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"You look troubled, lass. Septim for your thoughts?"
Imwen glanced up from her bow to see Brynjolf settling in next to her, their fire crackling merrily a few feet away. His eyes were still a clear green despite the harsh shadows the flames cast-- and she didn't like the way they cut through to her like a chisel to an emerald. Her eyes dropped back to the bow, and she wiped at the chilled glass. He did not move away, searching her frown for an answer.
"...you should be asleep, Bryn. Your shift isn't until later tonight--"
"You haven't been sleeping either."
Imwen's eye twitched, and she pressed harder at the bow in the hopes that he'd get the hint. Her mood was dark enough as is, and the prodding wasn’t helping. She offered up no response, honey-golden irises pinned to a particularly ashen spot on the gold. Brynjolf hummed a small laugh at her petulant display, leaning in to inspect her handiwork
"You missed a spot."
"I know that, you--"
He caught her wrist as she turned, squeezing gently until she let it go limp in his hand. He lifted it up, turning over her palm as the cloth slipped through her fingers, eyes roving over the lines in her skin. "They're raw, you know. Your hands. I've been watching you clean this thing for nearly an hour now."
"I'm methodical."
"No, lass. You're efficient . Quick. Clever. Focused." He let her go and she curled her fingers into a fist, resting it on top of her quiver. "There’s something up, isn’t there? We’ve been over the plan a dozen times, so it can’t be that… Can’t have you losing your touch, now." The redhead shifted, meeting her eyes with a small frown.
She stared him down, trying to build the heat to be angry, but deflated. He just looked so concerned. He’d been like this ever since they’d met up in Morthal, and it was technically her fault. She let it slip that she’d been caught in the midst of some political skirmish just a day ago near her manor with some of the local encampments of Imperials-- or, what was left of them, anyway-- and the just-healed gashes on her hip had caught his eye. "I'm the best there is and you know it. I don't need you to look after me or to worry, Brynjolf."
"How about you let me do it anyway?" He tilted his head, strands of dusky red catching in the dim light. "You don't seem to care to do it yourself."
"I am fine ."
"Don't lie to me. Not you."
She suppressed a shiver at the thread in his voice, that slight hint of power that got him to second in command in the Thieves Guild. He was, by all rights, her second in command. She preferred to leave things to Karliah and him though, when she could, because that's how things should have been. Had it not been for Mercer--
"Hey, eyes up here. Don't get lost on me now."
Imwen scoffed, shaking her head as she turned back to her bow, bending slightly to grab the oilcloth that was now dusted with dirt. "I'm not. Just thinking about Karliah and… before."
"Without me? I didn’t know you thought about her that way, lass."
She smacked him with the rag and he laughed, the sound easing her shoulders. He did it often, and easily, but wasn't it always a good thing when the best things in life were easily accessible? Who said one should struggle for joy? " Scoundrel . I meant that I was thinking about work. When I was your insubordinate and the Ratway lived up to it's namesake." The spot wasn't going to go away. With a sigh, she wrapped it in leather and set it to the side, the quiver vacating her lap. "There is nothing to worry about Brynjolf. I've lived through worse than a lack of sleep."
It must have crossed their minds at the same time, because she caught his eyes flicking down to her stomach. The same spot where Mercer had stuck her through, leaving her to die in that crypt so long ago. His fingers twitched, and Imwen remembered the fury he'd shown when she'd stumbled back into the Ratway with the news. Bloody, awful news.
The silence after that revelation was a little too much for her to bear, so she fumbled for her sword, a slight solace in the weight of the blade. The cloth smoothed over the black metal, ebony shining wickedly in the firelight. Even after hours of crawling through crypts or fierce blows between those that stood between her and her goals, it never chipped nor scored. Ebony had a way of making steel seem like rubble rock under its splendor, but caring for her weapons was second nature and she wasn't going to disrespect the metal by relying on ancient durability. That’s how fools ended up with shattered steel and a new understanding of ‘wartorn’.
She stilled for a moment, wryly acknowledging that her words applied to people as much as they did weapons. And that maybe Brynjolf had a point in worrying about her after all this warfare and scourgemongering. There was no one there to polish or buff her out, after all. Many had tried, amusingly.
The male Nightingale tilted his head, most likely noticing the shift in her mood before he reached for her sword, slowly lifting it out of her lap and back into its scabbard. Was he going to take away all of her weapons tonight? She shook her head wryly, the thought distracting her slightly as she let him, watching him turn back to her with a sigh. His hand was warm on her knee, and Imwen blinked at being able to feel it through all the layers she wore. "I... suppose I have been running myself a little hard lately. It's hard not to, when everyone relies on you for everything."
He gave a small smile in encouragement, and she scowled at the gesture. She did not need to be coddled like the small children they encountered in Solitude. She almost felt silly by it. "But you know I can't stop. What would you have me do? Escape meetings with the Jarls, dodge talks with the Night Mother-- leave you and Karliah to wrangle our little troublemakers? Gods know what Dirge would do alone with all of them in a week without me around."
"Maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing. Run off and give everyone a little scare every once in a while. They act like they never ruled before you came along." Brynjolf squeezed her knee, thumb rubbing circles on the inside of the bend. "Maybe it would be good if they were reminded that they can fix their own problems every once in a while."
“I'm the Empress , Bryn. Damnably so." Imwen said softly."I rule cults and councils in the same hand that I kill Draugur. Bandits fear me less than the undead do, and that is a fault of mine. How can I be such things-- the Dragonborn, rightful heir of Akatosh and a pantheon more of gods if I can't even care for my own kingdom?"
Frustration flashed across his face at her words, and he clasped one of her hands between his own. "Do you really think the world is going to end if you take a break? Is everyone else so incapable?"
Imwen stared at the fire, the flames bouncing familiar colors in her golden irises. She thought of Serana, back home studying the history she'd missed. She thought of her homes, manors and small buildings alike filled with laughing children and bemused Housecarls. She thought of Astrid, lost to the same flames she was caught in for the sake of greed. Friends and foes struck down in her bloodlust born from betrayal or rage. The coldness of ice burning her deeper than any ember. She thought of Balgruuf, of Aela, of Valdimar. She thought of her people, the ones sworn to her and the ones she had forsaken in the name of peace. Vile, ashen peace.
Sometimes." Her voice croaked, and she cleared her throat. "Sometimes, it feels that way."
She closed her eyes then, dipping her head forward as exhaustion ached in her shoulders. Memories of heartbeats dying inside of her teeth, screams from bones wanting their rest held her captive. Shouts and demands, sacrifices. Hatred. Scorn. Crowns of bone, then gold, then jewels, then dust. How many times was she going to go through this? How many fights to mediate, scores to settle? She had become Empress because it was supposed to make it easier to save everyone.
She just didn’t understand why it meant she had to hurt everyone along the way.
"It's alright, lass. Just breathe, breathe. You're here, with me. Breathe-- "
Had she forgotten to? Imwen gasped, blind eyes fluttering rapidly as she was pressed to Brynjolf's chest, arms strong enough to crack bone holding her as gentle as a babe. Little breaths came all at once as old deaths and accusing wraiths infiltrated her mind, the pure hatred and vitriol making her choke. She scrabbled at his shoulders, bitten fingernails digging into the sleep shirt he'd donned and tearing. He didn't seem to mind, just tightening his grip and rocking her slow on the log, murmuring words she couldn't hear through the ash rumbling in her senses.
He smelled like dirt and clay, an undercoat of honey smoke lingering on his skin. Like Goldenglow… She burrowed into him, squeezing her eyes shut to keep out the ghosts, the sound of his heart thunderous and loud over her own. The sound was as known to her as the stars, learned from fruitless battles and Hircine's touch. But his was not beating its last throes nor spurred into furor from battle. It just existed, and she focused on that sound as Brynjolf settled her, rubbing shapes into her back.
"I think I've seen you cry twice. No, there was that time at Vex's wedding, yeah? Three times then." He chuckled, though it wasn't unkind. "I think this makes the fourth."
Imwen sniffled. "Shut up. You don't know anything."
"Or what about that time you found out that honey was not, in fact, a cure all for colds?"
"I was so sick Bryn--"
"I think you're also forgetting that night near Serana's little castle?" She stiffened, and he nodded as if lost in thought. "Yes, you'd been gone from the Ratway for a couple of weeks so I went out to go and fetch you--"
"Brynjolf."
"--and I saw you out there in the garden, miris and nightshade flowers around your ankles--"
" Brynjolf ."
"--and you were wearing this silk nightgown, which almost hid the bandages around your stomach." One hand had drifted to her side and palmed the curve there, as if he could still feel the gauze. "You turned and saw me standing there, a little river rat, and started bawling. You, who had just nearly died away from us. Do you remember what you said when I walked up to you?"
Imwen bit the inside of her cheek, hesitating as she tilted her head back from his chest. His face was as still as stone, but it was lined with regrets and tired anger. She leaned away, his worn palms firm on her arms. "...yes."
"The first thing you said was sorry. Sorry that you hadn't come back yet, sorry that you had gone home, sorry that you were recovering." He shook his head, and in the dim light the shadows under his eyes grew. "And do you remember what I said?"
She pursed her lips, looking away from him. He shook her gently, laughing when she leant away, going limp in his hands. It took his fingertips brushing her ribs for her to scramble upright, glaring nastily his way. "You said that if this was what it took to get me a vacation, that I needed to be stabbed more."
Brynjolf nodded gravely. "And then you punched me."
"That I did."
"You broke my nose, if I recall."
"That's not something to joke about! And I healed you after!"
"But you did punch me."
