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“We’ll have to speak another time, lass,” Brynjolf had said. “I’ve important things to attend to.”
Why had he said that? He wasn’t actually busy. He never really was. But everything he’d done—and not done—of late weighed on him, creeping into the shadowed corners of his mind. All he’d purposefully ignored for the sake of peace overwhelmed him now. He’d forsaken responsibility in favor of convenience as always, and it ended up costing him far more than he’d been willing to part with.
He saw her face whenever he closed his eyes. Her hair, like soft strands of gold, falling in waves over her shoulders. Those eyes, green as the fields, overflowing with tears at the sting of his rejection. He’d have done anything to take that all away from her, had he not been the cause of her pain. Gods, but he wished one last time to reach out for her hand, hold it in his, warm against the weather. Strong, too, against the coming storms.
But it was not meant to be. She deserved so much more than him. He’d been bound to the darkness, and she’d always been this bright light. What could she possibly see in him? What could he ever give her that she didn’t already have? All he was capable of doing was shattering precious things. His destiny was not to build—all of that was left to her. And she would, if he did not tie her down. He would not. It was already decided. So he’d turned his shoulder to her and left her behind, not glancing back for fear of losing resolve.
He sat on the roof of the crypt which held the secret entrance to the Cistern. Not the most inconspicuous perch, the more he thought about it. The mood he was in suited the graveyard aesthetic, however. He dangled a leg off of the ledge, the edges of the shingles rough and digging in through all the black leather he wore. He sighed. At least the moons were full. The air was crisp enough, wind off the lake a refreshing change compared to his dour attitude. Not that it would change anything, staring up at the stars and the autumn leaves like this. He was still as unworthy as anything. He was barely a thief anymore. Even the last job he’d done brought in the barest handful of coins before Nocturnal called him away on some other task at the Twilight Sepulcher. One of these days, She’ll be wanting to pull him straight on through to the Evergloam. And that would be just as well—expected, even. Better not to have connections when that inevitability came to pass. Better not to let anyone in at all if eventually all he’d become was a shade among Oblivion’s trees—if he wasn’t one already.
He sighed and counted the craters scarring Masser’s surface, wondering if they could be seen on the other side of the Ebonmere. The rumors were that Nocturnal made Her own rules, and that the world She resided in looked nothing like Nirn at all—and yet utterly familiar. Pine forests that stretched on for miles, shadows that ebbed and flowed like water. Rivers that ran black and cold as ice. Above, a canvas of stars as far as the eye could see. Sometimes, when he closed his eyes and drifted in that space between waking and dreaming, he could feel the loamy earth of that place under his palms, gathering under his nails, as he waited, crouched in the gloom. It felt so natural, like he’d been there his entire life, and only waited to be called home.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.
But no. Who was he kidding? He’d already shattered his own heart, accepting this pact. Looking at the costs, it never quite added up to profit. And never would. He’d been alone in this way before—sure, he’d spent so many nights in the arms of people whose names he’d never learn, nor ever care about, true enough, but that was not the same thing. He’d opened his heart and his soul this time, even knowing it was already too late. She’d walked right in, shown him light and love and—dare he even think it—happiness. He’d become vulnerable, and in the darkness, Nocturnal cackled, knowing what would come to pass.
Brynjolf couldn’t help but wonder a thousand times over if the outcome would have been different had he just tried to challenge Mercer earlier. Now two hearts were shattered in the dust and dirt, too fractured to piece back together. And, as always, it was his fault. It was his choice. It would only hurt her worse if one day he would disappear forever, leaving their bed cold and house empty, haunted by the ghost of who he might have been had he made better choices.
She deserved more than a ghost.
The subtle shift of chainmail over leather snapped him from his thoughts. Out of the night, the person he least expected settled down next to him on the roof.
“Did you think that would work?” she asked. Her voice was still sweet, but he could hear the hurt underneath her lilting Nordic brogue. It’d been hours since he’d left her there in the Ragged Flagon. His hands and feet were numb with cold, and his muscles ached. Hours, as he’d said.
“Lass, you don’t need me,” he sighed. “You never did.”
“You realize you sound dramatic at best, don’t you?”
He glanced over at her as she dusted off her armor and then crossed her arms over her chest. He sighed the smallest laugh. Of course she’d say something like that.
“Aye. And what of it?”
“You understand I was never going to be content constantly doing these numbers jobs for Delvin, yes?” she said, exasperated. “Hello neighbor, may I borrow some sugar and also embezzle funds from your business?” The way she mocked Delvin always brought a smile to his face, and one found its way to him despite his prior sour mood. She was a light, even now. His. She flipped her golden plait back over her shoulder and sighed. “Brynjolf, you know this has never been who I am.”
No, it never had been.
Still, where he would be called, she could not follow. He could be pulled from her arms at any moment, and neither of them would survive the sundering. Though, the more he looked at her, the less sure he was he’d ever had the ability to make that choice for her. She would always do what she wanted. And he knew—had always known—what she wanted.
“I don’t know that I can stay, lass, that’s the problem,” he said. He reached for her, hand thawing as she wove her fingers through his. She had a fire to her, granted by the Gods. Something else he would miss.
“Has that ever mattered?” she whispered. “I’d follow you through every realm, across lifetimes. I said as much.”
His heart fluttered against his ribcage like some kind of trapped bird. She had. And each time she repeated it, he felt the weight of that truth. This is what Mara meant by love, likely. He knew that—had always known it. Probably from day one with her. He shook his head with a grin. There’d be no convincing her otherwise. He was stuck with her. And almost all of him—the parts that were not terrified, anyway—would not change a thing about it.
He leaned in and kissed her cheek.
“Then into the darkness we go, lass.” He traced the edge of her jaw and placed a slow, gentle kiss on her lips, which she returned with a small laugh.
“Can’t be that dark,” she whispered. “Not while I’m there with you.” She let out a small, snarky chuckle. “All this about ‘shadows hide us’ is completely beside the point.”