard to miss what he said.

“Brynjolf wouldn't allow this if he was here,” she retorted.

Frederick glared at her. As far as Phaeril knew he was in higher ranking than the redguard and had the authority in this situation. “Brynjolf can shove it where the sun doesn't shine. Drop it, Tonilia.”

The redguard scoffed and turned away. Frederick sighed and glanced at Phaeril who only stared at him silently with her black eyes. “Don't mind her, she hates you because you're the exception to the rule.”

Phaeril narrowed her eyes but when the nord gestured for her to lean closer, she obliged. They were at a somewhat secluded table in a corner so they had some privacy. He whispered in her ear so that only she could hear, and judging by what he was saying, it was probably a good thing.

“She had a fling with Brynjolf for a while, even went so far as saying she'd leave Vekel for him if he said he loved her.” Frederick gave her a steady look. “But Brynjolf told her could never love anyone. She believed it, grumpily, until you showed up again.”

A flicker of doubt flashed across her features and she glanced away, until the nord leant to the side and caught her gaze again. “She hates you because you prove what he said wrong.”

“He doesn't, not after-”

“Yes, he does. He never bleeding stopped, that's the whole damn problem.” Frederick sighed and shot her an empathetic look. “I've known that idiot for far too long, and I know him better than he knows himself. He hates himself because even in spite of the fact you murdered Gallus, he hasn't stopped thinking about you for twenty five fucking years.”

She frowned but repressed the twisting feeling in her stomach. When she spoke, her voice was soft and meek. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I saw you the morning before you killed Gallus,” he replied with a hard look. “You were distraught, on the verge of tears. You can try and convince Brynjolf all you like that you're nothing more than a heartless killer,” he paused and she squirmed a little under his gaze, “but I know guilt when I see it, and I know confliction even more.”

Uncomfortable under his gaze she looked away, but he grabbed her chin in his hand and forced her to look at him again. “Tell me what's going on, I know something doesn't add up. What's so important about Gallus' diary?”

“I don't know,” she admitted softly. “I was only told to deliver it to the person who ordered the contract.”

“Karliah?” She nodded slowly and he frowned. “I saw Mercer almost turn Gallus' entire room upside down looking for that stupid diary after he was killed.”

“Wish I could help you,” she replied but there was no conviction in her voice. Then she scowled. “I didn't even get the payment for that wretched contract in the end, nothing good came out of it.”

Frederick cocked his head at her. “Why not?”

“The dead-drop was trapped.”

The nord considered her for a few moments in silence, but then Tonilia coughed rather loudly and he reluctantly took her back to her prison. As he did, she gave him a careful look and murmured, “you've got a really red rash on your arm.”

Frederick blinked and then pulled his sleeve down casually. “It's nothing.”

She wasn't sure she believed that, but they were back at the training room and he locked her back inside before she could say anything else.

o0o

“What did you find out?” Brynjolf murmured as he played casually with a dagger while lying on a bed in the small room they were renting together. His bandages needed changing and his wounds inspected, but he'd bring it up later.

“Not much,” Vex replied and slumped into a chair beside him. She was holding a letter and raking her eyes over it. “Nothing really useful. But there's this stupid symbol again.”

Brynjolf glanced at her and she showed him the piece of paper. On the top was the same symbol that had been on the note from Goldenglow. A dagger in a solid black circle, perhaps meant to be a moon, he wasn't sure.

“I guess whoever bought off Goldenglow did this as well.” Vex sighed and threw the note to the floor in frustration. “This stinks of sabotage, if only we knew who that Gajul-Ei or whatever it was is that's mentioned-”

“Gulum-Ei,” Brynjolf whispered to himself, then snapped upright. “Oh God's, why didn't I figure it out before! That wretched backstabbing lizard!”

Vex raised an eyebrow at him in question so he continued. “Gajul-Lei was an alias one of our contacts in Solitude used to use.” He scowled at the thought of the argonian. “He's a slippery git, figures he'd have no qualms betraying us.”

“Want me to slit his throat?” Vex offered casually.

“No, he's actually useful to us alive.” Brynjolf gave her a steady look. “Go to Solitude tomorrow morning and find him, figure out why he's sabotaging us. I'll tell Mercer what you're doing so he doesn't blow up in your face again. But don't kill Gulum-Ei, he's the best contact we have in the East Empire Company.”

Vex pouted, obviously wanting nothing more than to kill the argonian, but she eventually conceded. “Fine.”

There was a moment of silence in which Brynjolf scolded himself mentally once more for not figuring out who Gajul-Lei really was, until Vex pulled him from his thoughts again. “You want some dinner?”

“You go ahead.” Brynjolf waved a hand in the direction of the door. “I'll join you later.”

Vex shrugged and walked off, leaving the redhead twisting one of his daggers in his hand. Then something caught his attention and he narrowed his eyes in scrutiny. There was a small gem inlaid in one of his father's daggers, he'd noticed it before. There was a carving in the stone, he'd seen it a dozen times. But now he saw it with different eyes and he cursed himself again for not drawing such an obvious connection that was literally right in front of him.

The carving was of a small dagger in a circle. Brynjolf realised he needed to pay Stig a visit and get some questions answered.  

Chapter Text

He got caught up in business matters when he returned to Riften, so it took him a couple of days to get out of the city and find Stig. When he did wonder down to the old man's house on the lake, he found Stig sitting at a table outside enjoying one of the few last pleasant warm days before winter set in.

Stig noticed him quickly and got up with a grin. “Hey gingernuts!” Brynjolf grimaced but managed a smile despite it. “Want a mead?”

“Sure.” He shrugged and sat down at the table as Stig grabbed him a bottle.

They sat at the table for quite some time in silence. It was quite lovely if Brynjolf did say so himself, but he came here for a reason not to doze off in the sun. He glanced at Stig who'd closed his eyes, but he wasn't snoring so he probably wasn't asleep.

“You owe me some answers, old man,” Brynjolf started.

Stig was the only person other than Gallus, Mercer or Karliah who'd known his father as far as he knew, which was why he was questioning him. He couldn't very well question Gallus or Karliah about him, and somehow didn't feel like asking Mercer was the most tactile option all things considered given how the breton had been acting lately.

The older man opened his eyes reluctantly and looked at him. “What about?”

Brynjolf drew one of his daggers and pointed at the stone in it. “What in Oblivion is this symbol?”

“Oh God's,” Stig started with a groan.

“Nay, don't oh God's me,” Brynjolf interrupted perhaps a bit too rudely. “This blasted symbol's turned up twice in the last month - on documents implicating somebody as a saboteur working against the guild.”

Stig was quiet for a good few minutes, groaned, and then put his chin in his palm. “Figures this eventually would come back to bite me in the ass,” he grumbled to himself and then addressed Brynjolf directly. “Ever heard of the Nightingales?”

The redhead frowned as he cast his mind back as far as he could. He settled on some distance memories from his childhood and slowly responded. “Aye... my pa used to sing me a song about them.”

“Your father?” Stig scoffed. “I doubt it. Your father was completely tone deaf. Eh, no offence.” He gave him an empathetic look. “It would have been your mother that sang to you.”

“My mother died in childbirth,” Brynjolf replied carefully.

“Is that what your father told you?” Stig made a snorting sound and took a large swig of mead. “Look, sometimes I reckon you'd have been better off being raised by wolves than your father, but it's not my place-”

The redhead gave him a level, but intimidating look. “Tell me the truth.”

Stig stiffened a little in hesitation. He sighed deeply though and eventually continued. “Your mother didn't die in childbirth.”

Brynjolf felt an uncomfortable twisting sensation in his stomach as he realised he was probably about to be thrust into something very personal and possibly painful.

“She was murdered when you were two, maybe three.”

“What?” the redhead mumbled, half in shock and disbelief.

“Bryn, I really shouldn't be telling you this,” Stig started again until Brynjolf fixed him with a hard glare and eventually the older man crumbled. “Both your parents, they were part of a secret splinter group of the Thieves Guild – the Nightingales.” Stig sighed deeply. “I bleeding told them it would get them killed one day... and it did.”

Brynjolf's brow furrowed as more memories floated to the surface and something new occurred to him. “I've seen that same symbol somewhere else, on Gallus' ring and-”

“Karliah's bow,” Stig finished somewhat grimly. “Mercer's one of them too. Or... was. I don't know if the Nightingales technically exist any more since Gallus died.”

“Karliah's the one sabotaging the guild then,” Brynjolf muttered softly, as far as he saw it there was no other option, Mercer couldn't be doing it unless he'd completely lost his mind. “That dunmer bitch... Phaeril has to lead me to-”

“Who in Oblivion is Phaeril?” Stig interrupted rather rudely.

The redhead blinked at him and then it dawned on him. “Lucille, her real name is Phaeril. She's... wound up in the Thieves Guild again, so to speak.”

“Please tell me you haven't slept with her already.”

Brynjolf scowled at him. “After everything, do you think I would-”

“You never loved anyone before her, Brynjolf, or after,” Stig stated rather meaningfully and with the kind of knowing look that made him squirm. “That kind of thing stays with you whether you like it or not.”

The redhead pinched his brow and then slumped back in his chair in defeat. He gave the older man a pained, helpless look. “She helped me when I was wounded instead of running away when she could have been free.”

Stig narrowed his eyes at him as he considered what he was saying and Brynjolf gave an exasperated sigh, shaking his head. “I don't even know what's real any more.”

“I have no doubts that elf is a twisted, deranged excuse of a person,” Stig started after a few moments. “But I also think she's just been a pawn in all of this, there's a game being played here Brynjolf – and someone's not going by the rules.”

The redhead gave him a perplexed look but he realised after a few moments it was starting to get dark and he reluctantly stood up. “I should get back,” he muttered and shoved his hands in his pockets. “It was good to see you again.”

Stig nodded but then gave him a serious look. “Be careful, Bryn,” he warned.

The redhead frowned once more with a pained expression but turned on his heels and walked off.

o0o

When he returned to the Thieves Guild he was so deep in his own thoughts about his parents and melancholy that he didn't notice at first that Vex was back, until Mercer very literally grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and dragged him to his desk.

“What are you-” Brynjolf started in surprise.

“We found the dunmer murderer,” Mercer blurted out. The redhead froze.

“Gulum-Ei told me it's Karliah that's been sabotaging us,” Vex said softly, though he already knew that and had intended to tell Mercer sooner or later, preferably after he'd sorted his wayward emotions out. Vex was frowning but continued regardless. “He said we'd find her at the beginning of the end.”

“Snowveil Sanctum,” Brynjolf murmured to himself.

“Exactly.” Mercer's lips twitched into a hungry smile and his fingers curled around the necklace he never took off. “Pack your bags Brynjolf, we're going after her tomorrow before she gets away again.”

He didn't know what to say, there were too many emotions flooding through him. At first he'd been thrilled to finally track down the person he'd wanted to kill for over two decades. But then everything, all the doubt he'd been feeling for the last couple of weeks, crashed into him. He felt torn, as if he wasn't sure what he was meant to think... then he remembered the look on Gallus' face when he'd died and his desire for vengeance overtook any other emotion.

o0o

The arrow flew so fast that he couldn't have hoped to even try and dodge it. It landed with a dull thud in Brynjolf's shoulder. He grunted and his vision became hazy. His muscles seized up and he collapsed to the ground moments later, unable to move and his eyes forced open.

A figure sauntered down the steps in the room with a bow in their hands. It was Karliah without a doubt, even with a hood up he knew it was her. He would have growled if he could have. Mercer stepped up to the dunmer, cocked his head and flexed his muscles. They were in Snowveil Sanctum, and evidently had just been ambushed.

“Do you honestly think your arrow will reach me before my blade finds your heart?” Mercer drawled, one of his blades poised to strike at a moments notice.

Karliah snarled at him. “Give me a reason to try.”

“You're a clever girl, Karliah,” he replied. “Bringing the guild down by driving a wedge between us and Maven like that.”

“To ensure an enemies defeat, you must first undermine his allies.” Brynjolf had heard that line before, but it hadn't come from Karliah. “Gallus taught us that.” That would be were he'd heard it the first time.

Mercer shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “You always were a quick study.”

“Not quick enough!” Karliah screamed. It didn't sound like her. In all the time Brynjolf had known her, she'd never raised her voice like that, growled or threatened perhaps, but never screamed... “Otherwise Gallus would still be alive.”

If the redhead could have frowned, he would have. That wasn't particularly what he'd expected to hear.

“Gallus had his wealth and he had you.” Mercer sneered at her and Brynjolf felt increasingly like he had absolutely no idea what the heck was going on. “All he had to do was look the other way.”

“Did you forget the oath we took as Nightingales?” Karliah growled, but she sheathed her bow now, obviously knowing she couldn't take on the breton in close combat. “Did you forget everything Gallus did for you, for the guild?”

“Enough of this!” Mercer swiped the air with his blade, taunting her. “It's time for you to join Gallus. At least this time I won't have to blackmail that useless bosmer.”

She pulled a potion from her armour and drank it in one swift movement, far too quickly for the breton to be able to stop her. She disappeared in an instant, the only proof that she was still in the room was her voice. “I'm no fool, Mercer. Crossing blades with you would be a death sentence.”

Even as she spoke Brynjolf heard her footsteps as she left. Mercer didn't pursue her at first, though even if he did he would have been attacking someone invisible, which would be in vain.

“Your greed has corrupted you more than you know, and the next time we meet it will be your undoing.”

Those were the last words Brynjolf heard of the elf. Mercer's eyes did try and follow her voice and pinpoint her, but after a few moments he seemed to give up and turned to the redhead. Brynjol tried with all his strength to get away, but the poison paralysing him was too strong and he could do nothing as the breton loomed over him.

“Funny how history repeats itself, though this time I'll get the job done properly,” Mercer murmured as he crouched down before Brynjolf, blade still in hand. “Does it surprise you?” The breton sneered at him and pressed the tip of his blade to Brynjolf's chest ever so lightly. “Karliah never performed the black sacrament, it was me.”

Mercer drove the blade hard into the redhead. It was excruciating, even with the paralysis but he couldn't scream, couldn't do anything. The breton sheathed his weapon and stood up, giving him one final look.

“Do you know your little pet bosmer actually hesitated in killing Gallus because of you?” Mercer laughed dryly and stepped away. “Stupid girl. Now, where's that diary...”

Brynjolf didn't see or hear anything else because he passed out moments later.

o0o

He felt like absolute crap the next time he woke up. His body ached, his head was throbbing awfully and his vision was still a bit off. Perhaps a bit stupidly, he tried to get up, but part of him was screaming to get to his feet because he had no idea how long he'd been passed out for or if he was vulnerable or safe.

“Easy,” someone chided and pushed him back down onto his back. He struggled against them and they snapped at him a little angrily. “Easy, damnit!”

Brynjolf's gaze eventually settled on Karliah and he jerked away from her. She gave him an exhausted, frustrated look but he merely pointed a finger at her accusingly. “What the fuck is going on?”

“By the God's, just stay still you fool!” He actually blinked and obeyed her. She was quite good at sounding bossy and he'd always been somewhat intimidated by her. “You'll rip your damn wounds open.”

He frowned. Now that he thought about it his chest was sore and he glanced down his body. He had a new large bandage around his chest and shoulders were his healing dragon wounds were and... were Mercer had stabbed him and Karliah shot him. He really needed to stop getting beat up all the time, it wasn't good for his continuing health. Vex would have a go at him if she found out.

A moments silence passed and then he mumbled to himself. “Mercer ordered Gallus' murder... Fuck.” He groaned loudly. “Fuck!”

“Indeed,” Karliah drawled but fixed him with a chastising look. “I'm a bit offended you actually believed Mercer. For the love of Nocturnal... did you really think I would kill Gallus?”

“I... God's, I don't know any more.” Brynjolf hung his head in defeat and perhaps a little bit of shame. Then he glanced up at her and narrowed his eyes. “You tried to kill me and Frederick in Snowveil Sanctum right after Gallus died.”

“No, I didn't. I've never set foot in that blasted place before now.” He realised then they were outside the crypt at what he presumed was her campsite.

“But an elf ambushed us-”

“Oh, because that really means it was me,” she replied sarcastically. When she put it that way it made him feel rather sheepish. Karliah always was rather good at that for some reason. It was true – she really did intimidate him. Gallus used to find it funny.

Brynjolf cursed and made an attempt to raise a hand to his forehead, before reasoning against it because it hurt too much. Karliah probably tended to his wounds as best she could, but she couldn't cast restoration magic and she might not have had the right reagents to make a potent enough healing potion – though she was a skilled alchemist.

Something occurred to him then and he shot Karliah a worried look. “Mercer mentioned a diary.”

“Yes... Gallus' diary. He gave it to me to keep it safe before he died.” She bit at her lip. “Mercer must have stolen it from my campsite while I was tending to you in the crypt.”

“Why is it so important?”

“I don't know, it was written in falmer text so I couldn't read it...” Karliah pinched her brow. “But I think it probably contained proof of Mercer's guilt.”

Brynjolf very slowly and carefully eased himself into a sitting position. “You mean aside from the fact he killed Gallus?”

“Yes, proof of why Mercer needed Gallus dead in the first place.” She sighed and a pained look passed over her features. “Gallus never told me the entirety of what was going on – stupid fool wanted to protect me.”

“I know how that feels,” Brynjolf murmured offhandedly but she continued on.

“We have to find him and that diary. Mercer wouldn't have wanted Gallus dead for a trivial reason.”

The redhead shook his head to dislodge his hair a little bit. It was starting to get matted and felt horribly dirty – he couldn't remember the last time he washed, it was... unpleasant. “Do you have any idea what to do?”

“Enthir,” she whispered carefully. “He's a scholar, a mage in Winterhold, and one of the few people Gallus trusted, especially outside the guild. He'd know how to translate the diary, Mercer has to have gone to him.”

“If Enthir knew how to translate the diary why didn't you just go see him in the first place?” Brynjolf challenged.

“Mercer convinced Enthir I was the one responsible for Gallus' death,” she told him and then scowled. “I almost died trying to see him two decades ago, he attacked me on sight. But he knew about you.” She gave him a pointed look. “He'll believe you.”

Brynjolf nodded as Karliah got to her feet and started to pack her belongings. “We'll need to steal some horses to travel faster,” she explained as he stood up (very carefully.) “Mercer stole mine, but we'd need two anyway, he's probably already got at least a day on us – maybe more.”

“Aye.”

Her possessions packed, she started walking and he fell into step beside her. He was a bit stiff, but he was managing. After a few moments he gave her an accusing look. “You shot me.”

“My arrow was tipped with a paralytic poison. I'd intended to use it on Mercer, but it actually kept you alive and stopped you bleeding out until I could help you.” She glowered ever so slightly at him for his ungratefulness. “You're welcome, by the way.”

“Oh, just admit it lass,” he chided with a chuckle. “You've wanted to hit me for years.”

“True.” She grinned at him. “Sometimes beating you is the only way to get any sense into that thick skull of yours.”

Chapter Text

It took them a long time to find any horses they could feasibly steal, which put them another two days behind Mercer at least. Then a snowstorm hit which set them back even further – and it was all they could do to stagger exhausted into Winterhold and very near collapse in the inn. The travelling had not been good for Brynjolf's injuries, and without any healing potions available he was doubled over in agony and dizziness by the time they got indoors. He suspected his wounds had gotten infected, that it was spreading throughout his body and he was becoming septic.

Karliah tried to support him the best she could, but he was a nord and built like a house, so there was only so much she could really do as a dunmer. But the innkeeper was quite friendly and helped her help him downstairs and into the basement of the inn. He didn't even ask any questions and left as soon as Enthir noticed them. Which turned out to be a particularly tense encounter, so it was probably good the innkeeper left.

“Karliah,” the bosmer mage growled. “You murderer! You dare come back here after-”

“Stop – not now!” Her voice was so authoritative that Enthir hesitated. She jerked her head at the redhead who was starting to feel his eyelids droop. “Brynjolf needs your help.”

“Brynjolf?” Enthir queried, as if testing his name on his tongue instead of actually doing anything helpful. “Is this some sort of trick?”

“Do you really think I'd go to the effort of kidnapping, wounding and dying a nord's hair such a ridiculous shade of red just to see you?” Karliah snapped at him and stumbled a little bit trying to support the nord. “Just heal him and make him talk if you want more proof – I'm sure Gallus mentioned to you his stupid accent.”

“Ey,” Brynjolf protested weakly. “It's nay... ugh.”

He fell to his knees but, thankfully, the bosmer walked over to him, placed his hands firmly on his chest and let a rather powerful blast of magic surge through his body. It was blissful, a million times stronger than anything Frederick had ever cast (though in the blond's defence he was a thief first and only dabbled lightly in magic.) It healed him almost good as new and a state of relief and clarity came over Brynjolf. He glanced up at Enthir, who looked quite exhausted – he'd probably wasted his entire reserve of magicka on him, not that he was complaining.

“You're lucky Mercer was acting like such a maniac when he came in here, otherwise I wouldn't believe you at all,” the bosmer muttered.

“So he did come here?” Karliah asked as the redhead got to his feet, he could actually stand on his own now without feeling like he was going to pass out.

“Yes.” Enthir narrowed his eyes. “What's going on?”

“Mercer was the one that killed Gallus,” Brynjolf explained. His voice was a bit raspy when he spoke.

“No... you're lying.” There was doubt in the bosmer's expression, as if he didn't want to believe it. Brynjolf didn't blame it, he didn't want to believe it sometimes.

“Did you see a figurine dangling from his necklace?” Karliah questioned. Enthir nodded slowly. “Do you remember the small falmer artefact Gallus found in Irkngthand that went missing?”

“He couldn't have, not from the vault-” Enthir started.

“He did.”

“Eh, the nord is confused,” Brynjolf interjected flatly.

Karliah gave him an empathetic look. “I'll tell you later.”

Enthir groaned loudly and hung his head. “I sent Mercer to Markarth to get the diary translated, he left days ago. He was planning something... but I don't know what.”

The dunmer nodded slowly. “There's no point chasing him there... he'll be done and on his way back to Riften by now. We have to get back there right away.”

“You can't leave in this snowstorm,” Enthir pointed out. Karliah cursed softly. “Stay the night at the inn and leave tomorrow morning. Besides,” the bosmers eyes landed on Brynjolf, “I think you could still do with some rest.”

Brynjolf quite agreed with him. He was exhausted, and not just from being wounded so badly. They'd travelled almost non-stop to Winterhold and he felt like he hadn't slept in days, which was quite accurate.

o0o

The hot bath was absolute bliss on his tired, aching body. He really couldn't remember ever feeling so good in his life before, and that was saying something. Brynjolf sunk into the hot water with a deep sigh until the water came up to his neck. The bath was too short of course, you think innkeepers in Skyrim would figure out that adult nords didn't fit into average sized tubs by now.

But he could live with it.

The warmth was helping undo the tension in his body. Undoubtedly due to the fact he was getting old, his muscles didn't loosen as well as they used to and sometimes he felt like he could die for a massage. He was still well built though, but perhaps not as some beefy battering rams of nords that existed in Skyrim. He was lither and leaner, but his shoulders were still broad and his chest and arms thick with corded muscle.

