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After Snow Veil Sanctum, you stay away from Riften. You’ll let Mercer Frey keep on believing he’s killed you, because as long as he thinks you’re out of the way, you’re safe. Frey will want to keep up his facade as long as he can. He’ll probably tell the others you died at Karliah’s hands; maybe you even heroically sacrificed yourself to save him. It rubs at your pride, but it’s better he suspects nothing until you and Karliah are ready to take your revenge.
So, instead of returning to Riften, you go to Winterhold to meet a friend of the late Guild Master, and from there on to Markarth. The museum heist goes off without a hitch and culminates in a thrilling escape from the wizard’s tower down a waterfall. It’s the kind of work you love, and normally you would feel only the thrill of the steal and the satisfaction of flexing your skills, but this time your joy is tempered by the knowledge that Mercer Frey is strutting around the Ratway, emptying your vault and gloating over his victory.
Enthyr’s translation of Guild Master Gallus’s journal only cements what you and Karliah already suspect: Mercer Frey is a traitor and a cheat whose dishonourable actions have brought ruin on the Guild.
You never met Gallus, and you’ve never considered yourself particularly honourable, but Frey stabbed you and left you for dead, and that makes this personal.
It isn’t until Karliah suggests returning to Riften that you start to feel nervous.
What if Frey has branded you a traitor, like he did Karliah? What if your friends in the Guild welcome you not with open arms but bared blades?
You swallow your worries. It will be worse for Karliah, who’s been on her own for twenty-five years. Any older members of the Guild might kill her on sight if they recognise her face.
You drag your heels on your way back to the city of thieves. By habit, you go to the secret entrance to the cistern in the graveyard, only to find that the tunnel is closed to you. That bastard, Mercer, has locked you out! You take the long way through the sewers and meet Karliah in the Ragged Flagon. If you’re nervous, Karliah is terrified, although only an eye as keen as yours would ever be able to tell.
“We must hurry,” Karliah says. “These people are beginning to suspect who I am.”
You nod. Keeping your hood up to hide your face, you and Karliah slip through the back of the Flagon.
It feels like only yesterday when you were last here, preparing to head out with Mercer Frey to confront Karliah. At the same time, it feels like years have passed between that moment and this. You’ve been on the road for weeks traversing Skyrim from one end to the other on your quest to uncover the truth of Mercer Frey’s treachery and Gallus Desidenius’s murder. Your hand rests on the handle of your dagger as you follow Karliah into the cistern. Karliah has already confirmed Frey wasn’t in the city. You tell yourself not to be disappointed. You will have your chance to cut Frey’s throat in due time. All you have to do is be patient.
Your reunion with the Guild goes better than expected. Brynjolf is initially hostile towards Karliah, but he warms up to her as soon as he reads Gallus’s journal. The others follow Brynjolf’s lead. Everyone agrees that Mercer Frey has betrayed them all, and that’s all that matters.
What you don’t expect is how Brynjolf acts towards you.
Brynjolf is the one who led you into this exciting underworld. He’s your mentor, but more importantly, he’s your friend. You’ve spent hours in the training room with him, sparring with blades and words alike, getting to know one another as he taught you the tricks of his trade. You’ve come to look forward to hearing his voice, with its gentle burr, every time you come home from a job. He means so much to you, so when he only gives you a quick, curt greeting you feel like a rug has been pulled out from under your feet. You bite your tongue until the Guild business is taken care of, but every time Brynjolf shoots you a hostile look you want to cry.
The vault is opened, a plan against Frey is devised.
“This is the last place I’d ever want to send you,” Brynjolf says about sending you into Mercer Frey’s manor, but he barely looks at you and his shoulders and jaw are visibly tense. From the moment you walked into the cistern, Brynjolf has radiated barely-contained rage, and it all seems to be directed at you. He can’t still think you’re a traitor, can he? Not when Karliah has been welcomed back into the fold? Perhaps he is simply angry at Mercer and is projecting that anger onto you. Either way, you keep it professional as you talk about the mission, and the moment you’re done you go back to the Flagon. You’ve been through hell the last few weeks, your wounds still sting, and all you want to do is have a drink. Vekel hands you a bottle of mead without you even having to ask, and you slide onto a bench seat at a table near the water and have a sip.
Sapphire is the first to seek you out, and you share the bottle with her. Initially standoffish and rude, Sapphire had warmed up to you long ago and now you are fast friends. Delvin Mallory appears before long, wants to know about the job in Markarth, and as you tell the story, Rune, Cynric, and Thrynn join the table. Soon everyone is gathered around to hear tales from your journey and raise mugs of Black Briar Reserve in your honour. Even Vex admits you didn’t do a completely terrible job in Markarth, and hints that she’s happy to see you in one piece. Vekel keeps the drink flowing, and at some point someone hands you a plate of food. The whole Guild is there to welcome you back, and you feel with a sudden certainty that this place, and this group of misfits, has become your home.
The only ones conspicuous by their absence are Karliah and Brynjolf. You assume Karliah is resting after a long and stressful journey. Brynjolf’s indifference stings, though, and when the party breaks up you go in search of your friend. You don’t find him in the cistern, so you go above ground and back into the city. You climb the rear wall of the temple and take to the rooftops. You love the view from up here. It’s almost dawn, and the sky is turning red over the burnished gold of the fall forest and the sparkling waters of Lake Honrich. Riften’s reputation is of a decaying city rotting from the inside from corruption and neglect, but you have always found beauty in the humble wooden buildings and encroaching autumnal trees. There isn’t a place in Skyrim that suits you better to call home.