Her face screwed up with incredulousness, and she almost started yelling at him right then when she noticed the small relief in his smile. He seemed to wait for her anger, the dramatic show of distance and bravado she put on for their subordinates, for her fools in fine clothes in the castle. She was quite famous for her spontaneous gestures, and maybe he was waiting to see if she was alright enough to perform one more.
Instead, she drifted back into his arms, laying her head under the jut of his chin. She was tired. She was ragged. Here they were, camping out near Markarth and looking out for Forsworn when not even a week ago she'd been signing treaties with the Empire for a cease fire. And a few days before that, she'd ran headlong into some Dwarven ruins in search of some stupid artifact. And her mission now was even more ridiculous. They were trying to prevent two heists from blowing their whole operation from one other fledgling Thieves Guild’s interference. Gods. Her life was just one obligation after another, wasn’t it?
Her mind flickered back to that day, the exact one he'd been speaking about. Serana knew old magicks and had tomes on how to heal from such paralytics and how to prevent too much scar tissue from building up inside of her. She could keep nothing but water down, so the vampire had suggested that she rest outside while she mixed something up for her. Seeing Brynjolf, staring up from the path had been... like a dream. Or, waking up from one.
He had been so careful when he picked her up, too.
"Maybe after we're done here I can take a break. A small break," she amended, catching the shine in his eyes. "I really don't think anyone would know what to do without me for long. I took a walk after council once and when I came back half of the garrison was out searching for me."
"And I still think you should just go off into the wilds and let them sort it all out. It might even be fun."
Imwen sighed, a long suffering sound as she lightly bopped his chin with the top of her head. "You always think political drama is fun. No wonder we always have eyes on us." She squinted into his shirt, glancing up to his face. “Maybe that’s why we’ve had so many close calls lately.”
"Well, someone ought to appreciate my dashing looks, don’t you think?"
"You are appreciated enough," she sniffed in mock disdain.
He pressed his lips to the crown of her head then and she went still, blinking slowly. Brynjolf was a known figure in Riften, not just for his role in the Thieves Guild, but also because of his personality. He was flirtatious, yes, and of course he was charismatic (it came with the job of being a con man), but he was rarely affectionate. Not that he didn't like to be-- but cozying up to the likes of professional sneaks and hustlers was a quick way to lose your pouch, or earn a loving shank.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, turning her head to fit more snugly against his skin. The pulse there was strong as ever, and her own thrummed happily at the beat. Being an elf meant that being friends with people that weren’t was… short lived. And to think of how a single person had changed her life. She scratched at the nape of his neck, not thinking too hard about how many times she’d seen a blade so close to the vertebrae. Brynjolf hummed in thanks, toying with the ends of her sun-blond hair. "I've been thinking, Karliah could probably use some time off too..."
Imwen laughed, peeking up at him past his beard. "And leave the Guild entirely without supervision?"
He cocked an eyebrow, shrugging as if leaving their people alone wasn't that bad of an idea, considering their professions. "Vex offered to watch that one time. You know she'd be willing to do it now. It basically runs itself, anyway."
"Mmh... she always did have a head for leadership. Just not very personable, but perhaps they need a bit of an iron hand in their midst." She nodded, closing her eyes to the fire to visualise her plans. "That could work. We'll ask her and her wife if they'll be willing when we go back."
Brynjolf smiled at the elf in his arms, noting the telltale signs of oncoming sleep in her limbs as they relaxed. "Sounds like a plan, lass."
They spoke of the details further into the night, discussing whether or not they needed to postpone future jobs or rely on her connections to the Dark Brotherhood to give them a little help-- little things that he would've figured out without her anyway, and he got her by listing out their resources, switching halfway to talking about her favorite hide-aways. Imwen murmured a 'yes, that's fine' as she tipped between sleep and wakefulness, barely resisting as he lifted her up into his arms.
"Watch your head lass." He situated her on the bedroll, the small cotton-thread pillow she'd brought placed under her head. She curled into the fur-lined fabric even as she frowned, cracking one eye open to glare at him sleepily. "Ah, that's my cue. I'll wake you when it's time to go."
He was prevented by a hand catching his wrist, and he glanced back to see her looking at him fully, a blank look on her face. Brynjolf counted the hours they had left and breathed in the before-dawn air, shaking his head. Shifts were stupid anyway. Imwen had connections here-- she was as safe as a babe in their crib. "Alright, alright. Don't rip my arm off now. Give me a moment."
He widened the little shelter they'd made, stretching the leather hide to obscure the stars from them instead of preventing any animal visitors. He dragged the other bed roll over, sliding it in next to Imwen as she watched him work. Finally, with the fire low, he settled into the makeshift pallet, arm cushioning his head. She still had her under armor on, but that was fine.
"Good morning, Brynjolf."
"Good night, lass."
The Dragonborn snuggled into him, limbs akimbo as the stars kept watch, and eventually he drifted into the oblivion of sleep, where he dreamt of the same castle where he'd found her. There were flowers in her hair and honey on her lips, and it was a good dream.
Imwen’s was the same.