Brynjolf's eyes fluttered open and he trailed a hand over his chest. Even with Enthir's magic he couldn't stop him scarring. The redhead had three long scars across him from the dragon's claws, one clean pinpoint scar where Mercer had stabbed him and a similar one on his shoulder from Karliah's arrow. Still, it wasn't like he had other ones marring the rest of his body – these were just the worst ones he'd ever had and the most in such a short period of time.

The redhead yawned a little and sunk further down into the water. It was blissful to finally be able to wash off the accumulated filth, blood and sweat from his body.

o0o

He stumbled downstairs after a while because the bath got cold and he was getting hungry. He'd pulled on some clothes and plaited his hair so it hung over his shoulder. Brynjolf plomped into a chair at the table Karliah was sitting at. Enthir wasn't with her he noted, but the dunmer pushed a plate of food towards him and he shot her a grateful look and dug in.

The food disappeared fast and he burped. Karliah didn't look impressed and he grinned at her momentarily. When one of the waitresses came over to take their finished plates away he only glanced up at the woman briefly. She was quite a pretty nord and she smiled coyly but failed to elicit any kind of response from him. Perhaps she was a bit offended because she huffed and took away their plates without a word. Karliah raised an eyebrow at him in a most peculiar fashion.

“You're in love,” she stated flatly.

Brynjolf bristled and looked away as he scratched at his chin somewhat awkwardly. His stubble was getting a bit long he decided while ignoring the dunmer.

“Do you think I'm stupid?” Karliah prompted again. “It's etched into your face like writing.”

The redhead groaned and reluctantly looked at her a little helplessly. “Phaeril came back.” When her features became confused he clarified. “Phaeril is Lucille's actual name.”

Karliah tensed and a scowl took over her features. He didn't blame her given who Phaeril had killed.

“You would have seen those raking wounds on my chest when you tended to me after Mercer tried to kill me,” Brynjolf said softly.

“What did give you those wounds anyway?” Karliah interrupted.

“Dragon.”

“Ah.”

“She stopped to help me when I got those wounds,” he continued with a frown. “She didn't have to, if she had any sense she wouldn't have... but she did.”

Karliah cursed softly and hung her head, then eventually looked up at him. “You heard in Snowveil just as much as I that Mercer blackmailed her.”

“Does that excuse her actions or every other person she's willingly killed?” Brynjolf countered and she shrugged helplessly.

“I don't know, but I think you both owe it to each other to at least give her a chance to tell you the truth.” She gave him a meaningful look. “And if Mercer manipulated her it should only give you another reason to want to gut him.”

Brynjolf bit at his lip and there was a moments pause before he replied softly. “How did you get by all these years?”

“It wasn't easy.” Karliah's brow creased. “Never sleeping in the same place twice, wondering if every person I talked to was a contact of Mercer's...”

“All while grieving your lover's death.”

She scowled. “I'll grieve Gallus when Mercer's dead.”

“Karliah...” he chided gently. Her features softened a little but she refused to continue the conversation.

“I promised I'd tell you about that artefact on Mercer's necklace.” Brynjolf nodded and leant forward as her voice lowered a bit. “You should remember Irkngthand, that ruin Mercer and Gallus were trying to infiltrate?”

“From memory they couldn't get past a door to the final chamber,” he mused softly.

“It wasn't really a door, it had no keyhole. It was a puzzle, written in falmer.” Brynjolf's brow knitted together at what she said. Gallus should have been able to read the falmer text. “Eventually they gave up and came back to Riften. Gallus brought a little figurine back with him and stored it in the vault, only Mercer, Enthir and I knew, but he wouldn't tell us where he got it.”

“Do you think he figured out the puzzle on his own?” the redhead mused.

“Maybe.” Karliah's eyes narrowed. “The figurine went missing not long after and when it did... Mercer started pushing Gallus more and more about Irkngthand.”

“He couldn't have stolen it from the vault, you need two keys to open it.” At the time, Stig, Mercer and Gallus had the three keys of which any two could open the vault together. Brynjolf knew Stig would never betray Gallus' trust and he wasn't stupid enough to let Mercer pickpocket the key off him. These days it was Mercer, himself and Delvin that had the three keys.

“That's the whole point, and I know now it was Mercer who took it – I saw it on his neck in Snowveil Sanctum.” Karliah raised her hands to the back of her head and tangled her fingers in her dark hair in frustration. “After the figurine went missing Gallus became distant... he stopped telling me things and confiding in me.”

“He was probably trying to protect you,” Brynjolf offered weakly. Karliah nodded but she still seemed frustrated.

“I know that's exactly what he was doing. He did the same thing with you, there's so much he didn't tell you-”

“I know about my parents and the Nightingales,” he interrupted. When her eyes widened in surprise he sighed softly and continued. “I noticed the symbol on your letters to Sabjorn and Aringoth was the same as the one on my pa's daggers, and I forced the information out of Stig.”

Karliah laughed lightly. “Poor sod always hated lying to you, figured he'd crumble the moment you asked him about your parents.”

“Why did no one tell me?” He maybe sounded a little bit offended, but he felt like he had the right to be.

“Gallus thought it was better that way.” Karliah's lips pulled into a tiny empathetic smile and he realised he couldn't be angry at her. Annoyed at Gallus maybe, but not her or Stig. “I think because both your parents died suspiciously... he thought it was too dangerous. He would have told you eventually, probably even recruited you into the Nightingales if space became available.”

“Space?” he prompted.

“The Nightingales exist in a trinity, there can only be three. It was your parents and Gallus for a while, I know your father inducted Gallus.” Karliah paused for a moment in thought. “Mercer was inducted after your mother died, and I after your father.”

“I'd like you to tell me more about it later,” Brynjolf requested. She nodded, at least she was more open than Gallus was – though she seemed a bit hesitant. The redhead sat up a little straighter as he changed the subject to something more relevant at this particular moment in time. “We should plan what we're going to do when we return to Riften.”

“Everybody in the guild probably thinks you're dead,” Karliah replied and tapped her fingers on the table. “You need to get in contact with someone you can trust implicitly and would never tip off Mercer.”

“Frederick.” He just hoped the blond wouldn't hold their arguing against him. In truth he should probably apologise to his friend, Frederick had kind of been right all along all things considered.

“Huh. He's still around?” Karliah mused but then shook her head and returned to the conversation at hand. “Get in contact with him and find out what you can about Mercer's plans.”

Brynjolf nodded and then gestured to her. “Mercer has a house in Riften, go there and see if there's anything incriminating to be found.” The redhead chewed on his lip a bit. “The guild needs to know the truth, but Mercer could have told them anything. We need proof, only Stig and Frederick will believe my word over Mercer's without any.”

Karliah nodded, but he interrupted her before she could reply. “Stig's got a place on Lake Honrich now, we can meet up there.”

“Sounds good.” Karliah's features became a little pained then. “You should try and find Phaeril as well... Mercer might try and get rid of her because she's the only other person apart from us who knows he's guilty. And he thinks your dead and I wouldn't dare return to the guild.”

“She's the last tie to cut.” Brynjolf groaned and pressed his forehead into his palms. “Shit.”

o0o

“Hello, girl.”

She struggled to get away from him but there wasn't anywhere to hide in the room. He hadn't chained her, mostly because he knew there would be no point, she'd just escape from them. Mercer grinned and knelt in front of Phaeril, her body becoming rigid and defensive.

“Look what I found,” he drawled and held up a leather bound book in his hands. A diary, she knew exactly who's. He shoved it aside. “Means that I don't need you any more.”

A sneer took over his features as he grabbed one of her arms roughly. She gasped a little as it yanked her shoulder out of it's joint.

“I'll be sure to give Astrid your regards, after all, she's waited twenty five years for you to die.”

Phaeril glowered back at him despite everything, and her determination only faltered at the next words to leave his lips.

“Say hello to Brynjolf for me in the land of the dead.”

Chapter Text

“Brynjolf?!” He hadn't even been in the city two minutes before Frederick bumped into him – though it was probably a coincidence, the blond had been walking out of the temple and he'd been walking towards the graveyard. “What in the...”

The blond grabbed him and gave him a rough hug. Brynjolf patted him a little on the back until they parted and Frederick frowned at him. Then he slapped him hard across the cheek and the redhead glared at him.

“I thought you were dead!” Frederick shouted.

“And that gives you the right to hit me?” Brynjolf retorted.

“Mercer came back saying Karliah killed you,” Frederick said with a hint of annoyance or frustration. He looked a bit off, his skin was tinged yellow and his eyes were bloodshot, which made Brynjolf wonder why he'd been in the temple in the first place. But he didn't have time to harass him about his health right now. “Then he took Phaeril and locked her in his private quarters.”

Brynjolf paled a little. God's only knew what Mercer might have done to her... he needed to get to her right away, only he and Mercer had the key to his private quarters – which had previously been Gallus' private quarters and still had the same trapped lock against lockpicking. He grabbed Frederick by the shoulders and gave him a hard look.

“I need you to do something for me because you're the only damn person in the guild who'll believe what I'm about to tell you.”

Frederick cocked his head at him. “What's that?”

“Mercer performed the black sacrament for Gallus' contract, not Karliah.”

The blond gaped at him momentarily, but then a look of almost triumph came over him. “I told you something didn't-”

“Can you please gloat at me later?” Brynjolf snapped angrily. Frederick glowered at him but dropped the subject for the time being. “Is Mercer around?”

“I don't think so, I didn't see him this morning.” Frederick narrowed his eyes at him. “What do you need me to do?”

“Clear everybody out of the cistern, I don't care what you tell them – just don't let them know I'm alive just yet.” A crease formed on his forehead as he thought of Phaeril. “Then come find me in Mercer's private quarters, and bring as many magicka potions with you as you can.”

“You don't think he's tried to-”

“Yes, I do.” It came as barely more than a growl from Brynjolf's lips. So help him, if she was dead, he would skin the worthless breton alive.

o0o

He could never have prepared himself for the sight he saw when he opened the door to Mercer's private quarters. It twisted at his heart and ripped a snarl from his throat so deep that he didn't recognise his own voice. He would flay Mercer alive the moment he got his hands on him for this, so help him he didn't care what Phaeril might have done – he would not let her get treated like this without repercussions.

The elf was lying in a heap on the floor, her arm at an unnatural angle and her body bruised, beaten and bleeding. Her eyes were shut and as he rushed to her side he saw that her clothes were ripped and ruined, her skin covered in wounds and scratches and her hair matted with blood. Brynjolf collapsed to his knees beside her and reached a hand out, trailing it over her dirty cheek. As he did so her eyes snapped open and she took a sharp breath, before her body contorted in pain and she groaned.

“I need to push your shoulder back in before I can move you,” he explained softly. He didn't know if she understood him or not, and the cry that left her lips when he forced her arm back into a more natural position made him wince.

Frederick would be coming soon he knew. But she couldn't stay here either, and she was in no state to walk herself. Brynjolf moved to pick her up until her hand locked onto his arm and he hesitated. She was staring up at him with wide eyes. Even if they were black he could see the emotion in them easily in that moment. It was fear and even in her broken state she had enough strength to gasp a sentence at him.

“Who are you?”

Maybe she was delusional, or... maybe Mercer had told her he was dead, or both.

“It's me,” he whispered and bent down, cupped her cheeks with his large hands and gazed at her up close. She seemed to take in the blue-green of his eyes and the red of his hair, then her features contorted in confusion.

“You're dead,” she whispered.

“Well, Mercer's been quite the liar lately then, hasn't he?”

She looked like she could cry and as he pulled her into his arms, a tear did roll down her cheek. He carried her out of the room and as he did Frederick appeared again. The blond's eyes widened in horror but then he threw his hands forward and a flash of warm orange light flowed into the elf's body. It didn't make any obvious change, she was still barely conscious, but he trusted that Frederick knew what he was doing.

“I'm taking her to Stig's house for the time being,” Brynjolf told him. He didn't trust to take her to the temple, not when he didn't know how far Mercer had stretched his twisted influence within Riften. Frederick nodded and followed him.

o0o

After a quick explanation to Stig when they arrived at his home, he readily agreed to shelter them. In fact, at first he announced he was going to walk straight back to the cistern, grab a rolling pin and beat Mercer to death, before Frederick hastily explained that would probably not help the situation. Not in the least to mention that Mercer might not even be there. Frederick healed Phaeril as best he could, but she lost consciousness after a while. Still, as she laid on a bedroll in Stig's house by the fire she seemed a great deal more peaceful than when Brynjolf had found her.

She would be ok, he knew that, but Mercer would pay dearly when he found him.

After a few hours someone knocked on the door of the house and Karliah joined them. She was hesitant at first, until Stig pulled her into a gigantic bear hug, practically sobbed into her shoulder and apologised profusely for thinking she'd been the one responsible for Gallus' death. After Stig had recovered his composure, they sat down at a table in his dining room and, as they ate (Brynjolf was starving) discussed their next plan of action.

Karliah spread out what looked like a plan recovered from Mercer's home across the table and several sheets of paper with notes written on them. She had Gallus' diary as well and the pieces of paper were Mercer's translation of the falmer text. It looked as if he'd translated the entire diary, as if he wasn't sure which parts of it he needed.

“It looks like Gallus did find a way past the puzzle door in Irkngthand and he wrote down how he did it,” Karliah mused as she dragged a finger along what she was reading. “He found that figurine Mercer stole in the final chamber, it was a miniature version of a gigantic one that filled the entire room.”

“Mercer mentioned Irkngthand was massive, that statue would be tens of metres high,” Stig mused and scratched at his chin as he poked food around his plate with his fork in his other hand.

“The figurine was of an ancient falmer before they became twisted underground, it had gemstones for eyes.” Karliah frowned but Brynjolf interrupted her as something occurred to him, and it made him excited.

“If the diary is true and the size of the statue correct, the gems in the real statue could put the guild back on it's feet again.”

“I know, but Gallus didn't want to disturb the statue,” Karliah continued as she read more of the translation. “It was the only known representation of the snow elves as they used to be, he couldn't bring himself to defile it.”

Frederick sighed and clasped his hands together. He'd barely eaten anything, Brynjolf noted with a frown. “Mercer's going after the statue, isn't he?”

“That's what it looks like from these plans,” Stig confirmed and pointed at a drawing on the large blue-print like piece of paper Karliah had found. “He'll be set up for life if he gets those gems.”

“Judging by this diary, it looks like Mercer didn't believe Gallus when he told him he couldn't find a way through the puzzle door.” Karliah scowled but continued regardless. “After the figurine went missing from the vault Mercer started pressing Gallus about the puzzle door in Irkngthand, so Gallus started to get suspicious.”

Brynjolf grabbed a loose sheet of the translation and skimmed his eyes over it. “It says here that Gallus uncovered Mercer was leading a 'self-indulgent and luxurious lifestyle at the expense of the guild.'” The redhead growled a little in anger as he continued. “He fudged numbers on jobs and took an unreasonable cut of the money for himself... Gallus even thought he'd been stealing from the vault itself.”

“The vault can't be opened without two locks,” Frederick pointed out.

“Mercer obviously managed to get it open somehow or he wouldn't have been able to get the figurine,” Brynjolf countered. The blond frowned, but what he said was true.

“Gallus thought he'd stolen the Skeleton Key,” Karliah whispered as she read another passage of the translation.

“What's that?” both Frederick and Brynjolf said together.

“It's a relic of Nocturnal,” she continued softly. “It can pick any lock without fail, but if he stole it... he betrayed every oath he took as a Nightingale.”

“Nightingale?” Frederick interrupted.

Brynjolf gave him an empathetic look. “I think you have some catching up to do.”

Karliah gave him the quick version of things before dragging the conversation back to the Skeleton Key. “If he stole the key it would explain why the guild's had such a rough time over the years.”

Brynjolf groaned a little. “Delvin is going to give me so much shit if you're about to tell me we are cursed.”

“Well... he's more or less right.” Karliah smiled a little ruefully, evidently she still enjoyed seeing the redhead squirm. Evil woman. “With the Skeleton Key stolen from Nocturnal, all the luck in everything you do would be gone... it has to be returned.”

The redhead hung his head. Now he had two people to apologise to. Both Frederick and Delvin.

“With the information from Gallus' diary Mercer will be able to get to that statue in Irkngthand,” Brynjolf murmured eventually. “That's probably why he wanted him dead in the first place... and to get him off his tail.”

“If he gets his wretched hands on those gems he'll go to ground for good and we won't ever find him,” Karliah growled.

“I think we should go to the guild first thing in the morning and tell them what's happened,” Frederick interrupted. “That way if Mercer comes back they'll be waiting for him.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Brynjolf pushed his plate and cutlery away now that he was finished. “I want to take a look in the vault as well, if Mercer's still been stealing from us all these years...”

Stig cracked his knuckles. “I really want to wring his neck.”

“You're not the only one,” Karliah muttered bitterly. “But once they know what's going on I need two of you to come with me to the standing stone just outside the city before we go after Mercer.” She gestured towards the men at the table. Frederick and Brynjolf exchanged confused looks, but Stig shook his head defiantly.

“Oh no, elf, you're not dragging me into your crazy.” He crossed his arms across his chest. “Both Gallus and Bryn's daddy tried to do that before, and it's not going to work this time either.”

Karliah rolled her eyes at him but turned to the somewhat younger nords instead. “If Mercer has the Skeleton Key his skill and prowess will be unstoppable.” A worried look came over her, as if she wasn't sure they would agree with her. “The Nightingale Trinity needs to be restored and you won't be even able to hope to take Mercer on without Nocturnal's blessing.”

Frederick glanced at the redhead with a frown. “Are you sure about this?”

“Not even a little bit,” Brynjolf replied rather bluntly. “Though I don't particularly see how there's any choice in the matter.”

Karliah smiled faintly. If he admitted it to himself, deep down, he kind of liked the idea she was proposing... as if it would bring him closer to the parents he barely knew and longed for.

o0o

It was late in the night but he couldn't sleep. Instead, he sat at Phaeril's side as she slept, watching the rise and fall of her chest with a frown on his features and far too many thoughts dancing around his head. Someone joined him after a while and he glanced up to see Stig's hand on his shoulder. The older nord man sat down next to him and smiled gently at him.

“You're not helping her by refusing to sleep,” he pointed out surprisingly kindly.

Brynjolf scowled and glanced away. Stig rolled his eyes and stretched back against a wall in the room. “Kind of ironic that you've fallen for an elf,” he mused to himself.

The redhead glanced up at him. “Why?”

“Because you're a bleeding nord you fool, or did you forget that while you were daydreaming about screwing her in a forest against a tree with a troop of animals watching you?” Stig pointed out a little too rudely and sarcastically for his liking. “Though I guess it would be worse if she was a high elf.”

“She's not like the Thalmor,” he countered with a glare.

“That's not what the Stormcloak's in Riften are going to think if they see you walking around the streets with her on your arm.”

He was right. The Rift wasn't a good place for Phaeril to be at the moment given her race. The only place that could be any worse would be Windhelm. War was brewing between the Empire and the Stormcloak's and with every day things became more tense. If the country descended into complete civil war the Stormcloak guards in Riften would probably murder her and any other bosmer or altmer, like Niruin, on site simply out of principle.

“Besides, how do you even get any grip?” Stig made some weird motions with his hands that caused Brynjolf to raise an eyebrow. “Elf's are so squishy and fragile.”

“I can't believe I'm talking to you about this,” the redhead drawled. “I feel like I'm being interrogated by my pa about my sex life, it's...” He cringed and looked away with a shudder. “Really disturbing.”

“I'm just saying, you'd find it a lot easier with another human-”

“Out!” Brynjolf shoved him away and Stig got to his feet.

“Hmph.” He glowered at him. “Shoving a man out of a room in his own house, just because you won't admit you've got a bleeding elf fet-”

“Out, damn you!”

Stig scurried away and Brynjolf cursed loudly. Sometimes he really needed to find new friends.

Chapter Text

“Real shame that old man kicked the bucket, eh?” Vipir mused.

Niruin nodded solemnly. The elf was sitting at a table in the flagon with Vipir, Brynjolf noted as he hid behind a corner. He wasn't going to approach his guildmembers just yet, he was waiting for Frederick to give him the all clear that Mercer wasn't around first. Karliah was beside him with the translation of Gallus' diary and Mercer's plans. Stig was looking after Phaeril in his house still.

“I mean, there's so much stuff I wanted to ask him,” Vipir continued with a sigh.

“Such as?” Niruin prompted.

“Like... how did he make it work with that elf girl?” Vipir made some bizarre gestures with his hands. “How did he make it, you know, fit?”

Niruin's brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”

“He screwed her, didn't he?”

“Oh. Yeah. Uh,” Niruin bit at his lip a bit, “I don't know... female bosmer are pretty, um, tight.”

“Exactly my point!” Vipir gave the other man a most serious and thoughtful expression. “So how did he make it fit?”

“Hmm.” Niruin rubbed his chin for a few seconds. “How big do you reckon Brynjolf is when he's, you know, interested?”

“I saw him bathing once, he's more or less average for a nord,” Vipir said and the looked over an array of different sized mead bottles on the counter. He grabbed one and looked over it thoughtfully. “I think he'd probably be this big?”

“Right.” Niruin raised his hands and made a circle with them. “From all the bosmer girls I slept with before coming to Skyrim...” He settled on a small circle. “She can't be much bigger than this.”

Vipir pushed the bottle forward, trying to make it fit in the space in Niruin's hands. It didn't work and his features scrunched up in confusion. “See? There's no way he could have banged her, his bits wouldn't even fit in her.”

Niruin tapped his knuckles on the table in thought. “Maybe he just used his fingers? He's pretty nimble with them.”

“What? You think he treated her like a lock?” Vipir frowned. “Tried to pick her or something?”

“Dunno.” Niruin's eyes widened. “Wait, you don't think he used his lockpicks on her?” He gulped a little bit. Brynjolf swore he'd need to beat some sense into the both of them. “Would Brynjolf do that? Seems a bit... You know...”

“She's an assassin,” Vipir pointed out with a shrug. “Maybe she gets off on that kind of stuff.”

“For the love of...” Brynjolf groaned to himself. “I leave those fools alone for a few days and this is what they talk about.”

“How did you make it work?” Karliah mused with a shrug.

“Really?” The redhead glared at her. “You too?”

She smirked at him and tried to give him an innocent look. It was completely pathetic and he rolled his eyes. Then Frederick gestured to him and he knew the coast was clear and walked into the flagon. Karliah stayed behind for the time being just in case.

“B-Brynjolf!” Niruin squealed as he approached.

“You're alive?!” Vipir added in an equally highpitched voice. “We were just, er, talking about you?”

“Aye,” he hissed at them, crossing his arms over his chest and fixing them with his most intimidating look. “I heard every word. I'm still in disbelief that's the first thing you talk about when you think I'm dead.”

“You can't blame us!” Niruin piped up defensively.

“I mean, everyone in the guild's been wondering the same thing!”