You find Brynjolf near the docks, on the roof of an empty house that overlooks the water. He’s watching the fishermen bustle around the docks below. Some are readying their boats to go out, while others are already gutting and cleaning their early catch. You approach Brynjolf silently and sit beside him on the ridge of the house’s pitched roof.
You nudge him and say, “Brooding doesn’t suit you, Bryn.”
“I’m not brooding,” says Brynjolf, broodily.
“So you’re avoiding me because…? Brynjolf, are you mad at me?”
“You’re damned right I am,” he says. It takes you by surprise, but before you can say anything he glares at you and growls, “By the Divines, lass, I thought you were dead. We all thought you were dead!”
“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint!” you snap. You start to get up, but Brynjolf grabs your wrist and tugs you back down.
“Don’t be foolish,” he says. “I’m not angry you survived. Gods, how could you think that? Of course I’m glad to see you, and you made it home."
“You have a funny way of showing it,” you retort. “Why have you spent all night treating me like I’M the one who betrayed the Guild and let you down?”
Brynjolf hisses and lets go of your wrist. You don’t try to leave again. You want to hear what he has to say.
Brynjolf rakes his hands through his hair and then rubs his face.
“By the Eight,” he says, his voice muffled by his hands. “I’m making a pig’s ear of this, aren’t I?”
“I’d say so,” you agree. “Except I’ve no idea what the bloody hell it is you’re trying to do.”
Brynjolf meets your eyes and says, “Lass, you left with Mercer months ago. Then Mercer comes back alone, tells us you’re dead. I don’t want to believe him, no one does, but he’s been our Guild Master for years. I’ve known him since I was a wee lad picking pockets for sweets money. Why would he lie?
“Even then, I keep hoping you’ll waltz into the Flagon like you did that first day, cool as you like, and say ‘oh, it was easy’, like you dodge death every day.”
“But I didn’t,” you say quietly.
“No,” says Brynjolf. “Time goes by and each day it grows less likely you’ll come back to me— to us. And more likely you’re lying dead in a frozen tomb all alone. Then the days become weeks, and then months.”
“After Karliah saved me, I had to move fast,” you explain. “I went to Winterhold straight away, and then to Markarth.”
“Aye, on the other bloody side of Skyrim.”
“To translate Gallus’s journal - ”
“Aye, I know. But lass, did it not occur to you to drop in and let us know you were alive? Or even send a message?”
Your face turns red with shame. You let your friends think you were dead for months and never even considered how they might mourn you.
“I couldn’t risk Frey getting wind that I’d survived,” you say. “If he disappeared, we might never find him again. It would have put Karliah in danger, too.”
Brynjolf sighs. Your reasons are logical, but that doesn’t help the worry, grief, and hurt he must have been through.
For a while you both sit in silence and watch the gentle ripples on the lake below. The docks are busy now with townspeople and merchants buying fresh fish and mud crabs. The noise and activity feels a whole world away.
“I’m sorry,” you say.
Brynjolf sighs once more and shakes his head.
“No, you’ve nothing to be sorry for,” he says. “You assessed the risks and made the smart decision. I was an ass to react like I did.”
“I’m still sorry I put you through that,” you insist, and bump your shoulder against his. “I’m still not used to being missed, or to having people who miss me.”
“Silly girl,” Brynjolf says. He tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear. His hands are big and rough, but he is so gentle with you.
“Of course I’d miss you. I have missed you,” he says. “Tell you what, next time you go off on a hare-brained adventure, why don’t you take some back up with you?”
You look at him in surprise.
“You?”
“Aye, why not? You’d get someone to watch your back, and I won’t have to miss you again.”
Your eyebrows shoot up, and Brynjolf chuckles and ducks his head so his hair partially falls in front of his face.
“I think I just tipped my hand,” he says. Looking back up at you, he says, “Lass, you’re a force to be reckoned with. Gods know you don’t need an old thief like me to look after you. You’ve breathed new life into the Guild and changed it for the better, and you’ve done the same to me. You’re a good friend, an excellent thief, and the strongest, most beautiful woman I’ve ever known.”
“Bryn, are you saying - ”
“Aye. I have feelings for you. Strong feelings. I understand if you don’t feel the same way and I’ve no wish to put pressure on you, but you have the right to know the truth. The last few months have been awful, and I just… I’m just happy you’re all right. I love you, you daft, stubborn thing. Please don’t disappear again.”
You don’t know what to say. He’s your best friend and you missed him too, and your heart aches to see the soft, sad smile on his face. None of the words you think of feel right to express how you feel, so instead you lean in and place a small, shy kiss on his lips. Your eyes meet, your noses still close enough to touch. He glances down at your mouth and then back up, a silent request for permission, and you smile in answer. Your eyes flutter closed as one of Bryn’s big, calloused hands cradles your cheek, and the next moment his lips are on yours. Warm and dry, with a tingling itch of stubble, his kiss feels like the missing piece of a puzzle you didn’t even know you were trying to solve. You sigh and lean into his touch, prompting him to chuckle and bury his other hand in your hair. You part your lips and he slides his tongue in your mouth. He tastes dark, faintly spicy, and the intimate glide of his tongue against yours sends a pulse of wet heat straight to your core.
You part too soon, and look at one another as the sun finally rises above the trees. Your face is hot, and Brynjolf’s pale skin looks flushed in the dawn light as well. His eyes sparkle as he gives you a roguish smile.
“Should I… take that as a good sign?” he asks.
“Aye,” you say, teasing. “I’d say so. But give me another kiss just to be sure.”