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Chapter Text

The Cistern was quiet tonight. As quiet as the Cistern could ever be, even when it was emptier than it was now. When the thieves' luck had turned for the better, the new Guildmaster spent most of the wealth accumulated in the first weeks to 'making their business presentable' as he'd said — which meant scrubbing the place to the proverbial bones, putting up banners everywhere, and getting plush new beds moved in. The last improvement — plugging the worst of the leaks — quieted the ambient noise of the place considerably. And while many, many new thieves had joined up, they and the 'Old Guard' (the highly ironic name for everyone who'd been there for the Mercer Problem) were constantly out on jobs now. Not only were there more jobs coming in, but the Old Guard were no longer wallowing in their woes all day; there was money to be made.

It didn't surprise Rune how much a difference a little hope and a lot of coin could make in a place like this.

He'd already checked in with Vex in the Flagon and exchanged some gem-covered but otherwise useless items for a sackful of very useful coin. It jingled in his hand as he skirted the Cistern pool, the bottom of which was visible again. Niruin was in his new bed, making absolutely no sound as he slept; the only other occupant in sight was the Guildmaster himself, leaning over his desk, looking at papers, in a way that was so reminiscent of Mercer it made Rune shiver.

Rordil was much, much more dangerous than Mercer ever was.

Sure, the High Elf was never short with them, or had a glare in his bright green eyes; he was always thoughtful, calm, neutral. But he moved with the same kind of easy grace a predator would have. Thieves knew their marks, and this mark screamed danger with every step. Rune had heard rumors that his Guildmaster had been kicked out of the Dark Brotherhood decades ago for insubordination of all things; whether they were true or not he didn't know and it didn't really matter. He didn't intend to get on Rordil's bad side, and he got the feeling that he would know as soon as he crossed that line. The good thing was that though he tended to make the other thieves nervous, he was a fantastic manager of the Guild's affairs and left Brynjolf to the more hands-on parts of interacting with the Guild.

Despite all this, Rune admired his Guildmaster,remembering how the mer had swept in just a year ago and started cleaning up the house almost from the get-go. Rune had been ambivalent about Mercer, just wanting to keep his head down, make money, and stay with his adopted family, until Rordil turned up. More specifically, until he turned up breathing when he was supposed to be dead.

Realizing he was staring at Rordil's bowed head from across the Cistern, Rune quickly ducked his own head and moved on, deciding to forgo donating to the tribute chest for the moment. Not while Rordil was there. He was frequently away — Rune would put the Guildmaster's cut in later.

He went left toward the alchemy table, digging the bag full of plants (and the claws of a bear that had attacked him) he had accumulated on the trip to Windhelm out of a pocket as he went.

Alchemy was a skill he was slowly honing. Someone had left an entire crate full of ingredients next to the table a few months before with a note that they were free to use. Most everyone suspected the Guildmaster himself had made the donation, though no one had seen him do it, due to the many rare and expensive reagents. Rune had accidentally wasted a lot of them in experiments before Thrynn got fed up with the smell and stole Elgrim's notes for the Imperial to use. Ever since then, Rune had been getting better. It helped that he had the hands of a thief — gently mixing volatile ingredients into potions or poisons used a lot of the same coordination as picking pockets or locks. The results helped with thievery, too.

Rune set to work at the table, carefully arranging his plants in rows on the nearby shelf. A scan of Elgrim's notes showed that bear claws and hanging moss would make a potion that would increase the number of hits he could take; useful for a skirmish on the road to a job, he supposed.

He was pouring water into a large bowl to let the moss seep when he heard the ladder from the graveyard creak. (This never would have been possible before the renovations.) He turned his head automatically, expecting to see Sapphire or Vipir or one of the footpads coming home, but instead an unfamiliar figure came down the ladder. In the shadowed alcove across the Cistern he couldn't make out many details, but the shape was womanly, and she was far too tall to be Sapphire or Vex.

Water sloshed over his fingers, and Rune turned back to the alchemy table to find he had overfilled the bowl in his distraction and clumps of moss were lying in puddles on the wooden surface and on the floor. Cursing under his breath, he knelt and tried to scoop the piles up. Water dripped off the table onto his head.

The visitor was forgotten, until he heard his Guildmaster exclaim, "Virilanya! What are you doing here, daughter?"

Daughter?! Rune stood up so fast he bumped his head on the underside of the alchemy table, nearly knocking both it and himself over. He turned around, finding that the visitor — a willowy, golden-haired High Elf lady clad in a flowing blue dress that was utterly out of place in a sewer, no matter the upgrades — was now near the archery targets, facing the Guildmaster. Rordil himself was standing straight-backed behind his desk, arms crossed. Rune couldn't quite see his expression, but his posture was stiff, tense.

"Father," said the lady. "I'm worried about you." Her voice was soft, subtle, without a hint of the snide airs with which Rune had long since associated with High Elves.

"Worried? Viri..." Rordil relaxed, deflating with one great exhale. "I know, Viri. But you shouldn't be here. It's not something I wanted you to know, that your old man does this—" he waved his hand in the air, "—to support you."

Viri's pale gold skin darkened in a blush, and she drifted closer to her father. "I don't mind. Really, I don't. You'll do what you have to, Father, and I can't fault you for that. If you want me to leave—"

Rune turned away, feeling like he was intruding on a private moment. Never mind that it was taking place in one of the hardest places in Skyrim to keep a secret.