“Did nobody care that I was presumed dead?” Brynjolf he asked through gritted teeth.

“Vex did,” Niruin replied with a cringe. “Just a little bit. Mostly she just raged about how she wanted to kill you for getting killed in the first place.”

Brynjolf took a deep breath to stop himself getting more angry, then fixed them with a hard look. “Go gather up everyone else in the guild.”

They obeyed, if only because they were probably so terrified he might smack them if they didn't.

o0o

Vex's hand slapped Brynjolf across the cheek so swiftly and with such accuracy he actually gaped at her for a few seconds before he realised what had happened. Then she slapped him again.

“You bastard!” she shouted and hit him a third time. “I thought you were dead. I should beat you to death to rectify it!”

“You pretty much are,” he pointed out a little bitterly.

The look she gave him was full of so much rage that she actually punched him in the nose and made him stagger.

“By the Eight!” he yelled at her as he felt blood dripping down his face. Brynjolf fixed his broken nose with a sickening crack (it was hardly the first time it'd happened) and then glared at her. He could taste the metallic tang of blood on his lips. “Is nobody actually happy to see me?”

“I am!” Rune piped up with a broad grin and handed him a piece of cloth for his nose.

“Thank you. I'm standing with you then.” Brynjolf took a step towards him, grabbed the cloth and stuffed it against his face to mop up the blood.

“Oh, no you don't!” Vex sauntered back towards him and raised her fist again. “I am not finished with you, you worthless excuse of a thief!”

He caught her fist in his palm as she lunged at him again. Brynjolf fixed her with a hard stare. “If you want to get angry at someone then direct it towards Mercer.”

Vex blinked at him and her body relaxed. “What?”

Brynjolf gestured towards the place were he knew Karliah was hiding to signal for her to join them. They had a lot of explaining to do. And hopefully if Vex decided she was still pissed afterwards she'd save it for Mercer's worthless hide instead of attacking him again, he wasn't sure his handsome face could handle any more beating.

o0o

For some reason his nose seemed to be refusing to stop bleeding. It was only starting to slow down now that he was leaning in a chair in the flagon and with his head tilted as far back as physically possible. He probably looked quite ridiculous and not particularly in any position of authority.

“What did you do to me?” Brynjolf mumbled as he pinched his nose.

“Told you she's got fists of steel,” Vipir replied casually.

“Yeah, just like her crotch,” Delvin muttered. Poor fool was standing behind Vex and she elbowed him so hard in the stomach he actually whined a little bit.

“Would you all please stop trying to beat each other to a pulp?” Karliah snapped and everyone's eyes jerked to her They'd opened the vault, found it essentially empty, and given the other guildmembers the proof they needed of Mercer's guilt.

“Brynjolf, Frederick and I are going after Mercer,” she explained as she pinched her brow. “But if he comes back here-”

“I'll gut him,” Vex growled and reached for one of her blades.

“I'm just going to point out that this is the reason every man in Riften is shit scared of you,” Cynric stated rather bluntly.

“Don't give me a-”

“Enough!” Karliah interrupted forcefully. Then she fixed a disapproving look on the redhead who's nose had finally stopped bleeding. “Is this what's happened since I left? The entire guild's descended into a madhouse!”

“It's always been a madhouse,” Frederick mumbled more or less to himself. Brynjolf could only shrug at her.

o0o

This uniform was far, far too tight. Maybe it just wasn't designed for nords, or maybe it was designed for some ungodly reason to be uncomfortable, but whatever the reason he couldn't remember ever being so... restricted... before in his life. The Nightingale armour hugged to his body like a second skin, which felt bizarre because he wasn't used to it. It outlined every muscle and other bulgy parts of his body. Particularly his nether regions, which he wasn't entirely sure he was happy about, and he swore he felt as if his biceps were going to burst the fabric sooner or later.

Maybe it just needed a bit of stretching to make it more supple or something. Still, when they walked back to Stig's house Brynjolf still felt uncomfortable and awkward. They'd pledged themselves to Nocturnal (who'd found it most amusing that the son of two of her previous Nightingale's was giving himself now as well) and there'd been various vows and such. He probably hadn't thought this entirely through in hindsight because one of them meant pledging himself to Nocturnal's service in life and death. Still, it felt... right somehow, given it was what his parents had done.

But Mercer was more or less occupying the entirety of his thoughts at the moment, he'd worry about what he'd agreed to later. And anyway, it was necessary if they wanted to take down Mercer.

Stig raised an eyebrow at him when they trudged into his home. “What on Tamriel are you wearing?”

“I wish I knew,” Brynjolf replied and reached for his cowl. He tugged it off and shook his hair out. “How's Phaeril?”

“She's awake now and doing better.”

He nodded and let a small sigh of relief escape him. Then he almost tripped over his own damn legs because of the uniform and swore. “Would you excuse me while I change out of this ridiculous armour?”

He didn't even wait for Stig's response and stalked out of the room. He'd packed his original (and much more comfortable armour) in a bag when he'd put the uniform on in the Nightingale Hall and took it with him. Brynjolf found an appropriately empty room in the house and yanked off the uniform. It peeled off his skin and he very nearly fell over trying to get the leggings off.

He'd just finished tugging on his normal leather breeches when he heard someone else enter the room and stiffened a little. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed it was Phaeril. Her gaze flickered to his lean chest and biceps, but he didn't even notice because she was wearing armour of her own, though it was probably a set she'd borrowed from Stig or he'd bought in the marketplace for her earlier that day. Either way it didn't fit her properly.

“I hope you're not intending on coming with us,” Brynjolf said bluntly.

She folded her arms across her chest and narrowed her eyes at him. “I want to slit Mercer's neck just as much as you do.”

“You're not coming.” He shook his head. “You couldn't even stand yesterday.”

“I have potions and Frederick can heal me,” she retorted.

He took one large step towards her, reached out and pressed a hand against her shoulder. She hissed in pain from the pressure and jerked away. “You would only slow us down.”

She glowered at him. “I can ride faster than you even when I'm injured.”

“You'll just end up being an liability,” he growled and loomed over her. She was hardly intimidated, for such a short elf she was surprisingly confident.

“Your clairvoyance is astounding.”

“Are you always this stupid, or is it just when you're bloodthirsty?” he drawled sarcastically. She shot him a vile look and shoved him in the chest, not that she managed to even stagger him a little bit.

“I can take care of myself,” she retorted hotly.

He pushed her against the wall, both his hands firmly holding her back as she winced in pain. “You were as good as dead after Mercer was done with you,” he spat, his eyes boring into her own even as she tried to look defiant. “I thought you were dead.”

“And I thought the same of you,” she replied bitterly. He hesitated and pulled back ever so slightly. Phaeril sighed deeply then gave him a steady look. “If I come with you Frederick can heal me better than any healing potion by itself.”

“Or you could just go to the temple,” he pointed out.

“Or I could just slit your throat now and be done with the arguing!” she shouted at him. He gaped at her and she scowled at the floor, before eventually dragging her gaze back to his. When she looked at him this time he read regret and vengeance in her black eyes. “I need to be there when Mercer dies, you of all people should understand that.”

“Why?” he growled and his eyes flashed with emotions he'd rather like to think he'd controlled, but obviously hadn't. “Trying to make up for the fact you weren't strong enough to stand up to him when he blackmailed you two decades ago?”

Her lips parted in disbelief, and then understanding finally dawned on her and her features became murderous.

“I didn't have a choice!” she shrieked at him, her body becoming so rigid and hostile he wondered if he should be concerned that she might have various pointy objects concealed in her armour.

“There is always a choice, you were just too weak to see it!” He grabbed her by the front of her armour and she bit back a gasp of pain, her toes barely touching the floor as he lifted her off the ground with his own brute strength. “Only people who wallow in their own self pity and victimise themselves become twisted assassin's like you.”

“I could say the same about thieves,” she spat, her eyes glaring daggers into him even as he loomed over her.

He snarled at her and ducked his head closer until his forehead almost touched hers. “I am nothing like you.”

“How would you know?” He could feel her breath on his lips when she spoke. “You don't know the first thing about me.”

“You're right,” he conceded a little softer. Then he scowled and his voice filled with rage once more. “And yet for some unfathomable reason I actually gave a damn when I thought Mercer had killed you.”

She hesitated as he caught her offguard, her lips parting slightly but no words escaping them as she stared at him. A bitter laugh resonated deep in his throat and he shook his head ever so slightly in disbelief at his own wayward emotions.

“Tell me you've laid a curse on me,” he started in little more than a whisper and his green eyes became pleading, begging. “Because I can nay understand why else I've never stopped thinking about the person who took what was like a brother from me.”

She tried to look away but he grabbed her chin in his hand and forced her gaze back to his. Her brow creased and he could feel her body become rigid under him as his breath brushed over her lips when he spoke. “Don't try and tell me you don't feel it too, I know you cared when you thought I was dead.”

She didn't say a thing, her eyes only staring into his and betraying such little emotion he didn't even know any more if he'd read her reaction to his presumed death for what it really was. It didn't even happen on purpose, but his head was tilting and his lips touching fleetingly against hers in a whisper of a kiss before he realised he was doing it. But his hold on her must have relaxed, because she slipped way from him, wrapped her arms around her body and refused to look at him when she spoke.

“I'm coming with you when you go after Mercer.” It wasn't even a question.

Brynjolf let out a deep sigh and raked a hand through his red hair, he was choosing to ignore the fact he had at least one grey hair these days. But try as he might he knew there was really no point trying to convince her, stupid elf was stubborn as a mule, and he was done arguing for the night.

Eventually he rolled his eyes and muttered grumpily, “fine.”

Chapter Text

They set out for Irkngthand the next morning in more or less silence. Brynjolf tried to ease things over with Phaeril after their argument, but every time he tried to talk to her it ended in awkward politeness from the both of them which achieved very little other than making them feel incredibly uncomfortable. So after that he gave up and brooded in his own thoughts for the journey.

Phaeril as right though. She could ride faster than him even while wounded, though her health was doing much better now that Frederick had been healing her. Brynjolf highly suspected though that the majority of her skill at riding was due to the fact her horse was unnaturally fast and definitely did not come from Skyrim. Which, as far as he was concerned, was cheating. And either way, he preferred his sturdy (stolen) horse, even if it was slower – it could weather snow storms and climb mountains. He'd like to see Phaeril's whispy fast little horse just try and get through a blizzard.

Regardless, they made camp at the end of the day in clearing in a forest, and he tried to help with putting the tents up.

Perhaps learning how to put up tents was something a father was meant to teach a son, in which case he was severely lacking given his father had been absent for the better part of his life. Or maybe it was something one learnt if they spend a good deal of time in the wilderness, which he couldn't particularly say he'd done either because he quite liked to stay in inns when travelling and he wasn't hunter. So perhaps it wasn't all that surprising that he had no idea what to do with a tent.

He did try. He really, really did try and be useful. But after tripping over one of the ropes for possibly the tenth time, Brynjolf gave up and banned himself from tent putting-up duties. So he sat himself down in front of the fire they'd set in the campsite. He skewered a chunk of meat from the deer Phaeril had hunted and butchered for them, and started roasting it with a rather absent-minded look on his face.

After a while Frederick sat himself down nearby and cocked his head as he gazed at the food he was cooking. “You're a surprisingly good cook,” he murmured a few moments later.

Brynjolf scowled at him briefly. “What do you mean surprisingly?”

“Well, if it's anything like your ability to put up a tent... never mind,” Frederick continued with a laugh.

Brynjolf glanced at his friend, who was observing their bosmer companion deftly wrenching a rope into place on a tent on the other side of camp. Evidently she had much more experience surviving in the wild than him. She'd told him once she'd hunted to get by when she needed to, but whether that was true or not he didn't even know.

“So... Phaeril,” Frederick started rather tactlessly.

The redhead's lips remained sealed as he poked the meat diligently. The blond, however, seemed reluctant to give up and pressed on.

“What's going on there, hmm?”

“I wish I knew,” Brynjolf mumbled glumly. Then he sighed heavily and scratched at the back of his neck. “Trying to get anything out of her is like getting blood out of a stone.”

“It might not help that you have a temper to match a dragon,” Frederick suggested unhelpfully.

“You'd get mad too if you had to put up with her seizing up like a clam every time you try and talk to her about your relationship.”

“No, I wouldn't,” he said, then his lips curled into a smile when Brynjolf stared blankly at him. Frederick added almost smugly, “I don't go for women.”

The redhead rolled his eyes and shook his head. “You are the worst friend sometimes.”

Frederick grinned briefly but then sobered and gave him a serious, genuine look. “I think she loves you.” The blond's lips tugged into an ironic smile. “Funny then because she's just like you and refuses to admit it.”

“I do admit it,” Brynjolf whispered with a frown, his eyes landing fixedly on the meat again because holding his friend's gaze was making him squirm and made it too personal. “But I hate that I even have to admit it in the first place.”

When Frederick didn't reply, he glanced at him ever so briefly and saw him raise an eyebrow, prompting him to continue. The redhead pursed his lips before adding, “she killed Gallus, I can never forget that.”

“I wouldn't expect you to forget it,” Frederick said gently. “Forgive, perhaps, but-”

“It's tearing me apart,” Brynjolf interrupted with a growl of frustration. “I never stopped thinking about her and yet I never stopped hating her either for what she took from me.”

He perhaps shook the meat a bit too roughly in his anger, because the spit swayed a little bit and almost fell of it's rack.

“If she'd only tell me what Mercer held against her...” He cursed and hung his shoulders helplessly.

“I don't know much about courting women,” Frederick started softly, “but I know how to read people, probably better than you do.” The blond's eyes narrowed and he chewed on his lip. “I think she's close to breaking.”

Brynjolf sighed and glanced at her once more. Maybe he should try and talk to her again, preferably this time without pissing her off or getting angry himself, because from experience he'd learnt that that didn't help.

“There's only so much you can bottle up inside before the truth comes spilling out,” Frederick added softly. Brynjolf knew it was true, and not only of Phaeril.

o0o

Phaeril's horse was definitely strange. It was unlike any horse Brynjolf had ever seen, and he had been outside Skyrim and seen the leaner ones they had in some of the other provinces.

Hers was sleek and lean, bristling with pent up energy and speed. It had a black, shiny coat and Brynjolf was fairly certain it's eyes flashed red every now when it thought nobody was watching. But she seemed to love that horse, however bizarre it looked, because she hadn't left it's side for a good half hour or more. Which was why he chose that moment to approach her. The horses were tied up on the edge of their camp and she was alone apart from the animal she was patting affectionately.

“Interesting horse you got there,” he started casually as he approached her. Then, to try and ease over their awkwardness, he added, “lass.”

She tensed a little and didn't face him, her forehead pressed to the horse's as her hands cupped the side of the creature's face.

“Where'd you get him?” he continued awkwardly.

“Where do you think?” was the somewhat bitter reply she gave him. He fixed her with an unimpressed look, not that she saw it or far less might have cared. But truthfully he probably knew she'd gotten it from the Dark Brotherhood anyway, it certainly looked evil enough for it.

Phaeril sighed softly and pulled away, her gaze flickering to his ever so briefly. “And, it's her,” she corrected and turned to walk away.

He followed her further into the forest, and when she didn't stop he grabbed her hand as her name slipped from his lips. Her body went rigid, but she didn't wrench her hand from his even as she stopped walking. They were completely alone and he wasn't sure that was a good thing.

“Brynjolf,” she started softly. “Don't-”

“I know Mercer blackmailed you to kill Gallus,” he interrupted, and he cursed himself softly that he still wasn't able to keep his damn emotions in control.

Everything came back to her, and he only hoped he wouldn't lose his temper again – because he knew the moment she felt threatened she'd curl up into a defensive, prickly ball again and he wouldn't get anything out of her.

Her hand fell from his and she turned around slowly to face him. Her brow was creased and she wrapped her arms around her body, almost like a defensive mechanism, so he continued gently. “What happened?”

“It doesn't matter any more,” she whispered. Something in him snapped and he stepped towards her, towering over her small frame.

“Don't give me that crap,” he spat. “Mercer used me to get at you, tell me-”

“He would have killed you,” she interrupted angrily. Her eyes flashed with something he couldn't identify and he stared at her in silence for a good few moments, his posture softening before he reached to touch her.

“No, don't.” She jerked away from him, her body still so tense, defiant and hostile to him. “That person you fell in love with before, it wasn't me.” She glanced down at the ground and when she spoke next her voice was a whisper. “You honestly don't know the first thing about who I am.”

“Then tell me about you,” he pleaded. She looked up at him almost reluctantly.

“You wouldn't want to know.”

“Stop saying things like that,” he growled and grabbed her by the shoulders. She froze under him, their faces inches apart. She was so close he could smell her earthy scent and feel the warmth of her body against his.

He couldn't stop himself. Try and deny it as much as he might have liked, but he hadn't stopped thinking about her since the night they spent together so long ago. And he ached for her more than he liked to admit, like he'd been celibate for the twenty five years of her absence.

Brynjolf cupped her face roughly in his hands and pressed a crushing kiss to her lips. She didn't resist him, her hands coming up to grasp onto his armour as he forced her mouth open with his tongue. A gasp escaped her as one of his hands trailed to her thigh, hitching it up around his waist as he pushed her against a tree and took her roughly, desperately.

It wasn't romantic or pretty, and he buried his face in her shoulder, refusing to meet her gaze as twenty five years of longing and wanting her overwhelmed him. He didn't even know if it was really what she wanted, but she clung to him desperately the entire time, fingers digging into his skin and every little gasp from her lips driving him on further, stronger.

When he jerked to a finish he held her for what felt like hours, panting into her hair and keeping her so tight in his arms it was like he feared if he let her go he'd never see her again. But he eventually pulled back to look at her, and when she wouldn't meet his gaze he let her go. Phaeril collapsed to her knees on the ground, her hair messy and her body covered in sweat as he did up his breeches again. She buried her face in her hands and Brynjolf was filled momentarily with the horror of wondering if he'd forced himself on her, but when she spoke she dissolved his fear.

“My parents were tribal bosmer from Valenwood who did not support the Aldmeri Dominion or Thalmor occupation of our forests,” she said in little more than a whisper. “My mother fled with me to Skyrim when I was a teenager, the rest of my family eventually died in the purges.”

“Phaeril...” He never considered what the other races might feel like under the Thalmor rule. Most nords associated the bosmer as being just as bad as the altmer and didn't even consider that there might be some bosmer who resented their home being occupied by the high elves.

“My mother was killed by bandits shortly after we arrived in Skyrim and they took me captive,” she continued brokenly. “I escaped my bonds and killed every last one of them during the night. Just as I was finishing,” she paused and a sound not unlike a sob being choked back escaped her, “the previous Listener of the Dark Brotherhood found me.”

“His name was Xael, a dunmer, and he'd been contracted to kill the bandits.” Her body became more rigid and tense as she spoke of him, as if he was able to command fear over her even while not present. “He asked me how I'd escaped my bonds and I showed him. He said I'd be a natural assassin because of my deformity.” She gestured towards her hands, presumably to indicate her hyperflexibility and unstable joints.

“He made me his lover and his pet.” She looked up at him with a pained expression. “Even as I was infiltrating your guild, I was bound to him.”

Brynjolf hesitated at what she'd said. He hadn't thought perhaps that she might have been in love with someone else and just using him, and the thought of it hurt, like a dagger twisting in his heart.

“When I returned after Gallus' contract...” Her voice became thick and choked. “He found out I'd been with you, that I'd strayed from him.”

“How?” he whispered.

“I was pregnant.” A feeling of pure, unadulterated shock came over him but he didn't get a chance to question her because she continued. “He beat me until I miscarried... Xael died less than a year later in a botched contract.”

Brynjolf almost wished the dunmer wasn't dead so he could ring his throat himself. What she'd said had stunned him at first, but then filled him with anguish and hurt for a child he hadn't even known he'd lost.

The only thing he could do was walk away in shock, leaving Phaeril alone and shaking in the woods.

Chapter Text

If the awkwardness between them the previous day had been merely uncomfortable, then the awkwardness of today was unbearable and torturous. Brynjolf couldn't even look at Phaeril without feeling guilty, and try as he might to tell himself she'd hardly resisted him, he couldn't stop the sinking feeling that perhaps giving in to his base desires and lust probably wasn't the best thing for their tense relationship. It didn't particularly help either that even if he didn't look at her, he could still smell her because he hadn't had the chance to bath. But by far the worst part of all of it was what she'd told him, and in truth he hadn't really processed it at all. He was trying not to think about it for his own sake, because going after Mercer distraught would only give the wretch another advantage. And he was perhaps a coward.

So, again, they all rode in silence for the remainder of the journey to Irkngthand. In the few accidental glimpses he got of Phaeril, he saw that she was completely unreadable and seized up in such a hostile manner he wondered if she'd ever talk to him again.

Understandably, when they finally arrived in Irkngthand it was a welcome distraction. They didn't really have a solid plan other than entering and finding Mercer, so they proceeded with caution. There were some bandits around that they killed, but by the time they got inside they realised Mercer had killed all of the ones inside the ruin already. They caught a glimpse of the traitor after a while ahead of them, and chased him with renewed determination all through the ruins until they had him cornered behind the door mentioned in Gallus' diary.

It was ajar and Karliah gingerly pulled it open. They stepped in the room, and Brynjolf's gaze was wrenched to the sight of Mercer hanging from a gigantic elven statue, his dagger prying off an enormous, glittering gemstone that was the statue's eye. The statue's other eyesocket was empty, and there was a large bag on the ground with an oval bulge in it, presumably the other gem.

Mercer dislodged the second stone, jumped down with it and stuffed it into the sack. His attention snapped to them and a grin stole over his features that made Brynjolf want to punch his useless, greasy face.

“I knew you'd find me eventually,” Mercer drawled, his body tensed and ready for fight. “Read Gallus' diary, did you?” He sneered as his gaze locked on Brynjolf, the redhead could hear Karliah notching an arrow in her bow even as they spoke. “Though there's a lot of things that fool didn't figure out.”

“It hardly matters when your throat's slit,” the redhead hissed.

Mercer cocked his head and twirled something in his hands – it had to be the Skeleton Key. “I'm not sure your mother would think that.”

The noise that left Brynjolf's throat was so low, so guttural he didn't even realise it was him that had made it at first. “What would you know about my mother?”

“Haven't worked it out yet?” Mercer shook his head. “I killed her, slit her pretty little throat. Even as she died she was begging me to spare her precious son.”

He lunged at the breton in fury, which wasn't the brightest idea because he almost fell off the ledge they were standing on – the only way down was a ramp on either side that curved around the side of the room. Mercer chuckled and walked slowly towards them down the ramp on the other side of the room that led up to the statue he'd defiled. The redhead's hands twitched for his daggers, but he felt Phaeril's hand on his arm, holding him back and restrained himself.

It surprised him, and even more when she whispered, “Bryn-”

“I killed your father as well,” Mercer interrupted. “That was harder, I had to tip off one of his marks so he got caught in the act.”

Brynjolf growled. He'd carve his revenge into the traitor's flesh, make him scream for pity.

“You see, I wanted in on the Nightingales and the power and rewards they offered. That's why your mother had to go.” Mercer's fingers trailed over a potion strapped to his armour. “But your father got suspicious, so he had to go as well. When Gallus started to catch onto my trail I knew I'd need a professional to take him down, he was too on edge after your parents died.” He gestured at Phaeril. “Which is why I hired that stupid girl.”

He swallowed the potion in one swift movement and disappeared. “Say hello to your parents for me, Bryn. I'm sure they've been longing to see you again in death.”

A bright red light seared through the room and he couldn't move to kill the breton because an overwhelming force pulled at his body. It felt like he was being ripped backwards, and he was in fact because the moment his head stopped spinning he realised he was standing on a platform above the door (which had slammed shut) with Phaeril. Mercer wasn't anywhere to be seen, and Karliah was desperately trying to trace him on the ground of the room. Frederick, perhaps from the force of the magic that had been unleashed and his already dubious health, was staggering and bracing himself against a wall.

Another flash of light seared through the chamber and Brynjolf felt something tugging at him, clasping a hundred little hooks into his soul and forcing him to draw his blades... and turn them on Phaeril. He tried to stop himself but his body refused to listen to him and he watched in horror as he swiped at her. Thankfully she dodged him, before giving him an incredulous look.

“What are you doing?” She had to shout because the room was starting to shake and rumble, which probably wasn't a terribly good thing.

“He's using the Skeleton Key to control you,” Karliah called up from below. “Just... try and fight it.”

“Easier said than done, lass,” he groaned as he felt his body lunge at Phaeril again.

It was a good thing the little elf was so nimble on her feet, because he swore he wouldn't be able to live with himself if he actually did kill her, even if he was being forced to do it and after everything that had happened between them.

He didn't even have enough control over himself to try and see what was going on beneath him, but in the few glimpses he got he saw Karliah trying to pelt Mercer with arrows while Frederick tried not to get stabbed. But the blond wasn't on game and he was struggling, even with the two of them against Mercer they were being overwhelmed.

After a few more moments another flash of magic shot through the room. It knocked Phaeril back and she groaned as she hit the wall hard enough to make her dazed, and it was enough of a distraction for Brynjolf's traitorous body to advance on her. He willed himself not to do it, but he had no control over himself. It took every once of his willpower to make himself pause as his dagger pressed to her throat. Her black eyes gazing up at him fearfully was like a blade twisting in his heart but he couldn't hold himself back, and slowly, horribly his dagger pressed against her neck until a single drop of blood rolled down her skin.

The clash of the Skeleton Key tumbling to the ground pierced through all the rumbling and stirring of the cavern, and as the artefact fell from it's owners hands, the power controlling him vanished. Brynjolf collapsed over Phaeril with a gasp of relief, his forehead pressed into the wall as he withdrew the blade from her throat. It was so euphoric to be free from Mercer's control he didn't even care he was pinning her beneath him.

But it was short lived because a rock crashed from the ceiling moments later and he heard the distinct sound of water gushing. Brynjolf pulled away, shoved his daggers into their sheaths and raked his eyes across the room. Frederick was clutching a hand to his side high up on the ramp to the statue and Karliah was trying to help him, at the blond's feet sat the bag with the gemstones in it. And the Skeleton Key... Brynjolf cringed. It was floating in the rising water that was filling the cavern.

Phaeril was the first to respond and she tore off her armour (presumably so she wouldn't sink), and dove off the ledge, landing swiftly in the water. She grabbed the key tight in a fist, before jerking out of the way of another falling boulder. It was then Brynjolf realised the entire room was collapsing around them, huge chunks of rock falling from the ceiling and smashing into the water and ground.

“Phaeril!” he shouted at her as a large boulder narrowly missed her and he'd voided himself of his own armour and dived in after her in moments.

Karliah was shouting something at him about an opening in the ceiling and Brynjolf realised as the water level rose that they were coming closer and closer to it. If they didn't crawl out through that opening, they'd drown for sure.

Another rock fell from the ceiling and he pushed Phaeril away as it crashed inches from her body into the water. Then he felt something hard smash into the back of his head. His body went limp, his vision dark and he heard Phaeril scream his name as he started to sink.

o0o

“No!” She screamed at him, as if it would make him wake up somehow. “You bastard, you will not do this to me!”

Karliah and Frederick actually looked a bit shocked – they probably had never seen this kind of rage from Phaeril before, she was usually so calm and collected.

There was nothing calm about the way she banged a fist against Brynjolf's chest.

So tiny her hands were compared to him, she couldn't have made a difference even if she knew physically how to. After dragging the redhead's limp body to the surface of the cave they'd spilled out into when Irkngthand flooded, he hadn't woken. His eyes were shut and his lips blue, she didn't even know how long he'd been submerged before being hauled out. And she didn't even care that Frederick was wheezing nearby with blood staining his armour, though she vaguely hoped he had enough strength left to heal himself.

Maybe her screaming or threats made a difference, or perhaps he'd have recovered regardless, but after a few tense moments Brynjolf gurgled and heaved up the water he'd swallowed, and followed it with a ragged, heaving breath for air. Except that he didn't get much chance to breath as it was, because the moment she realised he wasn't dead, Phaeril plunged her lips to his and kissed him so ferociously he actually struggled a bit to pull her off him.

Her look was incredulous as he grabbed her by both shoulders and pushed her away.

“Damnit, lass!” he spluttered out between coughing up some more water. “I can nay breath when you're trying to kiss me like that!”

It dawned on her then that probably the last thing he'd need after almost drowning was being further deprived of oxygen in such a manner, and an embarrassed blush spread up her features so quickly it reached the tips of her ears in seconds. It took Brynjolf a couple more moments to stop treating every breath of air as if it was sacred, and once he was only breathing somewhat quickly, rather than desperately, he gave her a grin.

His hands moved down her sides and to her thighs where she was straddling him, and it seemed as if he was entirely unaware they weren't exactly alone – or he simply didn't care. “But if you're that eager, then give me a few minutes and I'm sure I can sort something out.”

Maybe he was still delirious from almost drowning and that was what made him act so inappropriately, because she seriously doubted if he was completely sane this would be the first thing on his mind given everything. But then again, after what had happened in the woods and the lust that had been virtually reeking off him... Still, it didn't seem in character given the circumstances.

“I'd really rather you didn't,” Karliah interjected. Phaeril noted she had the bag of gems beside her.

The look Brynjolf gave her seemed to imply that he wouldn't particularly care even if she did watch at the moment, which made Phaeril realise (not for the first time) that the foolish man beneath her had some serious issues when it came to his sexual needs. And she wasn't particularly keen on the idea of screwing him right then and there, even if the way he squeezed her thighs made her breath hitch in her throat and memories of his bare, strong, muscular body flicker through her mind.

But Phaeril, unlike Brynjolf, wasn't so base and her brain didn't have a habit of temporarily being superseded in judgment by her crotch, like the redhead's tended to. So she climbed off Brynjolf, who looked slightly disappointed, and stood up. Eventually he rolled his eyes, gave a deflated sigh and followed suit.

As they begun trying to find a way out of the cave, Karliah shook her head with a little laugh and murmured, “you are such a dog.”

Chapter Text

They figured out eventually that the cave they'd spilled out into was quite close to Windhelm, and so, having lost all of their armour so as not to sink, they decided to make a detour past Eastmarch's capital to resupply (steal) themselves with armour and horses. Phaeril's horse seemed to find them somehow within a few hours though, which further cemented for Brynjolf that the animal as most definitely not normal. They arrived in Windhelm by evening and hired rooms in the local inn. By the time they were sitting together around a table they were all exhausted and starving, so it was a welcome relief when they were served dinner – Brynjolf didn't even care what it was, he could have literally tried to eat a horse by now, he couldn't remember the last time he ate.

He caught Phaeril's attention as he reached for his mug of ale and her lips twitched ever so slightly at the corners, before looking away. He realised then he probably needed to talk to her (again.)

Karliah cleared her throat after a few moments. “We need to return the Skeleton Key to the Twilight Sepulcher,” she started and patted a pocket on her breeches.

Phaeril had given the key to her soon after they escaped the cave. The dunmer's eyes became downcast for a moment and she took the key from her pocket and pushed it across the table into the centre. “I won't step foot in there, one of you two has to do it.” She gestured at Brynjolf and Frederick.

Brynjolf glanced at Frederick. “I'll do it, you look like you could do with some rest,” he offered. The blond looked haggard and far more in need of a break from adventuring than him. Frederick nodded his assent.

“I'll come with you and show you were it is, it's west of Falkreath,” Karliah continued. “But you're on your own once you're inside.”

“What's in there that's making you so hesitant?” Brynjolf asked softly.

“It's flooded with the souls of the Nightingale sentinels,” she replied, her fingers twisting nervously together. “The past collides into the present in there.”

“The Nightingales souls?” Frederick mused, then his features became gently chastising. “You don't want to see Gallus.”

She nodded and Brynjolf frowned. “Why? You loved him.”

“Because it would be torture to look upon his face and know I'll never be able to touch him, feel him again.” Phaeril squirmed a little when Karliah spoke, presumably still feeling guilty over Gallus' death.

Brynjolf sighed and shrugged his shoulders helplessly, and murmured a defeated, “if that's what you want.”

o0o

The euphoria of what they had accomplished that day did not last long, and by the evening, Brynjolf's mood turned south and he retreated further into melancholy and his own pensive thoughts. He excused himself from the table and wandered out of the city gates, before slumping down beside the lake next to Windhelm and simply sat there staring at the moonlight reflecting off the water for what might have been hours.

Eventually Phaeril approached and joined him. He had a pretty good idea that Frederick had coerced her into seeing if he was alright, but he appreciated the thought nonetheless. He wasn't particularly sure where he stood with her at the moment either, they hadn't exactly talked since the incident in the woods, and then he'd almost been forced to kill her before very near drowning to save her. He was also somewhat embarrassed with himself over the way he'd acted towards her after he'd regained consciousness from being waterlogged, and the only reasonable conclusion he could come up with was that he'd been so delirious his base desires had wrenched control over him.

“Brynjolf-” she started but he interrupted her with a shake of his head.

“Don't say anything.” His eyes narrowed and his fingers trailed over a large pebble on the ground absent-mindedly. “Mercer's dead, it doesn't matter any more.”

She stayed quiet in honour of his request and stared at the water instead. It was one of the things he liked about her, she knew when talk was pointless. But it felt better with her there, even if she was only sitting beside him and probably not even of her own will.

After a while he threw the pebble into the lake, glanced at her from the corner of his eye and broke the silence. “You stopped to purposefully save me a third time today.”

She shrugged, her gaze fixed on her fingers in her lap. “You saved me first, I didn't know we were keeping count.”

“It's more than that, lass.” She tensed when he called her that again. “You told me the person I loved two decades ago wasn't you.”

Her brow creased and he shifted to look at her better, hoping, praying that her features would betray how she was feeling. They didn't, she was a mystery.

“But I know now that's not true,” he continued softly. “It's your work in the Dark Brotherhood that's the facade.”

Her black eyes flickered to his. “Brynjolf, I've killed legions of men-”

“I don't care.” He reached out to touch her hand and she didn't pull away, but even as his fingers grazed hers she was still rigid, frozen. “I told you I loved you before you killed Gallus, and so help me I still do. If you don't want me then tell me now,” his eyes were almost pleading with her as he spoke, “but don't tell me that everything was a lie because I know it wasn't.”

She wrenched her gaze from him and turned away. “Loves foolish-”

“Because it only means you need a shorter knife,” he finished quickly and crawled in front of her. He would use his size to his advantage if he needed to and when he knelt in front of her she didn't have a choice but stare at him. “You owe me an answer.”

“Bryn,” she protested weakly.

“You owe me,” he repeated more insistently. Something broke in her and she looked at him helplessly. He knew in that moment he'd won, for better or worse he'd snapped her will and whatever she told him next was the truth, even if it might not be what he wanted to hear.

“I'm the biggest fool of them all,” she whispered eventually.

It took him a few seconds to acknowledge what she'd said, but when he did it was all he could do to grab her jaw in his hands and press his face so close to hers so that when he spoke his lips brushed hers. “I've waited twenty five fucking years to hear you say that.”

He kissed her and she crumpled against him, arms wrapping around his neck and craning into his touch. Phaeril leant up onto her knees, angling her head into the kiss as he moved his hands from her face and to her body. He fell back onto the ground and pulled her on top of him, but she paused then as she straddled him. Her eyes were locked onto his, her forehead pressed to his and her hands cupping his cheeks and the only thing he could do was stare at her, because nothing mattered any more.

She'd told him her answer, and it was the one that, deep down, he'd always known she'd give.

o0o

He'd tried to talk to her about Gallus and how she as coping with his death, but Karliah refused (if politely) to discuss it at all. She seemed to appreciate the thought behind his actions though, even if she was hesitant to broach the subject. After a few moments Karliah placed a hand on his arm and looked at him with genuine concern.

“How are you feeling?” she asked gently. “You haven't looked well lately.”

Frederick smiled faintly. He'd hoped they hadn't notice, but he supposed you'd have to be pretty daft not to see the way his eyes were tingeing yellow or his skin flecked with petechiae or his increasingly gaunt physique. The fight against Mercer had almost taken everything he had to keep him alive at all.

“I'm fine,” he said dismissively.

“I'm not an idiot like Brynjolf,” she snapped and narrowed her eyes at him. “I know something's wrong.”

He glanced away with an annoyed frown, but figured it wouldn't be so wise to point out she was hardly willing to talk to him about Gallus, so he didn't have any obligation to talk to her about his health either. “I have it under control.”

Karliah rolled her eyes but when he fixed her with a meaningful look she dropped the subject reluctantly. They sat in silence for a few more moments until her lips curled the faintest of mischievous smiles and she inclined her head towards the another table in the room.

“What?” Frederick asked as he followed her gaze. It took his eyes a few moments to focus, things were getting a bit hazy if he jerked his vision around quickly these days. When he saw clearly again, he made out a gigantic excuse of a nord standing beside the table she had gestured towards.

No, gigantic was an understatement. Frederick was fairly certain he'd seen horses smaller than that nord, saying he as built like a house didn't even get close to describing him. He had arms like barrels, so thick with corded muscle he could probably crush a man's neck without even trying. His hair was long, dark and messy and his face was gruff and dirty but not unattractive.

When Frederick glanced back at Karliah she was grinning at him and he couldn't help but return the gesture. She was the only one who'd known about his sexuality in the guild (she'd picked up on it in seconds, but been tactful enough not to blabber about it to anyone) before Brynjolf found out. Karliah, before she'd been exiled, had been somewhat of a confidant for him. And she knew exactly his type.

“Well,” Karliah started as she stood up and yawned a little. “I'm going to bed. I'd recommend you lock the door behind you,” she said knowingly with a soft chuckle, “Brynjolf has a habit of having less tact than a rampaging troll.”

o0o

They didn't leave that spot beside the lake until the next morning. Perhaps sleeping in such a place wasn't the best idea, but they weren't so far from Windhelm and Brynjolf was fairly certain they could take on most things that might try and ambush them. And besides, Phaeril could probably charm any animals that got a bit too curious because she was a wood elf and innately had the ability to command them from time to time.

It was beautiful though, dozing off with her curled in his arms. She fit so perfectly pressed against his broad chest with her head tucked under his chin and her legs tangled in his. It was only the bright glare of dawn that pulled him from his sleep and he slowly woke up. Phaeril was still asleep as far as he could tell, but when he glanced around and moved ever so gently she mumbled to herself and her eyes fluttered open.

She craned her neck to look up at him and he smiled at her. It was cold this early in the morning, but he could weather it with no problem. She, on the other hand, was starting to shivering ever so slightly. After some moments silence he eased her off him and rolled onto his side so he could look her in the eyes. “Was it a son or a daughter?” he asked softly.

She caught on immediately that he meant his child she'd lost so long ago and her brow creased. Then, she whispered, “daughter.” She paused for a moment and bit at her lip, before continuing. “She's buried in the cemetery in Falkreath.”

Brynjolf was quiet for a few moments as he considered what she said, and then gently pushed her off and got to his feet. He reached a hand out and helped her up before saying gingerly, “Falkreath's near the Nightingale Sepulcher... come with me.”

“I can't.” She fell into step beside him as he moved to go back to Windhelm. “The Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary is near there, they have eyes throughout the hold – Astrid will find and try to kill me sure as day.”

“Who's Astrid?” he asked carefully. Breaching her past as an assassination was still something he felt was best done with caution.

“She was my underling but no doubt has made herself the Dark Brotherhood's leader after she got rid of me,” Phaeril replied bitterly. “Mercer made a pact with her of some kind to kill me... I think they tried to get rid of me by trapping the dead-drop location I was meant to go to after Gallus was dead.”

“But you survived,” he pointed out.

She smiled thinly. “Somebody else triggered it instead.” The way she looked at him so pointedly he knew she meant him. It took him a while to figure it out and then his eyes widened and he gaped at her.

“You were the elf that I saw in Snowveil Sanctum twenty five years ago,” he stated. “That trap was for you.” Then his eyes narrowed at her somewhat accusingly. “You could have helped me and Frederick, we almost died.”

“I would have, had I not suspected you would have tried to gut me the moment I got close,” she pointed out. “Besides, Frederick kept you both alive with his magic.”

He scowled but then realised she was probably right. She chuckled a little at his expression and he grabbed her around the waist playfully, pulling her against him as they approached Windhelm and kissing her hair. Somehow he didn't care the city was the stronghold of Ulfric and his Stormcloaks. If anyone took offence at his relations with an elf he'd give them a piece of his mind.

But Phaeril was obviously less enthusiastic over provoking people in the somewhat xenophobic city and pulled away from him when they were close to the city gates. It was probably for the best, they'd gotten enough suspicious looks the night before when they dragged themselves into Windhelm as two nord men with a dunmer and a bosmer woman.

Better to lay low for a bit just in case.

Chapter Text

It was the first time he'd seen the leader of the Stormcloaks in person, though he'd heard a lot about him. Ulfric was as imposing as the rumours said – but it wasn't from brute strength. Of course he was built sturdy and well like a nord, but he wasn't a hulk of a man like the gruff looking one who was following him like a bodyguard. Ulfric was intimidating because of his reputation and the way he held himself – like he expected you to respect him because it was his right. But there was more to it than arrogance, Brynjolf could read from the fire in his eyes that the man before him would fight and die for his country in a heartbeat.

“Get out of here, elf,” a Stormcloak guard growled. Brynjolf glanced at him and saw him shove Phaeril in the shoulder. “Your kind don't belong in Skyrim.”

The redhead's muscles tensed and his body poised for confrontation to defend her, but he didn't get the chance because she glared at the guard, and then headbutted him hard. It caught the guard so much by surprise that he gaped at her for a good few seconds, before a soft chuckle wrenched everybody's attention to Ulfric leering nearby.

“Seems to me like she's more of a Stormcloak than you are,” the Jarl drawled.

Phaeril turned to him and judging by the seething expression on her features Brynjolf had to look around briefly for feasible routes of escape – because he had a fairly good idea that this casual trip into the Windhelm markets to try and find some armour before setting out again was soon going to turn into a fight. At least he was thankful he hadn't lost his daggers when they escaped Irkngthand.

“Call me a Stormcloak again and I'll strangle you with that mangy bear pelt you have draped over your shoulders,” she snapped. “I'd sooner slit my own throat than associate with you and your racist followers.”

The amused look on Ulfric's features disappeared in an instance. He sneered at her and crossed his arms over his chest, perhaps to try and look more intimidating.

“I knew a bosmer with an attitude like yours once,” he started with the kind of pointed softness that made it very clear there was anger simmering beneath his composed facade. “We fought together in the Great War, and she wormed her way into my bedroll. Years later she found me again and tried to seduce me – before I noticed the dagger she had poised to stab me in the back.”

Ulfric's eyes narrowed at her and his lips tugged into a sneer. “I killed her and found documents on her corpse that told me she was an agent for the Empire sent to do their dirty work.”

“We hung her disembowelled body up in the city for weeks,” the Jarl's body guard added cruelly, “and only took it down when people complained it was scaring the children.”

Brynjolf should have stopped her when he saw the look of pure fury on her features, but he wasn't fast enough and she'd spat into the Jarl's face in seconds. Ulfric snarled and wiped the spit of his cheek and his bodyguard growled and moved to raise a hand at her. Except Brynjolf stepped in front of her and caught the man's fist in his own with a hard look.

“Lay a finger on her and it'd be poor for your health,” he hissed.

The other man laughed at him. “You think you could take me on? You don't even have any armour.”

“Enough, Galmar,” Ulfric interrupted and his attention turned to the redhead, his expression almost empathetic. “I pity you falling for that elf, she'll stab you in the back the first chance she gets. They're all the same.”

“Aye, I'm aware,” Brynjolf snarled at the Jarl. “We've well and truly already been there.”

Ulfric raised an eyebrow at him but then glanced at Phaeril, who still looked like she rather wanted to punch the man. “You call me a racist,” he started, “but it is the nord's of Skyrim who are being repressed by the Thalmor and forced to shed blood over a war that didn't even involve us!”

“Do you think you're the only people suffering because of the Thalmor?” Phaeril snapped at him, and the Jarl actually stared at her surprised momentarily. “Your homes are not being burnt, your people are not being slaughtered and purged for having impure bloodlines!” Her features turned borderline manic. “My family was murdered because my grandfather was an Imperial, and the Thalmor sympathising aristocracy in Valenwood couldn't bear such a taint to fester in their perfect race!”

She was shaking now, her voice on the verge of breaking and tears pricking at her eyes. “So don't tell me that your people are the only ones suffering, because you aren't – not even a little.”

Ulfric's features softened, almost to knowing empathy. “Tell me, elf, would you fight for me?”

“No,” she replied quietly. “You do not care about my people or this stale war we're stuck in once your own people are free.”

“And you think the Empire does?” Ulfric challenged.

“The Empire is the only one who has even a chance to hope of pushing back against the Thalmor,” she said simply. “My tribe does not want to be ruled by the Empire once more, we want our independence and freedom for our people.” Her brow creased. “But every tribe in Valenwood will ally with the Imperials in a heartbeat if it frees us from the Aldmeri Dominion.”

Ulfric smiled at her ever so thinly. “Then pray we don't meet on the battlefield one day, because surely it would be a shame if I had to kill a woman so devoted to her people.”

“You wouldn't get the chance.”

“You really wouldn't,” Brynjolf muttered unhelpfully to himself. “She'd have your neck slit in seconds.”