"No, Viri. I'm sorry. You can stay. I'd have to introduce you to the Guild at some point, anyway. It can be tonight."

Well, I guess I'm not getting any alchemy done now, Rune thought, mopping up the watery mess and putting the bear claws back on the shelf. Rordil and his daughter were murmuring behind him, but he tuned them out, unwilling to pry further even by accident. He may have been a thief but he had standards.

He was trying so hard not to listen that he didn't hear Rordil approach him and nearly jumped out of his skin when the mer spoke. "Rune."

The Imperial whipped around, squeaking out a "Yes?"

Rordil didn't even raise an eyebrow, regarding Rune as coolly as ever. "My daughter, Virilanya." He indicated over his shoulder where the lady was staring at Rune curiously.

For his part, Rune flicked his gaze from Rordil to Viri and back again, unwilling to take his attention off his Guildmaster for any length of time. "Hullo," he said to her while keeping his eyes firmly fixed on Rordil's tight mouth. "Nice to meet you."

"Rune? That's your name?" Viri asked, tilting her head. She was beautiful in the corner of his vision, and he guessed that if he looked at her directly longer than that quick glance he would never be able to stop. Dangerous ground, Rune, said a voice that sounded like his father.

He opened his mouth to mumble through a reply, but Rordil beat him to it. "Yes. It's a long story. Isn't it, Rune?"

No, Rune certainly was not imagining the warning in his boss' slanted green eyes. "It is," he said simply. He could take a hint. He hadn't survived thus far by being an idiot.

"Perhaps later. For now, Rune, if you would go find Brynjolf for me please. He should be in the Flagon, I think."

The Guild second was indeed in the Flagon; Rune knew because he'd won a compliment for bringing in the goods. He scurried away, nearly falling over a still-sleeping Niruin. As he left, he heard Viri murmur a query, and, clear as day, Rordil's reply: "Because he can sense danger, as all thieves can."

♢~♢~♢

Rune sent Brynjolf on his way and was nursing a much-deserved drink at the bar when the Guild second came storming back in. He was in one of his famous moods. While he could be suave, and charming as a summer's day, he was also a thunderstorm: quick to form, hitting hard, and deadly dangerous. Luckily, his ire never lasted nowadays. Rune could still recall Brynjolf's tenuous hold on his temper snapping when Mercer's betrayal was revealed, however. It had taken weeks after Mercer's death for him to return to his old, smooth self.

With a shiver, Rune set his ale down, eying Brynjolf as he wound his way around the tables to collapse in a chair across from Delvin. The redhead snatched one of his fellow thief's drinks and upended it, letting out a long sigh as he slammed it back down on the table.

"What's eating you?" said Delvin, as subtly as ever.

"Guildmaster." That was apparently all Brynjolf needed to say.

"I daresay we knew what we were getting into."

Brynjolf snorted. "No, we didn't."

"What? Bryn, what is it?" Delvin's face was drawing in confusion and no small amount of dread. Realizing he was staring, Rune went back to his drink, catching Vekel's knowing glance as he did. Rune felt his face warm, but kept his head down.

"Oh no. Nothing like Mercer. I swear that Elf is straight-laced as Stendarr when it comes to the Guild. You know, I distinctly recall him insisting that he paid Tonilia for the armor."

"Really? That's interesting. So, he's not a traitor. What's got you so upset, hm?"

"It's that he never told us he had a daughter."

Delvin, in mid-swig, barely managed to avoid spraying the ale out across the table. He started choking, and Vex, rolling her eyes, came over to slap him hard on the back. Coughing, Delvin sputtered, far louder than necessary, "A daughter?!"

As the thieves and associates around them glanced up — including Rune, who decided he could risk it if everyone else was doing it — Brynjolf gritted his teeth and ground out, "Yes. Although it wasn't supposed to be open knowledge until the Guildmaster could introduce her."

Delvin shrugged. "Well, then you shouldn't have told me, lad." But he did look a smidgen guilty. "Anyway, who woulda thought he would have a kid. I had him pegged for the type who—"

"—wouldn't get any? You were projecting." Vex drawled, moving away again and tossing the barb over her shoulder.

"You wound me, darlin'." Delvin abandoned whatever he had been going to say. "Anyway, Bryn. What's this daughter like?"

"Oh no. You're not getting any more out of me, old man. Guildmaster will be introducing her soon enough." Brynjolf signaled Vekel for another round and Rune looked down again before he could catch anyone's eye. Judging from the slam of the mug on the table that followed a second later and Delvin's muffled groan, Brynjolf had upended that, too. "Come on, Del," he said after a pause. "I'm not going to get drunk off of two — whatever that was. I'm not some lad who can't hold his mead."

Vekel rolled his eyes. He would know, wouldn't he, thought Rune.

While the two old friends behind him bickered half-heartedly, Rune swirled the ale around in the bottom of his glass — he liked it better from the glass — and tried not to think of how his Guildmaster's daughter had the most intensely green eyes he had ever seen.

I am so dead.

Chapter Text

Rune wasn't quite sure how it happened, but Viri became a regular fixture of the Guild at some point after her introduction. She never slept in the Cistern — her father rarely did, instead disappearing to Honeyside without a word most nights — but during the day she seemed to pop up at random and leave without anyone noticing. Though she talked to everyone as if they were a potential friend, it was only upon comparing notes with several of the others that Rune realized she had never once answered any questions about herself or her father directly.

"I don't know, there's something off about her," Thrynn mused, gesturing with one hand. The other was around the waist of the pretty new recruit on his lap. He went through them like a newbie went through lockpicks.

"For you. You can't bed her because she's the boss' daughter." Niruin. It was obvious to Rune that the Wood Elf was jealous of Thrynn — not that that was necessarily a bad thing, nor that Rune would ever say it out loud — and his sexual exploits. For that matter, Rune had never met a Wood Elf who had much luck in relationships. And he had been all over Skyrim.

He glanced up, immediately spotting Viri across the Cistern. She was in deep conversation with Sapphire over by the alchemy table. The Nord was shaking her head even as Viri talked to her, then she turned and pointed right at Rune.

Before he could look down again and pretend he hadn't been staring, Viri's eyes had followed the line of Sapphire's extended finger and alighted on him, widening in surprise.

Dead, dead, so dead.

But Viri's face broke out in a smile that lit up her face even from across the Cistern. She gestured for him to come over.

Dread mitigated somewhat by that smile, Rune excused himself, ignoring the others' questioning looks, and Vipir miming slitting his own throat. He was not going to literally die. Unless the Guildmaster found out how Viri's smile made his heart race. He glanced at the desk as he crossed over the water, but it was empty. In the vault, perhaps, or out in Riften proper.

"Hullo, Viri," he said, wincing internally at the shyness in his voice. What was he getting shy for? She wasn't going to bite.

But her father would. Or perhaps... there had been rumors that the Dragonborn and the Guildmaster were one and the same, and though he had never been a believer in that particular theory (he had enough wild guesses as to true identities in his own life) the thought of Rordil breathing fire was more fitting than it should have been.

"Good afternoon," she said brightly. "Rune, was it?" She rolled the R slightly, and he had never been so captivated by the sound of his own name.

"Yes, that's me."

She clapped her hands in delight, turning to the alchemy lab. "Sapphire said you use this a lot. I was hoping you would know if there's a trick to the alembic."

He moved around to the other side of the little table, glad to have something to distract him from those eyes. Carefully removing the apparatus from its place, he checked both attached vessels for cracks. "This set is fairly old, I think. I'll have to ask Delvin how long it's been here. Could be any number of things wrong with it, but I've never had to do anything different."

She moved closer to him, peering at the flasks in his hands. He froze, barely breathing. She smelled like the foreign spices Brand-Shei had managed to get imported once, before the war. From High Rock, if he recalled correctly. He didn't remember what the spices were called, it was so long ago, but they were distinctive — pleasant, if distracting.

Viri turned her head to look at him. His cheeks were blooming red, he knew it, and she took a step back.

He put the alembic back down and slipped his hand under the edge of the table, feeling for the catch. Viri watched him curiously, drifting closer again with a murmur of appreciation when the semi-hidden tray slid out.

"That might be it. Fire salts are out," he said, poking at the heap of pale pink crystals. They were cold and clung to his finger.

"Oh! Of course." Viri clapped her hands again, and Rune wondered at how different she was from other High Elves — Thalmor and the Guildmaster alike.

I've been working off a stereotype, I guess, he thought, holding back a sigh. He straightened up, scanning the shelf for fire salts. He was all too aware of Viri coming up to his side — she was so much taller than he was — but did not expect her to murmur, "I must admit I've deceived you."

He froze, but she was smiling at him. "What?"

"I knew the fire salts were out. I just wanted to talk to you."

"You... did?" Great, I sound like a simpleton now.

She giggled, eyes crinkling at the corners. "What's that look for?"

"Well, I was worried — just for a moment, mind — that you were talking about something else."

"Oh." She pondered this for a moment. "Ah. I heard that you had some problems with your former Guildmaster. Something like that?"

He took the out, as he was unwilling to admit his overactive imagination had thought of several things in that split second, including that she was a Dark Brotherhood assassin. "Something like that."

"It's hard to imagine Father being new to anything," she said with a fond smile. "But in any case, it's a lovely night outside. Join me?"

A pretty girl is asking me on a date. He turned the idea over in his head, wondering if getting closer to Viri was worth having Rordil's attention, and possibly wrath, focused on him.

It's just a walk outside. Nothing improper.

"Sure."

♢~♢~♢

The aurora danced above Riften. Viri was in the grass between the hidden entrance to the Cistern and the Talos statue, twirling in a slow circle with her face lifted to the sky. Rune stood in an archway, watching her skin glow like magic in the light of the moons and the city. He was content to lean against the familiar stone and listen to the frogs croak in the distance, their song lending itself to the rustle of the trees and the soft tread of a guard's boots on the main street.

Viri stopped, turning her face from the heavens to look at him. She beckoned.

He slid away from the arch and out onto the lawn, but when he reached her and took her hand she fell back, pulling him down with her into the dewy grass. He knelt over her, and she smiled at him.

He smiled back and lay down beside her, just far away enough to be polite, and they looked up at the sky together.

"What's your story, Rune?" she asked, and he answered her the same way she had answered her father not a year before. As he talked, bands of red aurora joined the green, and the torchbugs flitted between them and the mortals so far below.