But no one paid any attention to him and Ulfric and his bodyguard were gone in moments. Brynjolf turned to Phaeril and studied the expression on her features. She looked so emotionally fragile in that moment. He couldn't describe it, she wasn't upset but raw... chafed, vulnerable. He pulled her into his arms and she buried her face into his shoulder, trembling.

o0o

They pilfered some armour after their encounter with Ulfric and after a brief discussion between the four of them, they made to leave Windhelm. They stole three horses and came to a stop a little way outside the city to say there farewells. Brynjolf pressed a kiss to Phaeril's lips before she pulled herself up onto her own horse (which had once again creepily found them the moment they stepped outside Windhelm), then he glanced at Frederick who was mounted on one of the stolen horses beside her. In his hands the redhead held the reigns of his steed who was pawing at the ground anxiously.

“Make sure you tell Vex that Phaeril's with us now,” he told Frederick, then a somewhat bitter look took over his features. “She tends to punch first and ask questions later.”

Frederick grinned ever so slightly but nodded his assent. “Sure.” Then, almost smugly, he added, “course, it would be a shame if Phae ended up with a nose as bent and ugly as yours.”

“Hilarious,” Brynjolf retordedly sarcastically. Frederick laughed and the redhead rolled his eyes and slapped the other nord's horse's flank to force him into a trot. “Get out of here.”

Phaeril rolled her eyes and kicked her horse into trotting beside Frederick, leaving Brynjolf and Karliah behind to continue on their own way to Falkreath. Phaeril and Frederick continued in silence for sometime, then she cast a look towards her companion and drew his attention.

“Hmm?” Frederick prompted.

“Mercer is dead, right?” she asked with a frown.

“Definitely.” Frederick grinned ruefully. “Karliah pelted his chest with arrows and slit his throat for good measure.”

Her features softened and she sighed gently. “Good.”

“Don't worry,” he said reassuringly. “Nothing short of a miracle will be bringing him back.”

“Miracles are for fairy tales.” Phaeril laughed bitterly. “And this isn't one.”

Frederick shrugged. “They're overrated anyway.”

o0o

Karliah did not join him when he went to the graveyard in Falkreath, perhaps because she wanted to respect his need to be alone or because she didn't feel comfortable – he didn't know which, and it wasn't really a big concern of his at the moment either. He found the gravesite after a few moments of searching. He didn't particularly know what he was looking for, but after a walking up and down the rows of graves for a while he found one of an unnamed female baby, born in the same year Phaeril had disappeared from his life so long ago.

Brynjolf stood in front of that grave in silence for such a time he didn't even know how long it had been when someone approached him. It caught him by surprise because he was so deep in his own thoughts, but the person joining him coughed politely to draw the redhead's attention.

He glanced over and saw a man in robes, presumably the priest preciding over the gravesight, standing beside him.

“Did you know her?” the priest asked softly after a few moments.

“Yes,” Brynjolf replied with a frown. “She was my daughter.”

“Ah.” The priest smiled at him ever so slightly. “I didn't think the dunmer who turned up with the girl's mother was her father.” Brynjolf raised an eyebrow at him questioningly, so he continued. “The girl had the brightest of green eyes, just like yours.”

The priest's smile faded and he became somber. “The mother returned many times alone, but always deep in the night and she'd disappear the moment she heard someone approaching.” He gave Brynjolf a somewhat pointed look. “She never named the baby, either.”

“Anya,” Brynjolf interrupted. It was his mothers name and he wouldn't have it any other way.

“I can have it added to her tombstone,” the priest replied with a nod. Then he narrowed his eyes at him curiously. “The mother stopped coming here some years ago, I hope she is still well. The dunmer that came with her when she miscarried was... abusive.”

Brynjolf tried not to wince. “She's ok.”

The priest smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling with crows feet and dimples forming in his cheeks. “Do you want to come into the temple?”

“Eh,” Brynjolf stammered and rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “I'm not really religious.”

The priest didn't seem to take offense and nodded slowly. The only appropriate thing the redhead could thing to do was to smile sheepishly and glance away.

o0o

“Well, this is nicely ominous,” Brynjolf stated flatly. Karliah sighed and shook her head, then gave him a little shove in the back to edge him on.

“Go on,” she urged.

He took a step towards the particularly foreboding structure in front of him that was the Nightingale's Sepulcher, before turned around to retort something smart at the dunmer, only to find himself entirely alone with Karliah nowhere in sight. Brynjolf groaned softly, furrowed his brow and turned back to the structure before him. He chewed at his lip, then made towards the entrance.

He stepped inside and shivered a little. It was freezing inside and it had the sort of ambience that seeped with secrets and mystery. It didn't so much make Brynjolf uncomfortable, but it was... unnerving, and it didn't feel right. Something was off, and it was more than just the way the environment was sending shivers down his spine. Brynjolf patted the Skeleton Key in his pocket reassuringly, and began walking deeper into the sanctuary.

Then, he stopped dead in his tracks as he saw a ghostly figure pacing back and forth ahead of him. He swallowed deeply, knowing deep down that coming here would wrench up emotions he'd buried rather than confronted, but no matter how much he knew that, it didn't help now he was in the midst of it.

The ghost turned to face him after a few moments, and a grin spread over his familiar features in moments.

“Brynjolf,” the ghost breathed rather unnaturally. Gallus swept towards him in one swift moment and pulled the redhead into a somewhat strange and otherwordly hug. When they separated, Gallus' grasped him by the shoulders and raked his eyes up his body approvingly. “You became a Nightingale?”

“Aye,” the redhead replied softly.

Gallus cocked his head at him perplexed, and something in Brynjolf broke in that moment. “Twenty five years you were dead,” he whispered.

“No, not dead,” Gallus said and shook his head. “Simply... moved on.”

“Damn you.”

“Damn the one who had me killed,” Gallus corrected.

Brynjolf's lips tugged into a bitter smile. “Mercer's already dead.”

“Good to hear.” Gallus cocked his head. “And the elf who actually slit my throat?”

“She was blackmailed by Mercer,” Brynjolf mumbled. He couldn't stop the slightest hint of guilt seeping into his voice.

A knowing look came over the ghost's features, and it was the kind of one that made Brynjolf just know he was about to be teased or mocked. “You are sleeping with her still, yes?”

Brynjolf glowered at him. “Why is that the first thing that springs to your mind?”

“Concerning you and a woman, that is the first conclusion anybody would make,” Gallus offered with a faux innocence.

The redhead scowled, then admitted grumpily, “aye.”

Gallus chuckled warmly (or as warmly as a ghost could) and ushered him further into the corridor. “I am sure that, given you are here, you know what this place is?”

“It's derelict,” Brynjolf mused as he glanced around. He was sure it had seen better days, but in it's current state it did very little to glorify or honour Nocturnal.

“Since the Skeleton Key was removed Nocturnal's connection with this world has been... deteriorating.” Gallus frowned. “Most of the Nightingale's here have lost their minds, they'll try and kill you even if you're trying to return the key.”

“It's never easy, is it?”

A thin smile tugged at the ghost's lips. “You won't be able to kill them, but if you beat them down enough they'll submit to you and you might be able to reason with them,” Gallus continued. “Or they might just flee.”

“I guess it would be too much to hope that you'll be able to help me?” Brynjolf asked hopefully.

“I'll lose my tenuous grip on sanity if I venture further into the sepulcher with you.” Gallus stopped at a doorway out of the room and gave him a reassuring smile. “I'm sure you'll be fine.”

Brynjolf shrugged somewhat helplessly and mumbled a thank you. Nothing was ever easy, he realised grumpily.

Chapter Text

“I'm curious,” Frederick started as they rode on their way back to Windhelm, their horses slowed to a walk and the sun flickering through the trees covering the path they were on. “How did you deceive us all those years ago? I mean, Brynjolf can be pretty blindsided by a pretty woman, but the rest of us should have been able to pick out an assassin.”

“Hiding in plain site,” Phaeril offered softly. “It works better than you might think.”

“People don't see what's right under their noses, right?” Frederick chuckled and it touched his eyes and made them brighten warmly, even in spite of how frail he looked.

“There were a lot of clues that you all missed,” she added.

“Such as?”

“I was the one that set off the trap on the door to Gallus' room, I didn't get burnt because I was wearing the gloves I'd used when I robbed that dunmer pyromaniac earlier on.” Phaeril glanced at him and pointed at the scar on her cheek. “Mercer gave me this as punishment for screwing up.”

“I figured out that Brynjolf had the key to Gallus' private quarters when Tove was taunting him in the flagon one night,” she continued, her hand brushing over the black mane of her horse affectionately as she spoke. “So I set the trap in that cave to try and get the key off him, but I realised nothing short of killing him would get my hands on his key because he kept it so damn close to his body.”

“Or seducing him,” Frederick added. She nodded slowly. “Why didn't you just kill him, then?”

“I almost did.” Phaeril's brow creased and she fixed her gaze on her hands. “But I couldn't. He was the first person since I came to Skyrim who ever genuinely cared to get to know me.”

Frederick gave her an empathetic look. “That's a shame.”

“The Dark Brotherhood was different then, we only looked out for ourselves and we climbed to the top by stepping on our brothers and sisters.” Phaeril sighed. “Cynric almost blew my cover, he recognised me as an assassin because we worked together in the Brotherhood a long time ago. He was convinced I was there to kill him for deserting us, but I managed to convince Brynjolf that Cynric and I used to be lovers and that was the reason for his hostility to me.”

“Were you?”

“No, never.” She narrowed her eyes with a frown as she continued. “Eventually Mercer got frustrated with how long I was taking and gave me an ultimatum. I took Brynjolf to bed and stole his key while he slept, by then I was committed to killing Gallus and I didn't think I had any other choice.”

She pursed her lips and glanced at Frederick almost pleadingly. “And somewhere along the way I was stupid enough to fall in love with him.”

“I wouldn't say stupid,” Frederick chided gently. “Tragically, perhaps, but not stupid.”

“No, it was stupid,” Phaeril said with a shake of her head. “But I can't regret it, not now.”

Frederick smiled. “You're a better person because you know him.”

“I know.” Phaeril glanced at him and there was an openness in her eyes that she'd never shown before, not even with Brynjolf. “So much of me is made of what I learnt from him.”

“Like a handprint on your heart, huh?”

She smiled ever so slightly. “Something like that.”

o0o

“My son.” It came as a pleading, wretched and desperate noise. “My son!”

He knew he had to edge closer, there wasn't any other way forward, but the voice floating towards him was making him hesitant. It was almost like a song, but not the kind you would enjoy listening to. Perhaps closer to a banshee's drone would describe it better.

“Gone to rot in the sun, the sun!” It was a female ghost, Brynjolf realised as he approached her as quietly as he could. Somehow startling this ghost didn't seem like a good idea. “Please, come back... my son, my son...”

The ghost had stood up and flipped around to face Brynjolf with a manic expression in seconds. Perhaps she'd always known he was there, he couldn't tell.

“Kill them all!” she screeched and threw a knife at him that he thankfully managed to doge, if barely. “One, by one, by one!”

She was at his throat faster than he knew it and it was all he could do to dodge her and try to fend her off. She was surprisingly skilled, and it didn't help that he couldn't even retaliate her attacks because she was a ghost and every slice of his daggers passed through her otherwordly frame like a knife through smoke.

After a while he escaped from their dual and clambered away. She span around, desperately trying to locate him but he put a hand forth and shouted at her with as much authority as he could summon.

“Stop!”

“My son,” she chimed brokenly again.

“Please, no more singing,” he grumbled to himself.

“My son!” she repeated again and she'd swept closer to him in one lithe movement. But instead of attacking him like he'd thought, she grasped his face in her cold, whispy hands and pressed her forehead to his.

It was then that he noticed that the glistening, translucent hair draped around her shoulders was the brightest of red. The kind of ridiculous colour he'd only ever seen before once in his life. The kind of colour his own hair was.

He stared into his mothers eyes in disbelief, even if he knew that in all likelihood he stood a very good chance of meeting his parents in this place, it still caught him by surprise.

“By the Eight,” was the only thing that he could say.

She smiled at him, her eyes glittering with affection and love even if they were cold and ethereal. “My Brynjolf.”

He couldn't stop the tears that pricked at his eyes. Maybe it made him weak, but he'd never really known her. And if he was true to himself, half his promiscuity and inability to form a solid relationship before he met Phaeril had stemmed from the fact he'd never really dealt with losing his mother so early on.

But it didn't last and just as his mother had gained her sanity, she disappeared in a flash of smoke moments later. And it left him standing in shock, desperately wishing he could bring her back and wondering if even seeing the ghost of his mother was the best thing for his mental state. It was short lived, because another ghost materialised behind him after a few moments and Brynjolf turned around to find himself staring into a face he recognised all too well, even if it had been decades.

“She struggled more than most retaining her sanity in this place,” his father started with the hard, penetrating stare he remembered as a boy when he'd been disobedient “She's been here longer than me, but it's more than that. She was always... closer to Nocturnal, and tenuous with her grasp on reality.”

The ghost of his father cocked his head and crossed his arms over his transparent chest. “A bit like your fleeting opinion of relationships, always jumping from one woman to another like she would with her lucidity.”

“How would you even-”

“Oh, I've been watching you over the years,” his father interrupted with a smirk. “I'll give you credit for that elf, though.”

“Thanks,” Brynjolf replied dryly.

The ghost smiled genuinely at him and took a step closer to place his hand on the redhead's shoulder. “I am proud of how you've turned out.”

Brynjolf couldn't stop the tug at his lips no matter how much he wished he could. “Well, you've got a strange way of showing it sometimes.”

There was a sharp pain on the back of his head from where his father cuffed him and the redhead glowered at the ghost as he started sauntering off.

“Hey!” Brynjolf protested.

“What?” His father glanced at him and gestured ahead. “You just going to stand there gawking or you actually going to return that damn key in your pocket?”

“Eh, um,” Brynjolf stammered a little dumbly. “Right.”

His father rolled his eyes and chuckled to himself as he lead the redhead further into the Sepulcher. Surprisingly, with his father leading him, his journey was far easier, although the further they went the more his father became visibly distressed and seemed to be less and less able to keep his mind sane. Perhaps the fact he'd managed not to try and kill Brynjolf like every other damn ghost in this place had was a testament to his father's strength of will, or sheer stubbornness.

After a while his father stopped in front of a whole in the ground, turned to the redhead and inclined his head toward hole. “Well, go on then.”

“What?” Brynjolf frowned at him. “Down there?”

“Yes, you daft boy.” When the redhead hesitated (because it was kind of a dumb suggestion in his opinion), his father rolled his eyes and pushed him into the hole. Thankfully it wasn't particularly deep and he landed easily, but it didn't stop him being royally annoyed with his father.

“What are you doing?” Brynjolf snapped and craned his neck to look up at the ghost.

His father chuckled and walked off, his voice floating down to him tauntingly. “Dust the cobwebs off and use your brain for once, I'm sure you can manage.”

Brynjolf sulked for a good few minutes in that hole, noticed there was skeleton sharing it with him (which wasn't particularly encouraging), before it occurred to him that perhaps the key he'd been holding on to this entire time might be the, well, key to the reason he was sitting in the hole at all. So he pulled the artefact out and peered at it carefully, before his eyes widened as it began to shine and seemed to pull itself magnetically into a small whole in the centre of the floor beneath him.

So he pushed the key into the socket and clenched his eyes shut as the light that shot out around him seemed to try it's damn hardest to blind him.

o0o

Brynjolf decided that, after meeting her for a second time, Nocturnal was a rather frustrating and mysterious being who rather liked using annoying cryptic phrases that made his head hurt and teasing her mortal servants. Regardless, with the Skeleton Key returned she did seem particularly grateful. There was some obligatory ceremonial thing in which he was invited to became a Nightingale Sentinel, and then, just like the flash of magic in which she had arrived, Nocturnal disappeared again.

Which left Brynjolf pursing his lips and glancing around the room he'd somehow found himself in after returning the key and wondering where the hell he was. Then, his eyes landed on Karliah, who had probably been there the entire time and moved to approach her, before noticing her gaze was fixated on something behind him. So he turned around to find Gallus approaching again.

Karilah froze up like the permafrost that persisted mercilessly in the most northern parts of Skyrim. Brynjolf sighed, grabbed her arm, and dragged her towards the ghost of her dead lover because so help him, if he'd been forced to confront his dead parents and closest friend today, then she would be forced to confront her dead lover too.

Gallus' name slipped from her lips in barely more than a whisper and it was all Brynjolf could do to step away and smile softly as she collapsed into the ghost's arms. He wouldn't even hold it against her later that he could hear her crying.

And then it occurred to him that someone was singing, a soft, lilting tune that he distantly remembered hearing as a baby. Brynjolf glanced up to see his parents, now restored completely with the return of the Skeleton Key, standing nearby. They were smiling at him, but it couldn't last and after a few minutes the three ghosts in the room slowly disappeared. Yet, it was enough for him, and as he glanced at Karliah and saw the small smile tugging at her lips, he knew it was enough for her as well.

o0o

When the Thieves Guild celebrated, they did not do it in half measures or with only part of their hearts committed to what they were doing. Some might even say they were too committed to what they were doing, given the way Vipir had loudly started blabbering about his various (most likely not true) sexual escapades. Brynjolf could only laugh as he strode through the flagon with Phaeril at his side. He wasn't particularly sure when they had all started celebrating, but he highly suspected it might have been from the moment that Frederick had told them Mercer was dead several days earlier. He and Karliah had only just arrived back themselves.

Phaeril stopped in her tracks and he glanced at her questioningly, before realising she was staring at Delvin. The old man took a few moments to realise someone was looking at him, and when he looked up at the elf he paled and swallowed thickly.

“Er,” he started awkwardly.

“Delvin.” Phaeril crossed her arms over her chest and cocked her head at the old man. “Why am I not surprised to find you here?”

“I swear, I didn't tell Astrid nuffing,” Delvin protested a little too loudly. “Once I realised Bryn was sweet on ya I kept my bloody mouth shut!”

“I'm sure.” When Delvin opened his mouth to retort something else, she shook her head and interrupted him with a smirk. “You're going to do me a favour, Delvin.”

“Am I?” the old man asked somewhat dumbly.

“Yes.” Phaeril's features turned into a sneer. “Tell Astrid I'm dead... that way she won't see me coming when I go for her throat.”

“Aye, yes, will do, miss!”

“All this time you were still nurturing your ties with the Dark Brotherhood,” Brynjolf murmured with a glower at the old man. “Even after I explicitly told you that if you wanted to stay in this guild you'd need to have nothing to do with them?”

“At least I'm not bedding one of their bleeding assassins,” Delvin pointed out bluntly. “You damn hypocrite.”

“That's not the same and you know it!” Brynjolf snapped.

“Just sayin',” Delvin continued with a grin and weighed both his hands up in the air metaphorically, “screwing an assassin or doing some innocent business deals with them-”

“You wouldn't know innocent if somebody tied you up and spanked you with it,” Brynjolf retorted hotly.

There was a snicker nearby from Vex and the redhead sighed, rolled his eyes and excuse himself from the conversation. He couldn't really be furious with Delvin, he knew the old sod would never truly betray the guild but he felt like he needed to make Delvin at least think that he was pissed for a bit, otherwise people might think he was getting soft.

He sat himself down at a table by himself and Phaeril joined him silently. After a few moments of sulking, she chuckled quietly to herself and he glanced at her. “You know Delvin, then?”

“He's... acquired things for the Brotherhood over the years and been our main fence,” she said. “But I never worked with him directly, it was always through Astrid.”

Brynjolf stared at her. “Why?”

“Because I think I didn't want to be reminded of you,” she replied with a frown.

“That's probably the reason I forbade us having any ties to your guild either,” Brynjolf admitted. Then, he frowned and added, “and also because at the time I wanted nothing more than your heart on a platter.”

“I'm glad we're past that point,” Phaeril muttered. There was a seconds silence, and then they both laughed.

The thieves continued to celebrate well into the early hours of the morning, with Brynjolf observing multiple unsuccessful attempts by various members of the guild to get into Vex's pants. It was rather amusing at first, and then it started to irritate him, until he almost stood up and said something, had Delvin not beaten him too it. Granted, Delvin was particularly drunk, so his attempt at standing up for Vex was sloppy at best. But the little spitfire seemed to appreciate his gesture, or was just equally inebriated, because she grabbed the old man roughly by the collar and smashed a messy kiss to his lips. Which made Brynjolf feel rather awkward and uncomfortable. After all, she would always be like his little baby sister, and seeing her intimate with another man, even if she was an adult woman now, made him somewhat queasy.

Phaeril laughed and touched his arm, snapping him out of his thoughts and pulling his attention towards her. She inclined her head towards the cistern and the silent idea she was proposing to him, he realised, was a rather welcome one.

He was exhausted, and perhaps it was because he was getting old, but he couldn't face staying up drinking until the sun rose like his guildmates seemed intent on doing. So he followed her out of the flagon and hoped that the loud, off tune singing of Niruin and Cynric would be drowned out by the thick brick walls.

Chapter Text

This was quite good target practice if he did say so himself. Brynjolf closed one eye and concentrated really hard as he aimed his slingshot. He held his breath momentarily to steady himself, and then released the bullet. The bullet, which was actually a snowberry, hit the target right where he wanted it to. And by that, it meant that the snowberry splatted onto the back of Brand-Shei's neck. The dunmer turned around and frowned a little. Brynjolf ducked out of sight and suppressed a chuckle.

“You are so immature,” Frederick drawled from beside him.

It had been months since they dealt with the mess with Mercer, and since Brynjolf had been forced into a temporary position as Guildmaster, he'd been immeasurably stressed from his new role. Leadership was never something he wanted, and he hated the fact that everyone looked at him to rebuild the guild. So perhaps it wasn't so surprising he was using this as a way to vent his stress.

The redhead glowered at him and sat up properly once more when Brand-Shei turned away. He readied another snowberry and took aim again. Frederick sighed. “What do you even have against Brand-Shei anyway?”

“Nothing,” Brynjolf replied slowly as he concentrated. “He just annoys me. And he's always so suspicious of my falmer blood elixirs, I think he knows...”

“It's not like it's difficult to see through your bullshit,” Frederick said with a shrug. “You're a pretty over the top actor, it's kind of painful to watch.”

“Hmmph.” Brynjolf chose not to reply in any other manner and released another snowberry. This time it hit Brand-Shei on the cheek.

The dunmer span around furious, and spotted the two of them sitting there. Except Brynjolf had sneakily dumped his slingshot into Frederick's lap while he wasn't paying attention, and the other man gave him an exasperated look as Brand-Shei marched over and started berating him instead of Brynjolf as the redhead slipped away.

After a few moments Frederick managed to escape the dnumer and caught up with him. He looked angry but Brynjolf just smiled sweetly at him.

“I should hit you,” the blond muttered.

“But you won't.”

“I know.” Frederick's features twisted into a malicious look. “Because I'm going to tell you something else which well be so much better as revenge.”

Brynjolf frowned but the blond continued. “You know your private quarters in the guild? There's a huge hole in the wall behind the bed.”

“What,” was the best remark he could think of saying.

“Every single time you've screwed Phaeril in there we've heard everything.”

He stopped dead in his tracks and wondered if it was physically possible to die of embarrassment. Frederick fluttered his eyelashes at him and the words that left his lips next made Brynjolf blush so furiously his cheeks matched the colour of his hair.