"Maybe some secrets are meant to be secrets," she said when he had finished. "To hunger too much for knowledge invites the attention of Hermaeus Mora and His sister, Mephala."

"I do hope this secret isn't the kind that would attract Daedric Princes!" He laughed, but she turned her head to look at him and Rune saw the solemnity in her eyes.

"My father met Him once, you know. Mora. Never told me how, exactly, but that's my father for you."

"Your father met a Daedric Prince?" Rune began to wonder if crossing his Guildmaster would involve something worse than fire-breathing.

"Oh, I doubt it was for business..." she said, glancing away. She put an odd emphasis on business, but Rune was busy trying to not think about Rordil maybe-possibly summoning a Daedric Prince to worry about that.

Might as well put it bluntly. "Viri... am I going to have to worry about him?"

She blinked, tilting her head in a way that would have been adorable if it hadn't been panic-inducing.

Oh goody, she's confused by the notion, this was a really bad idea—

"Worry about— Oh!" She broke into a smile, bringing one hand up to cover her mouth. "You mean— Oh, Rune, if you mean to court me you know you're going to have to be serious about it. We Altmer take these things as sacred, after all."

"Sacred? I don't— wait, not that I mean to, understand, but d'you mean you never do anything—"

She laughed. "No, no. We have... flings, as humans call them. Especially when one is young. But you'd only need to worry about Father for a brief time if that were so. Besides, if there is mutual attraction, why not?"

Mutual. Mutual attraction. Oh sweet mother Mara, she liked him back.

Chapter Text

Rune soon found that Altmer, or perhaps Viri in particular, did indeed hold courting sacred. And the Guildmaster's daughter was very particular about it. Flowers, jewelry, nighttime walks along the lake with her hair shining in the moonlight. It reminded Rune of the old tales of knightly love among the Bretons.

The upside was that, as soon as he made the connection that she wanted to be courted rather like a knight would court a damsel, it became easy to just mimic the novels. He even wrote a bit of poetry for her, which he gave to her before promptly fast walking — not running, he was not scared! — out of the room and hiding in the Warrens for a few hours. When he returned Cynric, nosy Cynric, interrogated him about his absence, but at least Brynjolf and Rordil seemed none the wiser.

In any case, when they met by the lake that night she was blushing, though she admitted regretfully that she had to burn the parchment lest her father find it and suspect she was being wooed.

Piece by piece, she told him about herself.

It started with the wolves. They'd gone too far, past the lights of the Snow-Shod farm and past the sight of even the most hawk-eyed guard, and as soon as they realized they were already at the junction to Goldenglow, the howl alerted them to the attack.

Viri had whirled, cloak flapping with her movement, and flung a lightning bolt at the first wolf that sprang at her with its jaws wide. By the time it hit the ground, twitching, its fellows were already circling around Rune and he barely got his dagger out to deflect a bite. Viri cast again, and this bolt leapt from her target to the third wolf, then to Rune who only felt a prickle as the shock ran through the animal and into his dagger.

As Rune shook out his tingling arm, Viri's hands were aglow with a different kind of magic. "No others," she announced. "Not within a thousand paces, at least." She dropped the spell. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah," he said. "Just glad you're here." He did not say that he would probably be dinner if he had been alone.

But she seemed to gather what he did not say, though she had the grace to not mention it. "At least it wasn't a spider. I would be wholly useless against a spider, I'm afraid. Always hated them, even back home in High Rock where they never get bigger than a housecat, if that. Here they're just..." She made an undignified noise and shuddered.

They started back to the city, both pulling their hoods up against the chill. "High Rock, you say?" It was the most he had gotten out of her. She didn't have the accent Delvin or Cynric (or even Mercer) did.

She kept her eyes firmly on the road, though a corner of her mouth did twitch down before she forced a smile. "Oh yes. Wayrest. Lovely city. Biggest one in High Rock, which is saying something. Used to be the biggest in Tamriel after the Imperial City, but I think Alinor has it beat now..."

Rune tried to imagine a more populated city than Solitude, where he had grown up, and failed. "When did you leave?"

"Early Midyear of one-eighty-eight."

There was still something she wasn't saying; something about the date was significant and he kicked himself for not reading more history. It wasn't that distant — he would have been twelve or so at the time — but he'd never been one for worldly events. Still, from her sudden silence he knew there was a real story behind it.

He puzzled over it for the rest of their walk. Perhaps he imagined the haunting behind her eyes as she parted ways from him just before the gate.

♢~♢~♢

"Delvin," he called as he entered the Flagon.

"Pull up a seat, my boy." The veteran thief waved for more drink.

Rune glanced around the bar. Vekel and Tonilia were there, of course, and Dirge lurked somewhere in the shadows by the Ratway, but otherwise the Flagon was empty. Good. This might be difficult.

Delvin looked up from the solid gold bee statue he was admiring. "What's got your goose, eh?"

"I— Er." Now that he was actually here, looking into Delvin's sharp-as-ever eyes, the words failed him. He took a breath, then another, while Delvin's eyebrows inched up his face. "I need a history lesson."

"Of course. I've been here the longest now — well, apart from Karliah, but I understand if you're still, uh, wary of her."

"What? Oh— No. I don't mean the history of the Guild."

"What'dya mean then?" Delvin may have been an old lech, and he may have been paranoid, but he was no fool. He eyed Rune, but whatever he was thinking didn't show to the junior thief. Delvin didn't go on cons much anymore, but he had a face that won many a game of Skingrad hold 'em.

"Did something happen in Wayrest fourteen years ago? Something big?"

Delvin did not answer for a long time. He sat back, putting his face half in shadow, and stared at the bottom of his tankard.

"Hey—"

"Yeah," he interrupted curtly. "The whole city was destroyed. Sacked by pirates."

"Pirates? How did that happen?"

"There was rumors they were hired by the Thalmor, but I dunno if I believe that. Attacked in the middle of the night, killed King Edwin and his entire family. Only a few got out. Why'da ask?" Delvin leaned forward suddenly, eyes hard. "This isn't about somethin'... of the heart, is it?"

"What?!" Though Delvin had whispered, there were too many people in the bar. Vekel was choosing that moment to bring the mead, looking far too curious for his own good. Rune snatched one of the tankards out of his hands and wrapped his hands around it to stop them from shaking. "Delvin, it's not— it's hardly— what makes you think that?" Divines, he was a terrible liar.

Vekel made a show of setting the other tankard in front of Delvin, lingering as long as possible.

"Off with you," the veteran growled. When Vekel had retreated behind the bar, he turned back to Rune and said, "Well, summat's been distracting you of late. And then you come in here and start askin' weird questions about ancient history—"

Rune rather thought it wasn't ancient history to Delvin, judging by his reaction, but he wasn't about to point that out.

"—its not like you, my boy."

"I'm not allowed to be studious?" Rune countered.

"Nope. Because that ain't it. D'ya really want me to guess?" Delvin picked up his new tankard and swirled the mead inside around. He could, and would, be there all day.

Rune slumped in his chair. "No."

"Then out with it. What's eating you?"

"There's a girl..." Woman, he corrected in his head. Because Viri was certainly no girl. She was — how old was she, anyway?

Delvin nodded, a sly grin spreading over his face. "Go on."

"I don't really know much about her but I want to get to know her better. The problem is, she's... shy, I guess?"

"Fine line between blushin' for that and blushin' 'cause she likes you," Delvin pointed out.

"No, she likes me — at least, she said she did." He was beginning to second-guess that too; the longer he thought about anything the more doubtful he was.

"Then...?"

"It's not that simple, Delvin! I'm trying to figure her out because she keeps turning everything into a conversation about me, and you know I don't have much to go on, either!"

"Sure you do. No one remembers anything from when they was a baby, anyway. Anyone who survived childhood has a trove of material, and your search for clues is probably going to turn out a bigger story than the answer anyways."

Rune opened his mouth to reply, unsure what he was supposed to say, but was saved having to figure it out when a voice he knew too well rang out from right behind him. "Girl trouble, hmm?"

Both Delvin and Rune froze, but the veteran recovered much quicker, apparently more shocked that the Guildmaster had managed to sneak up in his line of sight than anything to do with the discussion.

Rune, though, dared not move, as now that Rordil had announced his presence Rune could feel it, almost like he was being suffocated from behind. He dared a glance to the left just far enough to find a clever, nimble, deceptively uncalloused hand laying casually on the back of the chair mere inches from Rune's shoulder.

The part of him that wasn't terrified out of his mind wondered if Rordil would really murder him in the Flagon of all places.

"You know," the Altmer continued, "I might be able to help with that."

"R-really?" The squeaking was rather undignified, wasn't it, and across the table Delvin was trying, and failing, at holding back a grin. Would he be doing that if he knew the kind of danger Rune was in? Rune wasn't sure anymore.

In a flash, Rordil had an empty chair from another table dragged over and was sitting down, leaning on the table and piercing Rune in place with those eyes. "Of course. I've had my share of problems with the ladies." He was smiling, and it was terrifying.

"I—"

"What you need is a little initiative, boy!" Rordil barked.

Behind him Vekel was watching with barely-contained glee. Rune glared at the barman, who just smothered his giggles behind his hand, but Rordil was still talking.

"Sweep her off her feet! Roses, I don't care if you have to import them! Jewelry, and not that weird tribal stuff Medesi makes! I'm talking tiaras, here. Every girl has a princess dream, somewhere."

Sapphire and Vex would disagree, Rune was sure of that, but Rordil was no less scary when he was this animated and Rune didn't feel like interrupting.

"Make her feel special, beautiful, and don't think I haven't noticed you have no taste, you run everything you give her by me or Delvin here, you understand?" He sat back in his chair, arms folded, staring at Rune as if awaiting a challenge.

I have no taste? Rune thought defiantly, but he put on a meek expression and nodded, and Rordil seemed satisfied.

"Good. Let me know how it goes. Now that the luck's back even you shouldn't have much trouble. As long as you follow what I said. And show some backbone!" He swept off again, disappearing down the corridor to the Cistern, and Rune finally managed to pry his fingers from their death-grip on the table.

"Well," Delvin huffed. "That was weird."

"You have no idea."

Chapter Text

Rune did several minor thefts in Riften in the following weeks, building up his savings (just in case) and waiting for Vex to return so he would have an excuse to go to Whiterun on a job. He had considered asking Delvin, but the old man was too perceptive for his own good and kept smiling proudly at Rune whenever he so much as passed by. It was awkward, to say the least. Vex wouldn't ask questions. Vex wouldn't care.