“So when you told Phaeril that you wanted to make her scream so loudly that everyone in Riften would hear-”

“God's, shut up, please,” he begged.

“'Don't toy with me, Brynjolf,'” Frederick quoted with surprising accuracy of the elf's voice. “'I've never been with a nord before you, you're so-'”

“Shut up!” the redhead clasped a hand around the blond's mouth. “For the love of all that is holy in this world, shut up!”

Frederick grinned at him then mumbled into his hand, “big.”

Something in Brynjolf snapped and he threw the blond to the ground in retaliation as his fingers moved to his sides and found the ticklish spot that made him beg for mercy. Frederick would pay dearly for this. And then Brynjolf would go and fix that hole in the wall straight away before the next time he saw Phaeril.

Which he wasn't entirely sure when that would be. Since defeating Mercer, she'd left a couple of weeks ago with the intent of taking back the Dark Brotherhood from Astrid's hands (which didn't impress him) and he hadn't heard from her since. He hoped he'd see her again soon.

o0o

If she knew anything about her deputy usurper, then it was how predictable she was. Phaeril knew that she could manipulate Astrid to her own will purely because she knew what the usurper would do before she'd even done it. Astrid may be bloodthirsty and power hungry, but it was also her biggest flaw. And Phaeril would manipulate it, even to the nord's death, because she had no intention of sparing the woman after she tried to have her killed.

So that was the reason that she took the contract from the little boy in Windhelm to kill the matron of the orphanage in Riften. It wasn't because she needed the money, but because she knew if she executed it perfectly, if she stole a contract from the Dark Brotherhood and brandished herself as a meticulous, deadly accurate assassin – Astrid wouldn't be able to resist her.

Phaeril didn't particularly have anything against the matron of the Riften orphanage, Grelod as she was known, but a contract was a contract, and if the boy in Windhelm was true, then she probably deserved it anyway. The elf chose the middle of the day to stage her assassination, not because she was arrogant and full of herself, but if rumour suggested that Grelod had been murdered in front of the very children she cared for, in the bright of day, Astrid would be ecstatic. Perhaps Phaeril should have cared if she might scar the children for life, but she had a fairly good idea that any scarring at seeing their matron die in front of their eyes would be offset from the freedom of being in the matron's care at all.

She scouted the property, found a window that was slightly ajar and grinned ever so slightly to herself. She wedged the window open further, then stepped back and poised an arrow on her bow. Grelod was in perfect view, and it only took one accurate, well timed shot sailing through the open window and into her throat to complete the assassination.

Then, almost as easily as she'd come, Phaeril disappeared from the site of the crime. She made her way to the graveyard with the intention of visiting the Thieves Guild, before bumping into Brynjolf as she rounded the corner of the temple. He blinked at her surprised, and it took him several moments to even seem to register it was actually her.

Then, he blurted her name a little dumbly, smiled and reached to pull her towards him. She hesitated because she could hear the guards shouting in reaction to her murder. Brynjolf seemed to catch on and narrowed his eyes at her. “What did you do?”

“Always so suspicious,” she replied defensively. When he raised an eyebrow at her accusingly, she scoffed and tugged on his arm.

He obliged, following her into the cistern but the moment they were clear of the surface he grabbed her by the waist and pulled her into the guild masters private quarters, which were now his. She curled into him and twisted in his grasp until her arms rested on his chest and she could lean up to brush her lips against him.

A grin stole at her lips when she felt the little shudder that wavered through him, but he defiantly pushed her away and held her there at arms length with a suspicious stare. For all his reputation, he apparently could rein in his desires when he really wanted to.

“What did you do?” he asked again, more insistently.

“Just starting on the path to reclaiming my Brotherhood,” she replied casually.

“By killing someone, I presume?” he asked and his eyes were narrowed and suspicious.

Phaeril scowled. “She deserved it.”

“Nobody deserves death,” he retorted almost angrily.

She chose not to mention Mercer in that point in time, because she had a fairly good idea that it would only make him pissed. So, instead, she said, “Grelod did.”

“You killed Grelod the Kind?” His hostile look vanished and the smallest of smiles tugged at his lips. “Fine, I will admit she probably did deserve to die.”

She grinned at him and he shook his head, then his hand reached up to brush her cheek and cup her jaw. “I missed you,” he whispered.

“I missed you too,” she replied, and in that moment she didn't even care how stupid she might have sounded.

o0o

“You're committed to this, then?” Brynjolf asked carefully as he watched Phaeril smear the dark paste she'd made out of a plant root into her hair. It smelt pungent and unpleasant, making him scrunch his nose up and frown.

“Yes,” Phaeril replied as she raked the paste through her locks until they were all coated. “The Dark Brotherhood has been my life for almost forty years, I won't let Astrid ruin it with her greed.”

“You could just forget about it altogether,” he suggested as she glanced at her stained hands, before dipping them into the water off the pier they were sitting on to rinse them. Behind was his parents home. He'd been returning to it more and more since seeing them in the Sepulcher, and had even considered repairing the dilapidated roof.

“And stay in Riften?” Phaeril asked as the majority of the paste washed off her skin, though some of it seemed to stain and refuse to budge, tanning her palms a dark brown. “With the Thieves Guild?”

“Sure.”

She shook her head. “I can't let Astrid run the Brotherhood into the ground, or give her the satisfaction of thinking she got rid of me.”

He grabbed at her arm. “Just forget about it.” She stilled, then glowered at him and he sighed, then scowled and gave up. “Never mind.”

She dropped the subject, staring at her browned hands in her lap in silence until he carefully broke it again. “I guess this is where it all started in a way.”

“I guess,” was the rather flat reply he got from her.

And that broke the last straw for him. He gave her an unimpressed look, noted the way she sort of shrugged awkwardly at him, and pushed her effortlessly into the lake. She couldn't even have tried to resist him, being so small and tiny as she was, and when she surfaced, spluttering ever so slightly, he could only grin at her. He didn't even try and stop her when she reached up, grabbed him by his collar and yanked him into the water as well.

It was cold, and he gasped from the shock when he surfaced, shaking his head like the dog he'd so often been accused of being to get the water out of his hair.

“Little minx,” he growled playfully as he grabbed her by the waist and pulled her into his arms. She laughed and tried half heartedly to get away from him, before turning and smiling as his head bowed down to meet hers.

Her hands found their way to his cheeks and she gazed up at him, her black eyes reflecting in the sunlight like polished obsidian. “You're lucky you didn't do that earlier, otherwise I'd have to dye my hair all over again.”

He smirked at her, noting how the paste that she'd worked into her hair had washed off into the water. Her hair was virtually black now, but he suspected part of it was because it was still wet.

“And what would you do if I had done it earlier?” he teased.

The corner of her lips pulled ever so slightly and her eyes flashed with a mixture of teasing and danger. Then, she leant up and pressed a kiss to his lips. He angled his head into their embrace, his hands trailing up under her shirt to caress the skin on her back. But she stilled under his touch and pulled away.

“What?” he asked softly.

She didn't reply and stared at him. He reached for her shirt and she didn't resist him as he pulled it up and over her head. She turned, showing her back and he sighed as his fingers trailed down the massive tattoo on her back. It was intricate and detailed, if grotesque and it emphasised everything about the Dark Brotherhood he couldn't stand.

“You have to leave them,” he murmured.

“I can't,” was the only reply he got from her.

o0o

“I'm leaving for Windhelm in a few days,” she started as they walked back to Riften.

“But you just got here,” Brynjolf protested a little more forthrightly than he might have wanted.

“I'm sorry.” She glanced at him and genuinely seemed to be apologetic. He sighed, raked a hand through his hair and shook his head. “I just... I need to do this.”

She stopped in her tracks and gazed at him pointedly and he pursed his lips, then shrugged in defeat. Instead, he settled for, “just be careful.”

She nodded and they continued on their path. After a few moments he glanced at her. “Frederick mentioned you'd never had someone genuinely care to know you before me.”

“I thought you were bizarre that first time you talked to me during my initiation,” Phaeril replied with a small chuckle. “This strange nord with ridiculously coloured hair who actually cared to know about me.”

He scoffed a little at her comment about his hair, but she smiled at him and he realised it was meant light-heartedly. “You weren't so normal yourself.”

She raised an eyebrow at him, so he continued. “You were the first woman who wasn't repulsed by my reputation or tried to get into bed with me because of it.” He paused momentarily as he considered what he was trying to get at. “You were just... indifferent, it was like you didn't even care once you knew how promiscuous I was.”

“Why should I?” she asked with a shrug.

“Every other woman I've met has cared one way or another,” he replied with a pointed look. “But you didn't. Was that real, or just part of your facade to get to Gallus through me?”

“I think it was all real,” she replied with a frown. “I just didn't want to admit it.”

That brought a smile to his lips, and he reached for her hand, her fingers twining with his as Riften's city gates came within sight.

Chapter Text

“Word travels fast,” Astrid drawled as she twisted a dagger in her fingers. “The way you butchered that poor, defenceless woman...” Her lips curled into a malicious grin. “Those dear children, scarred for life they must be.”

“From what I heard they'll be better off without her,” Phaeril replied carefully.

She'd taken great measures to hide herself, and every word, every movement had to be carefully orchestrated before she even did it to make sure she blended in. Compared to infiltrating the thieves guild, this was a million times harder. Here everyone knew her, there she'd only had to not act suspiciously, rather than completely mask everything about who she was and how she acted.

Astrid was smitten with her style and bloodthirst just as she'd planned. And so far, the dying of her hair to a dark brown and a flower extract boiled into a potion to change her voice, the adoption of another fake name, Leira, and careful acting, was enough of a disguise to deflect any suspicion. So long as nobody went and ripped off the material she had draped around over her face like a mask or saw the tattoos on her body, nobody would be any the wiser.

“Who cares if it was a good kill?” Astrid's eyes flashed and the elf couldn't help but narrow her gaze at the other woman, judging her, trying to read her thoughts but finding only malice. “Maybe one day they'll follow in your footsteps and turn into killers themselves.”

“Maybe.” The conversation ended there, and Astrid considered her for a few moments, before ushering her further into the Dark Brotherhood sanctuary and introducing her to the rest of her new 'family.'

o0o

It had been a frustrating morning, as it was most days now that he had been made guildmaster. Brynjolf had been stuck behind a wall of papers and documents, trying to figure out how the guild should proceed and co-ordinating a buyer with Delvin for the eyes of the falmer.

But, unfortunately for him, he felt as if he didn't get anything done at all, and after a few hours Brynjolf had enough and left the cistern. He figured a walk in the fresh air might clear his head, or at least be a good excuse to procrastinate.

Then, as he walked through the market square, he saw Frederick approaching. The other nord man didn't look so good and Brynjolf cocked his head at him. Frederick was swaying a little bit. Perhaps he was drunk? But it was a bit early in the day to be pissed already, and even then, Frederick didn't really drink that much anyway. Brynjolf could maybe count one or two times he'd seen the other man become really noticeably inebriated.

When Frederick bashed into a wall and stumbled so much he almost fell over, Brynjolf knew something was definitely not right. He tried to walk over as casually as he could but he couldn't help himself walking a little bit faster than would be considered normal, because Frederick was tilting with unfocused eyes and he realised as he got closer that the colour of his skin was definitely not natural.

“Ey, Frederick,” he started softly and reached a hand out to support the other man.

He didn't even get the chance to try and catch Frederick, he'd collapsed to the ground and retched in seconds.

When the other man croaked out, “Bryn, I can't see,” he knew there was something very, very wrong.

o0o

So much had changed in the time she'd been away from the Sanctuary, and yet, in some ways, nothing had changed either. The people were still the same, but all her belongings had been trashed and discarded and the murals and tapestries of Sithis and the Nightmother destroyed. Still, she'd managed to infiltrate them, and it made Phaeril realise that once she got her rightful position back, she'd need to make some serious changes to the security of this place.

But she was still careful and on edge, because she'd come too far to screw up now and be found out.

“So why do you cover yourself up like that all the time?” The little angelic voice pierced her concentration and Phaeril stood upright from where she'd been inconspicuously rifling through a bookshelf for any information that might prove useful.

She knew it was Babette straight away. In truth, she'd never really minded the girl. To say she liked the vampire might have been a bit much, but she appreciated that Babette had a good deal more clarity and intelligence than half the murderers in the Brotherhood.

“I have burn scars on my face,” Phaeril replied carefully. “They're hideous... and they scare children.”

Babette scoffed, but when she heard the elf's faint chuckle she seemed to understand it was a joke and relaxed. The little vampire girl trodded over, hoisted herself up onto a table in the middle of the room and let her legs dangle as she continued the conversation.

“What do you think of Astrid, then?”

“I hardly know her,” Phaeril replied with a shrug.

“She's not as good as our last leader,” Babette continued with a frown and glanced over her shoulders, presumably to make sure they were still alone.

Phaeril paused. “Oh?”

“She's driving this place into the ground.” Babette pursed her lips. “Sure, it was falling apart with our last Listener, but at least she tried to hold it together.”

“You think the Dark Brotherhood will be a thing of the past soon?” Phaeril asked, containing the growl she felt rise in her throat at the mention of what Astrid was doing to her people.

“Maybe.” Babette looked up at her pointedly. “But it seems like you've been making waves around here since you arrived, maybe you'll turn it around before it's too late.”

Then the little girl skipped off again, leaving Phaeril to frown and watch her leave. After a few moments she turned back to the bookshelf she'd been inspecting, and noticed something glimmering stuffed between two books. She pulled it out, the long golden necklace chain dangling on her fingers as she stared at the medallion that hung on it. It as the pendant Xael had given her once and Phaeril snarled, threw it into a wall and watched as the jewel on it smashed into pieces against the bricks.

Furious from the memories it conjured of the abusive man she'd put behind her, she stormed out of the room and almost walked into Astrid's pet werewolf husband.

“Get out of my way, you mongrel halfbreed,” Phaeril snapped at him. Arnbjorn's wolfish eyes narrowed at her and his nose twitched as he sniffed the air but she was too angry to care, and far from it considered that he might walk into the room and find the smashed amulet lying on the floor.

o0o

Brynjolf took Frederick to the temple and they cared for him, found him a bed and wrapped him up in blankets but it didn't make a difference. The blond shook and shivered, coughing as if he were trying to retch up his lungs and half delirious. It was difficult to watch but the redhead stood by his side, with his arms crossed and a frown on his features until one of the priests approached him and pulled him away.

“I'm sorry,” the priest started when they were alone in a room.

“What?” Brynjolf said flatly.

“There's nothing I can do for him.”

“What medicine does he need?” the redhead asked. “I'll get it for you, doesn't matter what it costs.”

The priest raised an eyebrow, but then shook his head. “He's been dying for months, using his restoration magic to keep himself going but it's too much. There isn't anything anyone can do for him now.”

Brynjolf gaped at him, because he didn't quite want to believe what he was saying. He'd noticed Frederick's health wavered recently, but he'd presumed it wasn't anything serious. Maybe he'd been too consumed with the rollercoaster of Phaeril being back in his life and Mercer, or he couldn't bare to lose another person in his life he cared for.

“What does he have?” the redhead asked eventually, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“Timerot,” the priest replied. “It's a wasting disease that takes decades to succumb to, it usually only gets a foothold on people who've had something else that weakens their body's ability to defend itself.”

Brynjolf cursed softly to himself and raked a hand through his hair. “Almost three decades ago we got caught in a trap, it left us unconscious and sick, made our hair fall out-”

“That was probably the trigger,” the priest interrupted sadly.

“Then why in Oblivion did it happen to him and not me?” Brynjolf snapped, then winced as he reminded himself it wasn't exactly the priest's fault any of this was happening in the first place.

“Because you weren't infected with Timerot to begin with, he was. But from what you described I doubt you got off easy either.”

“I haven't had any issues,” Brynjolf replied, but the priest shook his head and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Whatever trap you got caught in was strong enough to obliterate both your body's defences and let your friend's infection get a hold over him,” he started gently. “And I can almost guarantee you that if it was strong enough to do that, it would have made the both of you infertile as well.”

Those words were all it took to force Brynjolf to his knees, cradle his head in his hands and stare blankly at the floor in disbelief and denial.

o0o

He stood by Frederick through the night and into the early hours of the morning. The blond was barely conscious most of the time, his chest heaving with coughs and sweats eventually drenching his shivering body. It was all Brynjolf could do to press a wet cloth to his forehead and hold his hand, his thumb rubbing mindless circles against his palm as if it would somehow make a difference.

But it didn't, and after hours of watching him struggle for life, Frederick went still and rigid. In some ways it was a mercy, the peace of his body stilled from it's rigours and shaking. Brynjolf sat beside him in disbelief for what might have been hours, he honestly didn't know any more. He felt numb, unable to feel tired or hungry, unable to comprehend and far less want to what had just happened.

Someone rushed up to him after a few moments, he could hear their footsteps, but it was only when a woman gasped and he recognised the sound of her voice that he glanced up at her. Vex had her hands clasped around her mouth. Maybe she'd come to find him because he'd been gone so long.

“Is he-”

“He's dead,” Brynjolf interrupted simply, matter of factly, as if he couldn't think to bring any emotions into his voice because he didn't have any to express.

Vex stared at him, disbelieving, her pretty face framed by her windswept hair. “What do you mean?”

“I mean he's fucking gone, Vex,” Brynjolf snapped. Anger was the only thing left now and he grabbed a vase from a nearby anger in frustration. “And I'll never have children either.”

He scoffed and threw the vase into the wall. It smashed into a thousand pieces and he knew, deep down, he'd feel bad about it later. “Because God's help me, that was the one thing I wanted most in life.”

“Brynjolf,” she whispered gently and stepped towards him.

He broke down in that moment, burying his face in his hands and unable to hold back the tears that streamed down his cheeks. She held him, comforting him and it helped, albeit bleakly, because she was the closest thing he still had alive to family. And now, given what he'd learnt today, she was the only thing he'd ever have close to family aside from Phaeril.

Chapter Text

The wind blew through the graveyard. It tangled his hair and sent a chill through his body, but he wouldn't leave, he couldn't.

They buried Frederick here. It was a small ceremony, but it was meaningful and far more difficult for him to get through than he thought it would have been. Phaeril hadn't been there, perhaps it would have been easier if she was, or perhaps he would have snapped at her and made the day worse.

A few days later Brynjolf received word that she'd be back in Riften soon, and it made him feel somewhat better at least in the fact he might have someone who didn't care if he held her against him all night long because sleeping by himself had become strangely lonely since Frederick died. Everything felt lonely, the guild felt dead with grief. The older members didn't talk, they walked around in a daze until one of the younger ones who didn't know Frederick as well tried to lighten things up but it never worked.

"Karliah said you'd be here." It was Phaeril's voice, and she sat down next to him, gazing at him with a pained expression. "I'm sorry."

He found her hand on the ground and took it in his own, a sigh escaping his lips as she leant into his side. "I know. So am I. But I guess he'll be with Nocturnal now... and Gallus."

He glanced at her and she bit her lip, then murmured a noise of assent. His eyes narrowed at her a little more critically as he chose his next words.

"Which is exactly where I'll go as well when I die." He paused, then added pointedly, "Without you."

"Don't bring this up again-"

"Why? Do you think if we ignore the fact your soul is given to Sithis that it won't be true any more?" he snapped and she winced, then glowered at him.

"Don't do this now," she interrupted far softer than he'd expected. "Please."

He sighed, his brow furrowing and a curse escaping his lips before his features relaxed and he looked at her apologetically. "Sorry, it's just-"

"Just let me take back the Brotherhood from Astrid, then..." She paused for a moment, then nodded ever so slightly. "Then we can talk."

"Fine." His hold on her hand tightened a little bit, as if to emphasise his apology and she returned it with a squeeze, which made him feel better somewhat. "Is that why you're back in Riften?"

"Yes," she replied. "I need Delvin to appraise an amulet we received as payment for a contract, before we execute it. To make sure it's genuine."

"Who's the target?"

She glanced sidelong at him and the thinnest of smiles pulled at the corner of her lips. "Just some political figure."

o0o

The competency and security of her Brotherhood had well and truly reached an all time low if this nutjob jester had managed to cause such a commotion and threat. This would never have happened if she had been in charge, purely because she would managed the whole damn situation properly from the beginning. Or maybe just killed the stupid fool outright.

Phaeril stalked away from Dawnstar with her fists clenched and towards the abandoned Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary she'd found, and presumably towards Cicero and that idiot Arnbjorn who'd gone after him. She actually hoped she'd find the werewolf dead, he'd been acting strange, and she was fairly certain he was suspicious of her. So he needed to go, and if Cicero did the job for her, all the better.

Unfortunately the jester hadn't been as successful as she'd hoped, because she saw the nord werewolf slumped in front of a black Sanctuary door. He was covered in blood, but as she got closer she realised he was still alive.

But she could correct that easily.

Phaeril ripped the mask of her face. She wanted him to see who it was that killed him. Malice was setting in now, but she didn't care. She hadn't felt like this in months, and certainly not since Brynjolf had come back into her life.

She winced at that thought. He'd pulled the self-destructive bloodlust out of her like poison from a wound, but she was succumbing to it again at the prospect of killing a man who'd made her life hell as Astrid's precious lapdog.

Phaeril shoved the thought of Brynjolf out of her mind to focus herself, and sneered as she approached Arnbjorn. He recognised her quickly and tried to crawl away, but he was too wounded and instead he only growled at her.

"I knew it was you." His teeth sharpened, perhaps he thought he could take her on as a werewolf, but he didn't get the chance.

"Congratulations," she snarled and a dagger embedded in his neck swiftly and lethally. She reached down, wrenched the blade out of his dead body and pocketed it once more. "Worthless beast."

Then, just as easily as she'd ended his life, she marched into the Sanctuary in search of the insane jester. She hadn't mind her mind up about his life yet, but really, she didn't care either way.

o0o

Brynjolf realised now that he wasn't particularly good at coping with stress. And he wasn't particularly good at coping with being guildmaster, either. In fact, he was spectacularly awful at it and didn't enjoy it one bit. Perhaps if he'd been more ambitious and vied for the role when he was younger, he'd be better at it, but he never wanted it, and it only made it worse now that he was expected to fulfil the role since Mercer died.

It was almost like the guild was going backwards again because he didn't know what he was doing, but Karliah reassured him that he certainly couldn't do any worse by the guild than Mercer, so he must at least be making things slightly better. If not as much as people might have hoped.

It was tiring him and preying on his thoughts constantly, and the only real thing that took his mind off things was the children from the orphanage. Not even Phaeril could calm him as much as those children did, although she certainly made it better when she was around as opposed to when she was absent. Like she was right now. But he'd received word that she'd be back in Riften again soon.

A smile pulled at Brynjolf's lips as he threw a ball towards one of the orphans. The realisation that he could never really be a father hurt, but it helped seeing the children of the orphanage, and since their horrible previous matron had been murdered (justly) by Phaeril, he'd been sneaking some small amounts of coin to the new matron to help them out. Of course, no one knew it was him that was funding the orphanage, but it made him smile whenever one of the children ran up to him, gushing about the new toy or blankets they'd received.