It was just a matter of waiting for her to come back from Solstheim. Sapphire had gone there to visit her father, and Vex came along to sniff out rumors for the Guild's next great heist: the treasure of Haknir Deathbrand. There hadn't been a planned date of return.

But she did return, strolling into the Cistern one night — as best as one could stroll with a pronounced limp, that was. Sapphire was right behind, busy admiring a ring with a stone so large her hand was shaking with the effort to keep it raised.

"Vex!" Brynjolf exclaimed. He had been conferring with Rordil at the Guildmaster's desk, but he dropped everything and ran to meet the women.

"I'm fine, Bryn," was all Vex said as she brushed past him. She made her way around the Cistern and disappeared into the bar.

"Well, if you say so." He wasn't going to contest this one.

Sapphire glanced up from the ring just long enough to give Brynjolf an exasperated look. "She's just mad that she got hurt trying to go it alone."

"She did what?!"

"Come on. I don't want to explain this more than once." She marched up to the Guildmaster's desk and began a frantic, if hushed conference with Rordil and Brynjolf.

Rune set down the pestle. His hands were covered in the dust of a finely ground sabre cat claw, which he attempted to wipe off. He couldn't hear a word of what Sapphire was saying, but the whispering had started up over by the cooking pot too and he figured the rumormongering would continue well into the next morning.

He had little interest in that. His focus at the moment revolved around whether Vex would give him a job in her current state. He gave her a minute to stew, grab a drink at the bar, and dodge Delvin while he cleaned up after himself. Finally, he made his way to the Flagon.

It took him a minute to spot Vex, but he did find her, sitting at the table by the face-sculptor. Galathil had shown up over a year before, but the only thief who took advantage of her talents was Thrynn. The former bandit had sworn by her ability to make his crooked nose straight every time he lost a fight. Everyone else, like Rune himself, considered the Bosmer too creepy, and her price too high, to make any changes under her knife worth it.

"Hey," he said softly. Vex looked up from her wine, sour. "Was hoping you had something in Whiterun."

At first he thought she was going to tear him in half, from the look on her face. Then she settled into her usual sneer. It was... improvement, at least. "If you're trying to cheer me up, this is a weird way to go about it."

"I'm not. Whatever happened is your business. I just need something in Whiterun. Because..." He rethought trying to explain why. "...reasons."

"Because reasons," she mocked. "Fine. I think I have something." She reached into a pocket and drew out a notepad, flipping through the pages. "Any particular reasons you couldn't bother Delvin with this?"

He shrugged, though she wasn't looking at him.

"Hmph. Ah, here it is. A shill job at the Gray-Mane house in Whiterun." She glanced up at him, as if daring him to reject it.

"All right. What am I planting?"

Vex leaned down to rifle through the pack at her feet. "This." She drew out a beautiful gold circlet set with emeralds and handed it to him.

Rune felt queasy. It would be perfect to give to Viri. Or, would have been, if he wouldn't be effectively stealing from the guild to give it to her. That he would not do, but he mourned the lost opportunity anyway. The gems reminded him of her eyes...

"Look at the inside," Vex said.

He turned it over and peered at the band. There, behind the largest emerald at the center of the design, was an engraving. To my dearest Bergritte, it read, from your loving husband.

"Don't worry, it's a replica. We've got the Battle-Born's full cooperation on this, so don't muck it up."

With a sigh, he went to pack. The sooner he got this done the sooner he could go hunting for Viri's present.

♢~♢~♢

In hindsight, he should have been more careful. His thoughts were preoccupied with Viri, or more specifically Viri's present. He was well-aware that anything he gave her would likely expose them to her father. He'd have to get approval from Rordil or Delvin, then to have Viri show up wearing the item... He wondered if he could get Delvin to cooperate. The Breton was a notorious blabbermouth, though. Rune didn't trust him to keep this secret, no matter how much Delvin was trying to be fatherly.

...which got Rune thinking about his old Pa in Solitude, and somewhere around there it all went to Oblivion.

He must have stepped wrong, or the lid creaked, or something, because just as he was planting the circlet in a chest in one of the upstairs bedrooms, a wordless Battlecry had him freezing in fear, and then the source of the terror-inducing noise, one very pissed off Avulstein Gray-Mane (though Rune didn't know who it was at the time), slammed him up against the wall with a battleaxe to his throat.

Head still ringing from the ancient magic that all Nords possess, Rune hung limp from his attacker's fist. Avulstein was roaring in his face, some part of him dimly realized this, but even as the racial power faded his brain was rapidly losing any capacity for thought, because Avulstein had, intentionally or not, lodged one meaty thumb into his windpipe.

His eyes rolled back in his head, and the last thing he felt before consciousness left him entirely was his knees hitting the floor as Avulstein dropped him.

Chapter Text

Rune woke to absolute silence.

No, not absolute. There was water dripping somewhere, and a familiar scurrying in the walls. But no voices, or human sounds at all, save his own whimper as he tried to move.

Metal clinked nearby, but Rune was busy trying to remember where he was. Not the Cistern, of course. He dimly recalled that water no longer dripped constantly, and the rats were gone, and there was always someone talking or moving about or snoring, because he was never alone in the Cistern.

He was alone here.

He managed to lift his head and open his eyes. His vision was oddly blurry, but he made out stone walls all around, and a hallway beyond the barred gate directly in front of him.

Barred... gate... he moaned and laid his head back down on the freezing stone floor. He was in jail.

With that knowledge, the memories came trickling back — the huge hairy Nord who had confronted him, the circlet that looked so much like Viri's skin and eyes, Viri herself — and he laid there wallowing in them for a long time. He wondered why the Battle-Borns hadn't intervened. Perhaps it was too obvious that it was a shill job and that they were in on it.

He opened his eyes again and sat up properly. Clink, clink. His whole body felt like one giant bruise, and it was so cold in the cell. He needed to move. Clink, clink.

Vision clear again, he looked down at his hands and despaired at the shackles locked firmly around his wrists. He looked around the thick bands — clink, clink, that sound would haunt him to his grave — and was surprised to find no keyhole at all in the strong steel. Had someone molded them to his wrists while he was asleep? No, there had to be a keyhole. It was just hidden, and he was panicking too thoroughly to see it. Yes. Oh Divines, what am I going to do?

His rapid, shallow breaths misted in the cold, and he was not aware that he was making desperate whimpers until he heard a door open down the hall. Two sets of footsteps approached. That tread... he knew it well. Guards.

The yellow-sashed uniforms came into view first, and it took a long moment for him to see past the strong light of the torch one carried that they were helmeted.

The torch-carrying guard spoke first. "What are you whining about now, thief?" Such a sneer on the word that defined him, defined his family, would once have made Rune bristle with defiant anger, but he failed to see the point of that now. He was completely at their mercy.

Rune opened his mouth, but the other guard beat him to it. "He's such a young thing. Probably wants his mother."

That made Rune bristle. From their voices, they were probably younger than him. He knew he was baby-faced but he was not a child.

"Touched a nerve, did we?" the first guard said, smirk evident in his voice.

"No sir," said Rune, fighting to keep his tone steady, meek even. These men had the ability to make his life torturous as long as he was here. Speaking of which... "But please, have I been sentenced yet?"

"Not yet," said the second guard. Perhaps he had pity in his heart, Rune didn't know. "The Jarl was going to wait until you woke up to sentence you. It's too late now, but we will bring you before him tomorrow."

"I've been wanting a new lifer," said the other, nudging his companion, who drew away from him and shook his head.

"We'll see. In the meantime, sit tight," he said to Rune. "There's water in the pitcher over there, but no food until tomorrow morning. Before you see the Jarl — wouldn't want you fainting from hunger in front of him, it's bad manners."

With that they left, the sadistic guard poking fun at his colleague's 'softness' all the way down the hall until the door clicked shut again and their voices were muffled.

Frankly, Rune didn't see what was so soft about him. It was just basic decency. But now that the panic had passed, he noticed his hunger and thirst, and once again the chill of the dungeon. There was a narrow cot to his right, as well as a small table with the aforementioned pitcher. A waste bucket was visible under the cot, which had a straw-stuffed mattress and a thin blanket as well as — praise the Shadows — a pillow piled atop it. He steadied one hand against the damp, cold-as-the-grave wall behind him to rise. A chain stretched between his manacles, allowing basic movement and clinking noisily with even the slightest shift of his hands. No way he'd be escaping with it on.

He stumbled over to the cot. The mattress was about as nice as he could have hoped for, which was to say it was lumpy and ratty and smelled faintly of urine, but there weren't any holes in the blanket and he considered this a miracle.

The water was, indeed, water: cool and clear to boot, and he had to stop himself from drinking it all once it touched his lips. It settled heavy in his empty stomach and sloshed audibly as he laid down to sleep; it was just about the only thing he could do until the morning though he wasn't particularly tired.

Still, he only laid awake for a few minutes before he drifted off, the steady light of the torch on the wall outside his cell keeping him company.

♢~♢~♢

There were different guards, this time. A smooth-skinned woman in an open helmet who didn't say a word the entire time, and a man in the closed version who was entirely too talkative for Rune's headache. At least he got food, which eased the hunger: eggs and a bit of ham, along with some dry bread that Rune didn't touch because he suspected he'd be having too much of it after sentencing. Something was definitely wrong, for him not to have been sprung loose by now. The Battle-Borns had a special relationship with the Guild, and just because he had mucked it up didn't mean they could just leave him here. Right?

Then the walk. The guards were in no hurry to drag him up to the keep, so Rune glanced around as casually as he could. The other cells were empty. That explained the lack of noise.

"It's been slow for us," said the chatty guard. "Like it or not, the War kept us busy. Just the usual drunkenness, now, and since it's always Uthgerd the Jarl just has us take her to her house and lock her inside. That Dragonborn really did a number on a lot of things in Skyrim."

Of course, Rune knew, the only reason they hadn't had more convicts was because they hadn't been caught. The Dark Brotherhood was still operational, though Delvin had been worried for a while as rumors of them being destroyed came in, and the Thieves Guild was better than ever. Except for him, apparently. He tried to remember what had given him away, and drew a blank.