But, however much it calmed him to play with the children, he couldn't stay there forever, and eventually he returned to the Cistern, forcing back his dread at the mountain pile of paperwork that was awaiting him.

When he reached the Cistern, Karliah grabbed his attention rather quickly and ambushed him before he'd even reached the pile of paperwork.

"We need another Nightingale," she started gently, but forcefully. "Now that Frederick's..."

She trailed off, her brows creasing and Brynjolf winced as the painful memories of his closest friend resurfaced. He still hadn't really dealt with those emotions either.

"The trinity has to be restored," Karliah continued a little softer, and she gave him an empathetic look. "Or we end up right where we started again with Mercer."

She seemed to have dealt with Frederick's death better than he had, and Brynjolf highly suspected it was because she reassured herself with knowledge she'd see both him and Gallus again at Nocturnal's side. For Brynjolf, even that knowledge was only a weak consolation for the fact Frederick was dead in the first place.

Brynjolf sighed and scratched at the stubble on his jaw. "Who do you have in mind?"

"I'm not sure," Karliah replied and chewed on her lip. "Vex, maybe?"

"If you want to try talking to her then please, do it," Brynjolf said, and he regretted the irritation that was seeping into his voice because he didn't want to take his frustration out on her. "I really don't have time to do it at the moment, and besides, Vex is over the I-want-to-gut-you phase of your relationship anyway."

Karliah smiled thinly, but then nodded and slipped away. At least he knew he could rely on her help with all the chaos going on, which made him feel marginally better.

o0o

"Lass, I really don't have time at the moment." He gave Phaeril an empathetic look as he sat at his table in the cistern, filing through some very important documents about something or other. She didn't look impressed, judging by the way she was crossing her arms and was seething at him.

"You're always busy," she pointed out. She'd returned to Riften that morning, and come to see him first thing.

"Well, there's a lot to do since that whole mess with Mercer and-" Brynjolf stopped himself as she leant over the desk, forcing him to look up at her because the alternative meant looking at her breasts which he didn't particularly think was the best idea while they were in the Cistern.

She smiled at him, walked around the desk and pulled him from his chair. He obliged, if only because he really needed a distraction from what he'd been doing, and because he missed her. When she wrapped her arms around his waist and leant up to kiss him, he grinned and pulled her closer, deciding that as everyone already knew they were a 'thing', he didn't really care if he embraced her in the Cistern after all.

But she broke away after a few moments and tugged him towards his private quarters. He hesitated though, and she raised an eyebrow at him in question. "There's still a huge hole in the wall between my room and the flagon."

He wasn't sure if he'd told her about the hole in the first place, but she didn't ask him what he meant, so either he had or she'd put the pieces together herself. "Well, then I guess you'll just have to be quiet."

He couldn't stop the grin that formed on his features and as she led him into the room, all his thoughts about paperwork and the guild blissfully vanished.

o0o

"No." Vex gave Karliah a blunt look which spoke volumes of how she absolutely wouldn't budge in her opinion. "Absolutely no. Not joining your band of crazy, and definitely not tying myself down to some daedra either."

"You tied yourself down to Delvin pretty quick," Niruin pointed out as they sat in the flagon. The elf probably could have thought through what he'd said better before saying it, in Brynjolf's opinion, because Vex threw a mug at him and he only just dodged it.

"Hey!" Vekle protested from the barcounter. "No throwing my-"

"Oh, stow it you drunkard," Vex interrupted rudely.

Karliah sighed frustratedly and gave the blonde a pleading look. "Why not? And Niruin has a point-"

"Tying myself down to Delvin is not an afterlife long commitment," Vex pointed out. "Which is about the only kind of commitment I can manage, even on the good days."

Brynjolf snorted a little to himself, and thankfully, Vex didn't hear him. He tuned out of the conversation after that, only hearing snippets of Karliah pleading and Vex replying with various expletives and the like. They'd stopped trying to keep the Nightingale's secret from the rest of the guild since Mercer's death. It seemed like a good idea at the time, and he hoped it would stop anything as catastrophic happening again if they were more open about the Nightingale's existence. Of course, they hadn't told the rest of the guild everything, only that the Nightingale's existed, and a few other bits of information Karliah didn't think would compromise their cause.

Phaeril laughed gently at the scene unfolding between them, and he glanced at her, a smile pulling at his lips. She'd been in a good mood since returning to Riften this time, and he wasn't completely sure why, but he had the suspicion that it meant her work with the Brotherhood was going well, but he hadn't asked. A mug went sailing across the room and into a wall after a few moments, and Brynjolf flinched at the noise, then chuckled.

"I think I need a holiday," he mused to himself.

"I'm going to Solitude in a few days," Phaeril replied. "Come with me."

"Mmmm." He had to admit he did like the idea of it, and he felt as if he deserved it as well. Perhaps he could dump some of his work onto Delvin as punishment for also refusing to become a Nightinale. "I think I'd like that."

Phaeril grinned at him. "Great. You can help me make history."

In that moment, Brynjolf highly suspected he'd just sighed himself up for something he hadn't bargained for.

Chapter Text

“Just so I'm clear I'm getting this right,” Brynjolf started with a particularly amazed, disbelieving look as they sat at a campfire on their way to Solitude. “You're going to try and kill the Emperor.”

It wasn't really a question, but Phaeril scoffed at him, presumably at the mention of the word try and it's suggestion that she might not succeed. Then, she nodded, and Brynjolf gaped at her somewhat like a fish.

“Is that really a good idea?” he continued. “You know, what with the civil war and everything.”

“It's more of a cold war, Brynjolf, and I'm not planning on letting the Stormcloak's take credit for the kill.”

Brynjolf sighed and pouted ever so slightly, then added, “It's always a cold war in Skyrim.”

She laughed at him, then cringed and scolded him for making such an awful joke.

o0o

Unfortunately, her plan to kill the emperor didn't particularly go to plan. In fact, it went particularly not to plan at all. The emperor that they tried to poison was a double and the entire thing turned out to be a trap, set by Astrid who'd sold them out in return for safety from the Penitus Oculatus – a safety that was only a ploy to discover the real location of the sanctuary and destroy it. They were ambushed when they tried to escape, but even with her chef's disguise on, Phaeril still managed to hurl a throwing knife into the throat of one of the Penitus Oculatus agents trying to arrest (or more likely, kill) them. Where she'd hid the knife, he wasn't sure, and he probably didn't want to know either.

Regardless, they finished off the agents without too much difficulty, although he had to admit that fighting in a chef's garb was both a first for him and not particularly easy. He got slashed across his arm which hurt, but Phaeril seemed to escape unscathed. Perhaps she had more experience being ambushed while in clothes that weren't combat ready. Still, she stopped and tore a piece of cloth off her apron and tied it firmly around his forearm to stifle the bleeding a bit.

Then, she lead him up to the top of a guard tower from the ramparts they were on, and simply stopped there.

“Oh, I do hope you have a plan,” Brynjolf drawled as he glanced gingerly over the edge of tower and into the ocean and rocks below.

“Please, Brynjolf,” she replied with a mock hurt. “I'm a professional.”

“You're a professional at killing things,” he replied flatly and rubbed at his sore arm before flinching in pain and stopping, “so you'll forgive me if that doesn't fill me with confidence.”

Phaeril gave him a crooked, almost sadistic grin. He found himself returning it before he could even think to stop himself. She pulled a vial from her apron and gave it to him.

“Drink half of this,” she instructed and gestured down to the sea below them. The cliffs were thin in this part of Solitude, and he reasoned if he jumped he could probably land in the water if he wasn't too unlucky. “Follow me when I jump, and whatever you do – do not surface unless I do.”

He frowned and considered mentioning that he didn't have the capabilities to breath water, given that the last time he checked he wasn't an argonian, but he put two and two together pretty quickly given the potion she'd handed him. He took a gulp of it and drank just over half, then handed it back to her. She finished off the rest.

It was a strange feeling that overcame him then. It wasn't so much unpleasant but uncomfortable, and very bizarre. He could feel something pushing through the skin of his neck and he craned his head and moaned a little. He let his fingers brush over the skin on his neck and felt the most peculiar ridges that had presumably just formed there – gills, if he had a mirror he'd be certain, but he couldn't comprehend what else it could possibly be.

Regardless, Phaeril jumped off the tower and into the water, and he followed suit. The water hit him cold and shocking, but he forced himself not to surface and glanced around under the water for Phaeril. She wasn't far away and then gestured ahead of her. She started swimming and he followed her, able to breath through his new found gills. Eventually she lead him into a flooded drain pipe that he noticed had a broken bar which left just a big enough gap for a person to slip through.

He followed her up through the drain pipe and surfaced. His hair was in his face and he swept his sloppy wet locks back over his head. Moments later he felt the gills retract as the potion wore off. Then, he glanced at Phaeril.

“Why do you have a waterbreathing potion with you?”

“Because I always prepare for the worst,” Phaeril replied with a bitter smile. “And from experience this escape route works rather well.”

She gestured ahead of her and back into the ocean, and he noticed several arrows were being shot into the water, presumably intending on hitting them.

“By not surfacing they don't know we're here, and this drain leads back into the city,” she said and pointed behind her.

“And the city is the last place they'd think to look for us after we've just dived into the ocean, right?”

She grinned at him and nodded. Then, she led him down the drain until it turned into the sewers beneath the city. But they passed several exits to the surface and after awhile he started to frown, before she stopped in a small alcove and started rummaging around in what looked like an abandoned campsite, probably from a homeless person.

“We'll stay here until tomorrow morning,” Phaeril said as she tried to light a fire. “Even if they won't be expecting us in the city, it'd be better to give them some time to fret and search before making a move to escape.”

She gestured beside her and he obliged the opportunity to sit down. After a few moments the stinging in his arm started to become apparent to him again, so he carefully unwrapped the makeshift bandage binding his wound. By the time he'd taken all the cloth off, it was dirty and bloody by now, Phaeril had started a fire and came to join him.

She reached for his arm to help, and he let her silently inspect his wound. Phaeril's eyes narrowed, then she reached for another potion in her clothes. It was red, and as she uncorked the vial and poured it over his wound. He sighed as the thick liquid calmed the pain. Then, she rebandaged his arm with a fresh tearing of cloth from her garments, and he cocked his head at her and grinned.

“You're not going to have any clothes left by the end of this.”

Her lips tugged into a rye smile. “We'll steal some more tomorrow. Besides, we need new disguises to get out of this mess.”

Brynjolf nodded and leant against a wall in the alcove. He cradled his arm carefully in his lap, but it felt much better either way and he was grateful. “How do you know about this place?”

“I... disposed of it's previous owner on a contract a few years ago,” Phaeril replied with a slight frown. “It's been useful for escaping the guard on more than one occasion.”

“Do you often get caught in the act?”

“No,” Phaeril scoffed and then she frowned, a mixture of annoyed and angry. “Even I didn't think Astrid would be so stupid...”

She sighed, raked a hand through her hair and glowered at the fire. “I'll kill her.”

o0o

They slept for some time, although it was difficult to tell the time of day at all in the darkness of the sewers. Instead, Phaeril walked back towards the sea to see if the sun was up, and then returned to tell him it was.

“Good,” Brynjolf said as they made their way to the closest exit from the sewers. “I'm getting somewhat sick of the smell of sewage.”

Phaeril chuckled a little, but didn't reply. They'd come to a stop in front of a ladder, and she started climbing it. Then, she disappeared out the manhole to the surface, so he could only assume she thought it was safe.

He followed her, and the refreshing, bright sunlight and pure air made him sigh with relief. And on the plus side, they weren't immediately arrested either, which he had to consider to be a good thing. Though he wasn't particularly confident he should go around acting too carelessly, just in case.

They stole some clothes and changed into a less obvious civilian outfit, then carefully, cautiously, made their way out of the city. By the time they made it to the stables without somebody calling the alarm, Brynjolf relaxed visibly in the knowing they were probably safe. Once at the stables, they found their horses and took to the road again and started south.

“Are you going back to Falkreath?” Brynjolf asked after a few moments of silence.

Phaeril glanced at him sidelong, her features somewhat obscured by the travelling hood she'd pulled over her head. “Yes, if what the Penitus Oculatus agents said is true...” She smiled ironically and shook her head. “I really want to kill Astrid, but perhaps she'll already be dead for me.”

“That would be convenient.”

“Mmm.”

Brynjolf's lips twitched into a teasing grin and she raised an eyebrow at him, questioningly. “Do your contracts usually end up turning sour, or is it only your bad luck when I'm involved?”

“Oh, its definitely you.” Phaeril grinned at him. “When you're not around, I'm actually very classy.”

o0o

The scene Phaeril was greeted with when she returned to the Falkreath sanctuary was not promising. Brynjolf went his separate way back to Riften while they were still in Whiterun's hold, and the sight before her made her seriously question why she hadn't killed somebody as incompetent as Astrid many, many years ago.

The sanctuary was in flames and falling apart, though she couldn't see any Penitus Oculatus agents yet. That quickly changed when she stepped inside and saw the corpses. At least her people had put up a good fight, because the ground was littered with Oculatus' agent bodies. And the bodies of her own, she noted, as her eyes landed on that of the dunmer, Gabrielle, gutted in a corner.

Infuriated not only at the Oculatus agents but Astrid's blatant betrayal of her sanctuary, Phaeril stalked through the halls in search of anyone still alive. It wasn't easy with the fires and sanctuary deteriorating around her. But she found a group of Oculatus agents gathered in the hall near Arnbjorn's forge, and she killed them without remorse.

Then, dodging a falling inflamed banister, she found Nazir, the redguard, fighting off a few more agents in the mess hall. She helped him finish them off, and it took him a few seconds to recognise her, before he gaped at her in disbelief.

“Phaeril? You're dead-”

“I got better,” she interrupted quickly as the smouldering of a nearby fire caught her attention. “How about we continue this conversation when we aren't at risk of being incinerated?”

He seemed to think that was a good idea, and if she was honest to herself, she did quite like Nazir. He was a good deal less crazy than Astrid, and they'd gotten along quite well before she'd been forced out of the Brotherhood.

Nazir grinned at her. “Astrid's going to freak when she figures out you're still alive.” Then, he frowned and laughed ironically. “If she's still alive.”

“Personally, I'd rather stay alive, given the circumstances,” Phaeril replied, and he nodded as they tried to find an escape.

Chapter Text

If she had to make a list of her daring escapes she'd enacted during her lifetime, hiding in the coffin of the Nightmother was probably up there as one of the best. Having said that, it was somewhat creepy, and it smelt rank and putrid enough to make her gag a little. Still, it was better than being incinerated, all things considered. She'd kind of just jumped into it without really thinking twice about it because the alternative was to be engulfed in the flames tearing through the room.

Phaeril frowned as her eyes adjusted to the darkness of the coffin, then looked around to examine the structure she was hiding in. It was intricately detailed, but as she twisted around inside she had to stifle a gasp as her eyes fixated on the decaying body sharing the coffin with her. From what she could make out it in the darkness, it looked... preserved to stop it completely deteriorating, and Phaeril realised in that moment that Cicero's ranting about the Nightmother maybe hadn't been that crazy after all.

She hadn't really put much faith in what the jester had said before he went lunatic and fled to the Dawnstar sanctuary, and had figured that his ranting about finding the Listener had been that of a madman. But now that she saw the Nightmother's zombified corpse before her, she might need to reconsider her previous opinion of Cicero. Which meant very little considering he was dead by her hand already.

“You...” It came as little more than a hoarse, raspy whisper out of thin air, and it was enough to make Phaeril jump in surprise.

The coffin was shaking now, the muffled noises of people outside could be heard but she couldn't make out what they were saying.

“You,” the same voice repeated again, this time clearer, angrier. “Failure, that dare share my coffin!”

Suddenly, she felt as if the very air was being ripped from her lungs and Phareil choked for breath, her hands coming to her neck as she was strangled alive by whatever magic still persisted in the haunted coffin. She had to get out, that much she knew.

Phaeril clawed and banged at the door to try and pry it open, and just in the moment she felt like the last of the air in her lungs was gone, it fell open and she tumbled out ungracefully to the floor. A floor which was no longer burning, she noted happily.

“Phaeril?” came Babette's surprised, and somewhat amused voice as the elf lay on the ground gasping to fill her lungs with precious air again. “Your class is truly unmatched.”

She glared up at the little vampire girl, but she could only managed it halfheartedly given the circumstances, and rolled onto her back, panting for what might have well been hours.

o0o

The sanctuary was destroyed, she realised as she paced through it once she'd composed herself. It was smouldering ever so slightly in places, and hissing from the quenched flames in others. It couldn't be repaired, not that she'd even try now that the Penitus Oculatus knew about the place. Nazir thought it would be good to look for survivors, though Phaeril had her doubts that anybody could have made it out unless they'd been hiding in the Nightmother's coffin like she had, or in the pool of water in the central chamber like Nazir and Babette.

But some people were stubborn and refused to die, she realised as they reached the small study room at the front of the sanctuary. There, on the ground, barely alive and her skin so charred it resembled a pig on a spit roast, was Astrid.

“Phaeril,” she wheezed brokenly and it took all the elf's self control not to drive a dagger through her charred chest instantly. “Knew it was you when-” she paused for a raspy gasp of air “-when they arrived.”

“Charming,” came Phaeril's reply, dripping in sarcasm and disapproval.

“Performed the Black Sacrament... on myself,” Astrid continued weakly. “Should... make it up, at least a little bit.”

“The only thing that could make up your betrayal would be your soul dragged to Sithis' side and tortured a lifetime over,” she snarled in response.

Astrid laughed bitterly and gave her a sneer. “Never believed in Sithis or his whore bride till today... that was Xael and your thing.”

Phaeril's lips curled into a snarl, but the nord interrupted her once more. “It's yours now, this ruined wreck of a Brotherhood. Finish my contract and they'll be no one in your way.”

“You don't deserve an easy death,” Phaeril replied, though the desire to slit the foolish woman's throat was indeed high. “You deserve to burn to death like every brother and sister's blood that stains your hands today.”

She walked out of the room then, with no remorse or pity as a small flicker of flames grew from her hands and set a nearby smouldering patch on the ground on fire again. Then, she left, before the sanctuary engulfed in flames once more and the screams of the woman who'd done so much to ruin her life filled her ears like music.

o0o

Since abandoning his market stall for becoming guildmaster, he couldn't even remember the last time he went to the marketplace, for business or otherwise. Yet, today Brynjolf found himself wondering between the stalls, browsing halfheartedly and without really any direction. None of the shop keepers had been unpleasant to him, either, so maybe they were starting to forget him and his falmer blood elixir. Or perhaps just stopped caring.

“You see what the courier brought around this morning?” one of the stall owners started casually as the redhead browsed his wares. A jeweller, judging by the abundance of necklaces and rings laid out on the table.

“Hmm?” Brynjolf murmured, then glanced up at him and frowned. The jeweller gestured at a roll of printed paper on the table. It was stamped with yesterday's date, and the redhead frowned as he pulled the roll open and raked his eyes over the text.

One phrase stood out to him immediately, and not only because it was in huge, bold letters.

The Emperor Murdered, Dark Brotherhood Claims Responsibility

“Phaeril...” he whispered to himself.

“What was that?” the jeweller asked pleasantly.

“Nothing,” he dismissed and put the paper down again. But he couldn't stop the tiniest smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Then, his eyes were drawn to an amulet on the table. His brow creased in consideration and his fingers trailed to the coin purse at his waist, and he knew he'd already made his mind up before he even pulled out the first gold piece.

o0o

He didn't realise how much he'd missed her until she walked into Riften a few mornings later. Brynjolf abandoned trying to eavesdrop on a target, and went to her side immediately. Phaeril blinked at him in surprise at first, but then her lips pulled into a small smile as she recognised him. He didn't return the gesture, mostly because his features were set in a steely determination and he grabbed her hand, yanking her around a corner and into an empty alley. He shoved her against a wall perhaps a bit roughly than was necessary and she opened her mouth, probably to snipe an annoyed comment at him, but he pressed a kiss to her lips before she got the chance.

Her arms slipped around his neck as he tilted his head and pushed his tongue into her mouth. The soft moan that rumbled in her throat very near could have driven him mad, but he pulled back to gaze at her with his forehead pressed flat against hers.

“God's,” he breathed a little more desperately than he would have liked. “I missed you too much.”

“I noticed.” The way her lips twitched into the faintest of smirks made him growl and duck his head forward to kiss and nip at her neck.

She didn't waste any time shoving down his breeches. He groaned into her hair as her fingers teased his obvious arousal, his hips bucking into her touch because so help him he didn't care any more if he was acting like a teenager – it had been far far too long. When he slammed into her he didn't even hear the clanking of armoured boots behind them. Perhaps if he hadn't been so consumed with his pent up longing he would have considered that an alley, however deserted, was still a public space and perhaps not the best place for a shag.

Which was why he was more angry than horrified when someone grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and pulled him roughly away from the woman he'd been aching after for weeks.

“Stop right there, criminal scum!” Brynjolf gaped at the guard, not even caring that his breeches and underclothes were somewhere around his ankles and the situation was entirely awkward – he was too consumed with being incredibly annoyed at being stopped. “How dare you violate this woman-”

“He's not violating me,” Phaeril shouted, evidently as equally pissed off as Brynjolf was, her hair was dishevelled and her breathes were short and quick. “Now get out of here before-”

“You mean to say that you are wilfully engaging in an act of a most obscene nature in public?” The guard narrowed his eyes at the both of them but let Brynjolf go so that he could at least pull his clothes back into a respectable position.

“Yes,” Phaeril replied carefully.

“Then you are both under arrest for public indecency,” the guard stated matter-of-factly.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Brynjolf groaned.

Evidently he wasn't.

o0o

“This is hands down the stupidest reason I have ever been put in jail,” Phaeril drawled from where she sat slumped against the wall of her jail cell. Then she looked up and shot an accusing look at him from where he was standing grumpily in his own cell on the other side of the room. “This is all your fault.”

“My fault?” Brynjolf glared at her through the bars on his cell. “You're the one who left for weeks to go play politics, did you expect me to not want to throw you against a wall and screw you when you'd been away for so long?”

“You could of at least found a private place instead of a back alley!” she retorted and got to her feet so that she could seethe at him more effectively from behind the bars of her own cell, rather than against the wall. “I swear, you nords are insatiable! It's a wonder there aren't more children running around the streets with the amount of sex you people think is normal!”

“I'm infertile,” Brynjolf snapped grumpily, “as far as I'm concerned that means we can fuck as much as we want.”

“For the love of-” Phaeril threw her hands in the air exasperatedly. “What is wrong with you people? If a bosmer acted the way a nord did about sex they'd be put in a mental asylum!”

“Well, maybe you should have thought of that before you fell in love with one!”

“If I had any choice in the matter I wouldn't have fallen for someone that feels like he might rip me open because he's so damn big!”

So help him, he couldn't stop the grin that tugged at his lips over that comment. Phaeril glowered at his reaction but her pointed ears twitched and her features softened despite her determination to be angry at him when he murmured, “I love you.”

“Yeah, well...” she mumbled in mock grumpiness. “I'll love you more when you stop getting me arrested for stupid reasons.”

“Wasn't a stupid reason as far as I'm concerned,” he replied cheekily. She rolled her eyes and reached down the front of her jail shirt, pulling out a long thin piece of metal – a lockpick, he realised.

“Where'd you hide that?” he mused as she picked the lock on her cell deftly.

“Down the front of my chest binding,” she replied as the door of her cell swung open. “Being female is useful sometimes.”

“I would of thought they'd searched you.”

She grinned mischievously as she walked over and started on the lock of his cell. “They did, but I accused the guard assigned to me of racism and hinted that I knew people in the Thalmor who wouldn't be impressed with him frisking me in such a personal manner.”

“Do you know people in the Thalmor?” Brynjolf asked as she freed him from his own cell.

She scowled momentarily. “Only people I want to kill.”

He gave her an empathetic look and she smiled faintly, before dropping the subject as they snuck to the exit of the jail. They paused behind the door, knowing there would be a guard sitting watch on the other side. Phaeril reached for a chunk of wood that was lying on the floor and grabbed it firmly in her hands, before Brynjolf pulled it out of her hands with a look of disbelief on his features.

“We're not murdering the guards,” he stated.

“What?” She seemed to genuinely not comprehend what he was saying. “Why not?”

“Because it's completely unnecessary.” Sometimes her blood-thirst was worrying, but he was determined to teach her that murdering anyone that got in your way wasn't acceptable. Thieving on the other hand was a different matter.

“Do you have a better idea?” she challenged, frustration seeping into her voice again.

He gave her a knowing look. “Just stay here.”

She frowned but obeyed as he opened the door and approached the guard that was sitting on the other side looking remarkably bored. In fact, he was so bored that it took him a good few moments to actually realise one of the prisoners was escaping, and when he did react he was so dumbfounded and slow that it took one swift punch to the jaw from Brynjolf to make him fall to the floor with a clank of his armour.

Which gave Brynjolf the perfect opportunity to press a knee onto his back and hold his wrists over his head so he was effectively unable to do anything at all. He called for Phaeril and she came in as the redhead used his other hand to muffle the guard's attempts to call for help.

“It would have been so much easier just to kill him,” Phaeril pointed out unhelpfully.

“Just get some rope and a gag,” Brynjolf told her. She did so and they had the poor guard tied up and mute in moments, which gave them the freedom to recover their confiscated possessions and slip away.

Chapter Text

People of a law-abiding nature didn't usually find their way down into the flagon, let alone the Ratways. Which was why everybody in the flagon adopted a look of rather surprised disbelief when a group of dangerous, angry looking elves marched in that morning. They were Thalmor, Brynjolf knew that much. But they seemed to be maintaining their distance for the time being because they were huddling in a corner and discussing something quietly, but fervently. Either way, the fact they were Thalmor didn’t particularly bode well considering Phaeril was sitting next to him. Up until then, they’d been discussing her assassination of the Emperor (Brynjolf was rather impressed, if disturbed with how she’d done it), but now she’d gone rigid and had that murderous, vengeful glint in her eye.

Then something jumped out of the shadows nearby, ran towards the flagon, and the elves snapped to attention.

“Catch the traitor!” a particularly important looking mage yelled. A few of the elves in armour gave chase. Brynjolf noted the poor sod they were chasing was in fact a bosmer, who looked rather scared, so much so that he didn't seem to care he was running straight into a group of (dangerous if startled) thieves.

Everybody rather gaped at the bosmer in shock as he lunged behind the counter of the flagon and hid. The elves in armour rushed up to the flagon, but hesitated when Dirge fixed them with a particularly warning look. The mage pushed his minions aside and stared down the thief.

“Hand over the bosmer,” he sneered.

“Only two bosmer we got here,” Dirge drawled, his muscles purposefully flexing to try and intimidate the other man. He jerked his head towards Phaeril and Niruin. “Don't think they're the ones you want somehow.”

A flash of fire appeared in the mage's hands. “Do not test me, nord.”

“He won't need to.” The throwing knife landed in the mage's throat so swiftly that it took a good few seconds before anyone realised who'd done it. Brynjolf blinked at Phaeril rather dumbly, she looked like she could murder the lot of them with her bare hands. But given she was an assassin that wasn't really so unusual.

The fight that escalated between the elves and the thieves was unfair and completely in their favour. They had the Thalmor outnumbered massively, Brynjolf almost felt sorry for the poor sods for trying to take them on in the first place. Then again, nobody in the guild particularly had any love of the Thalmor, and some of them perhaps enjoyed killing them a bit too much. When there was a pile of altmer corpses on the floor, the bosmer who'd scurried behind the counter popped his head out.

He gingerly got to his feet, rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly and began apologising profusely, before falling silent and gaping at them. Or more correctly, gaping at Phaeril.

“No,” he whispered, “you're-”

“Dead,” she finished softly. There was a split second of silence, then she lunged at him and threw her arms around his neck. He stumbled a little but wrapped his arms around her firmly, possessively.

“Malborn,” she whispered and drew back to gaze at him. The emotion etched into her features might easily have been the most Brynjolf had ever seen her display. It made him... uncomfortable. “I thought you died in the purges.”

“I almost did, just like everyone else.” He pressed his forehead to hers, the faintest of smiles pulling at his lips. “I came to Skyrim to try and find you, but only found out you'd been taken by bandits. Everyone I talked to said there was no way you'd be alive.”

“God's,” Phaeril gasped.

He couldn't help himself. Brynjolf coughed loudly and they broke apart. Perhaps he was glaring at this Malborn, because Phaeril rolled her eyes at him, took a step over and placed a soft kiss to the redhead's lips.

“He's my brother, you fool,” she told him with a gentle laugh. Then she sobered and her features became pensive. “I thought he was dead.”

O0o

The revelation that Phaeril had a sibling who wasn’t in fact dead was interesting news, and in any other situation Brynjolf would have loved the chance to speak with him longer. Unfortunately, Malborn’s situation with the Thalmor (being that he was rather being chased by a great deal of them) meant that he simply had to leave as soon as possible. Brynjolf, however, being in the thieves guild gave him plenty of useful contacts and measures to smuggle the bosmer quickly and effectively out of the country. Phaeril was almost speechlessly grateful for helping her kin. Regardless, Phaeril stayed in Riften for a few days more, and Brynjolf jumped on the opportunity to do something he’d been meaning too for some time.

In all honesty, he was a romantic person deep down. Sure, most people only thought his suave and grace with women was only to get them into bed, but he could be thoughtful and loving because he wanted his love to know he cared, rather than because he wanted to shag her. Though if tonight led to a roll in the hay he certainly wouldn't complain.

And it was that romantic streak that made him shove everyone out of the flagon that night. He cleaned the perpetual mess up in the room as best he could, laid one of the tables and lit just enough torches and candles so that the atmosphere was warm and romantic, rather than suspicious and seedy like it usually was in the flagon. When Phaeril arrived, he swept her towards the table and sat her down. She looked amused and entertained, particularly when he tried to serve her the meal he'd prepared.

She nibbled at first on a small spoonful of the stew he'd made, then her eyes widened in pleasant surprise as he took his seat opposite her. “This actually quite nice.”

“Why is it that everybody always acts so surprised when they find out I can cook?” he protested grumpily. Phaeril laughed affectionately and reached to touch him.

The sleeve of her shirt pulled back when she leant for him, and the flash of a bandage on her forearm distracted him from anything else in that moment. He took her hand in his own and held back the fabric to see her presumed wound better.

“What happened?” he asked carefully.

“I just got in trouble when I went after the real Emperor,” she replied defensively and pulled her hand away from him. “It's nothing serious.”

“It doesn't matter if it's serious or not.” He forced himself to remain calm and pray that this didn't escalate into something more than it needed to be. “I don't want you to keep putting yourself in danger.”

“I can handle myself,” she snapped angrily. “Don't try and control me, Brynjolf.”

“I'm not trying to control you.” He slammed his fist on the table, and instantly wished he hadn't – it made the atmosphere so much worse. “I care that you've gotten hurt.” He paused, and then added meaningfully, “and I care that you're still serving Sithis. It's hurting you more than you realise, it's toxic.”

“And you've promised yourself to Nocturnal,” she retorted and her eyes narrowed at him. “How different is that? It won't even matter in the end, we won't see each other in the afterlife while we're bound to different masters.”

“Thanks for reminding me,” he snarled.

Phaeril sighed and pinched her brow. She gave him an exasperated look, stood and made to leave. He went after her, grabbing her hand but she pulled away from him.

“Phae,” he started softly but she interrupted him.

“Just... don't.”

And she was gone.

He cursed loudly and threw a punch into the table, the necklace he'd bought for tonight felt heavy and painful in his pocket. The necklace he'd bought that morning to give to her. The amulet of Mara.

o0o

He didn’t see Phaeril for days after their argument and it put him in a foul, irritated mood. The other members of the thieves guild surely saw it, because they avoided him almost intentionally, perhaps under the fear that he’d snap at them for the smallest grievance. That morning was no better and his mood meant that no matter how hard he tried to sit down at his desk and concentrate on piles of paper work, he got nothing done.

Brynjolf stared halfheartedly at a sheet of paper in front of him, then, after a few moments he frowned and thumbed a corner of it. It looked like a letter, and as his eyes trailed to the bottom of it, he realized who it was from and grabbed it in both hands firmly.

Brynjolf,

I’m going to Dawnstar to sort some things out. Don’t follow me, I will return.

Phaeril

There was no date on the letter, which annoyed him, so he grabbed the first person to walk past and almost ambushed them for information.

“When did this arrive?” he asked Niruin. The elf jumped a little and scratched the back of his neck nervously. When Brynjolf arched an eyebrow at him, the elf found his voice.

“Uh, yesterday morning I think.”

“Thanks,” the redhead replied somewhat bitterly. Niruin stood by him awkwardly for a few more moments, and then, perhaps judging that he was no longer needed, crept away as quietly and inconspicuously as he could manage.

It broke the last straw of his patient and Brynjolf stood up, slammed a fist on his desk and shouted so loud his voice filled the entire cistern. “Would everyone please stop walking around on eggshells around me?”

The silence that persisted after his outburst was painful. Nobody seemed to have the courage to say anything, and eventually Brynjolf cursed angrily, and added, “And where in Oblivion is Karliah? I haven’t seen her for days.”

o0o

“Well, this is unexpected,” Nazir half laughed as she trawled through her possessions in her room, stuffing some into a bag and throwing others to the floor. “You only just reclaimed this place from Astrid, and now you don’t want it anymore.”

“I may not want this life anymore,” Phaeril replied as she stood up. “But I sure as hell wasn’t going to let that usurper ruin it after all the work I put it, into this.”

“Mmm.”

He followed her as she walked out of the room, then she paused before the coffin of the Nightmother, the same sick feeling rising in her stomach as she gazed at it. It wasn’t only Brynjolf that had made her finally make the decision to give this up, a great deal of it was the Nightmother’s obvious disapproval of her. And she needed to let it go for herself, too. Astrid’s wrecking ball leadership was dissolved, her Brotherhood was safe again, and she’d done her part. It felt like the right time to leave. Almost as if she’d earned it.

“Everything’s set up,” she told him as they approached the exit of the sanctuary. “Nobody knows about Dawnstar, if you lay low for a while and recuperate, build up your strength, they’ll think the Brotherhood’s gone for good.”

“And then take them by surprise,” Nazir replied with a grin. “Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing. By the way,” he paused as she stared at him with an arched brow, “there was a woman in Dawnstar earlier looking for you.”

“What kind of woman?”

“A dunmer, had purple eyes.”

Phaeril’s brow creased and she chewed on her lip. Why Karliah might have seen fit to follow her she wasn’t sure, but she felt obliged to find her and figure out why.

O0o

Frederick had been a constant in his life. Sure, Brynjolf could never be completely certain if the blond would had mocked or sympathized with him under certain situations, but at least he had always been able to rely on him to be there for him in some capacity. Which was why now, even when Frederick was dead, he still wound up standing next to his grave when his head was so full of thoughts and concerns he thought it might burst.

And it was also why, in that moment when he was trying to pay his respects, he almost snapped at a guard who bumped into him in such a hurry the man didn’t even care he was disturbing someone in a graveyard. But as Brynjolf turned to criticize the guard for his rudeness, words failed him as his eyes locked onto the scene before him on the horizon, and it was all he could do to swallow thickly and try not to gape.

It made sense why the entire guard were running around as if their heads had been chopped off, because on that horizon he saw a thousand strong army of Imperials, marching on Riften, on his home.

Chapter Text

"Vipir!" He caught the younger man offguard when he stormed into the Cistern, and Vipir jumped, blinked a little dumbly, and then gazed at him with a rather odd expression on his face.

Eventually, Vipir piped up nervous a, "Yes boss?"

Brynjolf frowned, he wasn't entirely sure when he'd started being referred to as 'boss', but he didn't have time to consider it at the moment. He took a deep breath to calm himself, and put the poor man in front of him at ease, then fixed Vipir with a level, but serious, gaze. "I need you to find every member of the guild who isn't away on business, gather them up here, get them to arm themselves and then head topside to help out the guard."

"You want us to… help out the guard?" Vipir challenged ever so cautiously.

"Yes." The younger man frowned at him and cocked his head, so Brynjolf felt obliged to clarify himself. "The Imperials are minutes away from invading this city, and believe me when I say that this is not the kind of liberation that is going to take pity on the lives of us or any other civilians."

"Why?"

"Because they have the Thalmor with them," Brynjolf replied with a small cringe. "So, go find everyone you can, because if we've learnt anything from the guard her e, it's that they wouldn't be able to defend Riften themselves if their goddamn lives literally depended on it."

"Aye!" Vipir gave him a salute. "Yes, sir, boss! Right away!"

Brynjolf couldn't help but roll his eyes ever so slightly at the other man's attitude, before sobering and rushing towards his private quarters.

o0o

When they rounded the top of the hill they'd been climbing and Riften came into sight, the view before her made Phaeril pull on Shadowmere's rei gns and halt. It took Karliah a moment longer to realize what had made her stop, but when she did, she gasped softly.

"Oh, god's," the dark elf whispered to herself. The city was on fire, embroiled in battle between the guard's and the Imperial's and their Thalmor. Citizens and civilians of the city were running amok, presumably for their own lives.

"We have to get in there," Karliah continued meaningfully.

"Wait." Phaeril held her hand up as her eyes landed on a small group of Thalmor agents and Imperial soldiers halfway between them and the city. Whether they were reinforcements or a patrol, she couldn't be sure. But she reached for her bow nonetheless. "Help me take out that group first."

Karliah glanced at her, but didn't argue and reached for her own arrows. Between the two of them and their unmatched archery skill, it wasn't difficult to bring down the small group from afar. Once they were done, Phaeril turned to the dark elf.

"You go ahead; I'll be behind you soon."

Karliah nodded, and then pursed her lips as she gripped the reigns of her own horse tightly. "I'm going to go and try and find out what in Oblivion the guild are up to in all of this."

"Right." The dark elf didn't hesitate for more conversation and rode off far faster than either of them had travelled together up until that point. Then, Phaeril urged her horse towards the group of invaders they'd slaughtered, hopped off Shadowmere's back and started rifling through their remains.

o0o

"I think this is the only time I'm going to say this," Brynjolf drawled angrily as he rammed his dagger into the chest of an imperial soldier. The soldier gurgled a little and twitched when the redhead threw his body to the floor. "But," he continued as he kicked the imperial with his boot to make sure he was really dead, "I really wish Riften's guards weren't so completely incompetent."

"Well, most of the time having an incompetent guard isn't so bad," Karliah offered unhelpfully as she downed an imperial of her own. She'd found him some time ago in the city, which was now engulfed in chaos and civil war. He hadn't had time to drill her yet over where she'd disappeared to and why, and at the moment he was mostly just grateful he had someone competent at his back.

Brynjolf laughed a little. Most of the time it was useful for the guild, but not when the city was being besieged by the Imperials and Thalmor. You'd think that being Stormcloaks the guard might actually have taken on board some of Ulfric's tactics and skill, but apparently they hadn't at all. Brynjolf wondered how some of them even knew which end of the sword was the pointy bit.

An arrow whizzed past his shoulder so fast the only thing he could do was blink dumbly. Then he heard someone clank to the floor noisily and looked behind him to see an Imperial dead on the ground with an arrow sticking out of his head. Brynjolf snapped his eyes to the person who'd presumably saved him, only to find someone marching towards him in full shiny, imposing elven armour.

"Is this some sort of reverse logic tactics of yours, Thalmor?" he accused and pointed his sword at the elf as they advanced on him.

Then the elf wrenched off their (or, her) helmet, growled an affronted, "do not call me a Thalmor," grabbed him roughly by the neck of his armour and planted a kiss on his lips.

Brynjolf blinked at Phaeril dumbly for a good few seconds until he put the pieces together, his fingers idly drawing circles on her cheek where his hand had come up to cup her face. Then he raked his gaze over her body and his brow furrowed. "Do you really think that's a good set of armour to be wearing, all things considered?"

"Actually, it let me slit the throat of the Thalmor's general in this siege," she explained and then turned swiftly and let a throwing knife embed itself deep in the skull of an advancing Imperial. "But they've caught on now."

"Is that why they kept yelling kill the short one?" Karliah asked as she drew an arrow from her quiver. Phaeril grinned at her.

"Besides," the bosmer continued and shot Brynjolf a smirk. "If you hate it so much, maybe you can talk me out of it later?"

He grinned, the previous antagonism between them seemingly dissipated after the hort time of separation they'd both needed to cool off in. "I'd talk you out of it now if I could."

"Go ahead and try," Karliah continued with a chuckle. "Might cause them to die of shock, you know how prudish some Imperials can be."

o0o

"Should've left while you had the chance, elf." None of them even noticed the other voice joining them. "The Stormcloak'll drive every last one of you out of Skyrim!"

And then it was too late, the blade had been drawn. Phaeril was the first to turn around at the commotion and her gasp of horror wrenched Brynjolf's attention to her in a split second. But it wasn't enough for him to even think of saving her.

A stormcloak, wounded and angry had snuck up behind them while they were distracted and plunged his sword into Phaeril. She was in complete shock; the edge of the blade was sticking out of her back, her eyes wide and mouth agape. Then the stormcloak snarled and wrenched his weapon out of her and she collapsed onto the ground, blood pouring out of her and her body convulsing.

A horrified noise escaped Brynjolf's throat. He shoved the stormcloak out of the way without even considering enacting revenge and fell to his knees beside her.

"You fool!" Karliah screamed. Had he been paying attention he would have seen her grab her dagger and put it up against the stormcloak's throat with such a vicious look on her features that the other man paled quite quickly. "She was fighting against the Thalmor, she was fighting with you!"

Whether or not Karliah killed the stormcloak didn't matter because Brynjolf was too busy trying desperately to staunch the gaping wound in his lover's abdomen. Blood was coming out of Phaeril's mouth and her eyes were becoming unfocused. Still, he tried forcing her to a drink a healing potion but it didn't help.

"Drink it, for Talos' sake!" He shouted at her like it would make a difference. "Please-"

But it wouldn't have mattered anyway, she was shaking now and all he could do was watch in horror, none of it truly sinking in because he scarcely dared believe after everything that it could end like this. She reached a trembling hand up to him, her fist clenched and her eyes pleading with him where words failed her.

All he could do was grab her hand and cradle it in his own, his features contorted in disbelief and helplessness.

And then she fell limp with nothing left alive in her eyes. Only one word fell from his lips, because it was all he could think to say.

"No..."

o0o

Perhaps there were stages of grief and ways that he could cope. Surely he had not been the first person to lose a loved one before, but in that moment it felt like he was the only one that mattered and nothing, no words or consolations would ever make it better.

The amulet of Mara he'd bought was still sitting on the table in his private quarters, glaring and reminding him of what he'd lost and the mistakes he hadn't had the chance to fix. He'd never see her again, not only because she was dead but because her soul would now be in the void and his was bound to Nocturnal.

It tore him apart and he threw the amulet against the wall in his grief. It smashed into pieces and he buried his face in his hands as the tears started to fall. He didn't even care when someone forced their way into his room a few minutes later. In fact, he'd stopped caring the moment the fighting had stopped and he'd retreated to the Cistern in grief. Who won, who'd lost, it didn't matter in the grander scheme compared to what he'd lost.

"Brynjolf," it was Karliah but he'd interrupted her before she could even finish what she was saying.

"For the love of the God's," he snapped and looked up at her angrily. "You should know what it's like when you lost Gallus, so could you just leave-"

"No, Brynjolf," she cut him off firmly and it was testament how much he wasn't expecting it that he gaped at her. "There's something you need to know, before you wallow yourself into a pit you'll never get out of."

Karliah paused to take a breath, and stare at him almost apologetically before continuing. "Phaeril gave herself to Nocturnal before she died."

"What?" was the only appropriate answer he could think of.

"She tried to give this to you before she died," Karliah said and she unfurled her palm to show him a shiny black stone resting in it. It was etched with the symbol of Nocturnal, and he realized it had been in Phaeril's clenched fist in the moments before she died. "Didn't you wonder where I was these last couple of weeks? I followed her, and inducted her into the Nightingale's."

She paused then and looked at him empathetically. "I know it hurts, I've been there, but the best consolation, the only consolation I can give you is that you will see her again."

And it was with those words that he didn't quite know whether he needed to cry or grab the dark elf and hug her.

Chapter Text

“I am ready.” Brynjolf nodded as he spoke, his eyes fluttering closed momentarily. “Take me.”

If he didn't know better, he could have sworn he felt a knowing sort of satisfaction radiating from Nocturnal's spirit. But it was good, it felt right and he knew there wouldn't be a better time than this. He'd tied up all his ends, left Karliah in control, and in truth, she was far better at it than he'd been as guildmaster. And there wasn't really anything tying him back any more, either. He'd brought all his loose ends together.

Brynjolf felt the cool tendrils of shadows waft around his legs, curling up and around him as they took hold of his physical form. The surroundings were changing, he could see figures and he felt cold, but it wasn't unpleasant. He glanced to his side. An ethereal person was standing there, he looked familiar with the same kind of twinkle in his eyes and grin Brynjolf had displayed so many times before himself. His father.

On his other side, he realised, was his mother. She was more beautiful than he could have imagined, with long flowing red hair. As she raised a hand and touched his shoulder, he realised he was smiling but then she gestured ahead of her. He followed her gaze and saw Gallus and Frederick. Gallus gave him a grin and patted him on the shoulder, Frederick pulled him into an friendly embrace.

When they separated, Brynjolf saw one more person in front of him and felt the prick of tears at his eyes. Phaeril gave him the faintest of smiles and he stepped towards her. She leant up, cupping his face in her hands and kissed him as the last of his physical body disappeared and he joined Nocturnal's sentinels finally.