They crossed into Dragonsreach proper. Rune had never been in here before, having had no reason to risk it. Two long tables in the center of the hall were laid with the remains of a grand breakfast, which servants busied themselves clearing away. Though it was summer, the firepit blazed, sending plumes of smoke up to disappear into the high rafters. Guards were everywhere, making Rune nervous for no real reason — he was already caught, how could they catch him again? — but still the eggs and ham from before sat heavy in his gut.

A line of well-dressed petitioners waited at the stairs by the entrance, some of them glancing curiously at him and his escort. They seemed more annoyed that he would get to go first than anything to do with his status.

The three of them stood off to the side. Behind him Rune smelled and heard the kitchen, and his eyes caught the court wizard shuffling around his office across the way. He was still wearing a nightshirt, and seemed oblivious to this fact.

As if following his gaze, the chatty guard said, "Poor Farengar. He was so excited about the dragons, but the Dragonborn put them down so fast that he never got the chance to study a living one."

"Is that why he...?" Rune said. It was a bit funny.

"What? Oh, no. He does that all the time." He let go of Rune's arm — his partner sighed heavily, gripping the thief so tight he would bruise — and cupped his hands around his mouth. "Oy! Farengar! You're dangling again!"

The wizard shot back into his bedroom with a shriek, prompting sniggers and outright guffaws from the petitioners. Even Rune smiled despite himself.

Then the guard at the base of the stairs to the second floor called for attention, and Rune's amusement shriveled up and died. There he was, the Jarl himself, coming down the stairs with his housecarl at his side. He was middle aged but still strong, streaks of gray in his blond warrior-braids and sinewy arms that spoke to a warrior's regimen. Skyrim did not allow even her Jarls to become complacent, whatever Balgruuf's reputation as a gold-hungry opportunist.

Balgruuf crossed the floor to his throne, which, Rune realized for the first time, had a dragon's skull above it. The Jarl settled in, stretching out his long legs. "Proventus, what's on the agenda today?" he said, voice booming out over the hall though the man he was speaking to was right beside him.

Proventus' reply was inaudible as he read from a scroll, but he hadn't gotten very far before the Jarl interrupted him. "That's fine. We'll start with the thief, then. Where is Olfrid? He said he wanted to testify."

Apparently the Battle-Borns were waiting until the last possible moment to help him out. But if they weren't here... Proventus said something again, and Balgruuf sighed heavily. "Fine. Arnkon, Sonja, bring him up."

Rune tried to keep up with them, he really did, but Sonja in particular seemed dead-set on dragging him up to the dais. Only her grip on his arm kept him from tripping over his own feet and faceplanting onto the wooden floor. At the base of the short steps leading to the throne, she switched her grip to his shoulder and shoved him down. Arnkon sighed, nearly inaudible, as Rune's knees buckled, but neither guard said anything.

Balgruuf was obviously sizing him up, and Rune tried not to shudder under the weight of that gaze. He couldn't figure out where to look — would avoiding eye contact be seen as a sign of respect or cowardice? He settled for hovering around the beak-like nose.

"What is your name, thief?"

Rune started, thinking quickly. This Jarl would see right through a lie, and if this fiasco wasn't already traced back to the Guild he doubted his name would do so.

So he told the truth, at least this time.

The Jarl harrumphed, folding his hands under his chin and slouching even further into his throne. "A shame, that a boy would throw his life away on thievery. But you are young yet, and may be reformed."

Rune doubted that, when his life was the Guild and his love was the Guildmaster's daughter. And there was the reference to his age again — he was not a child. It took all his willpower to keep his disbelief and disgust off his face, so much so that he nearly missed the sentence.

The blood drained away from his head all at once, pooling in his stomach and leaving his heart a weak, fluttering thing as Balgruuf boomed out, "Ten years."

Then he was summarily forgotten about; the guards saluted and dragged him away, and the first petitioner was waved forward.

Chapter Text

The days came, the days went, and at some indeterminable time Rune stopped counting even the guard patrols. They gave him the same slop for breakfast and dinner, anyway, and he barely woke up enough to eat a little before dozing off again. Where in Oblivion was the Guild? That was his only clear thought when he awoke.

His dreams were a different matter entirely. They battered him with sensations and emotions his conscious self did not feel — that the Guild had betrayed him, that Rordil had been corrupted, somehow, that Viri had been stringing him along. And slowly, surely, his dreams overran his consciousness. There was nothing for him in waking. At least in dreams, he could breathe the fresh air and feel the sun. Even Viri's eyes were a comfort. They stayed the same as her dream-self changed: declared she had never really loved him, and really, men are such fun to mess with, don't they have any sense, how could an Altmer ever love a human.

He could feel himself wasting away, but he cared less and less as time ticked by. And his dreams became less vivid, too.

♢~♢~♢

It took him several minutes, at least, to realize that the scraping sound coming from the floor of his cell as not a hallucination.

It took him even longer to realize that the scraping meant something, something other than he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep.

It took one of the stones lifting up and away, and a familiar face poking through the resulting hole, for him to realize that the Guild had come for him.

He sat up, his head spinning, and drew in a sharp breath — to either start sobbing or laughing, he wasn't sure which — but then Cynric Endell bounded up through the escape tunnel and clapped his hand over Rune's mouth.

Laughter, it was definitely laughter that wanted to bubble up and burst out, but Cynric held him firmly, making shushing noises and almost looking emotional, what in Oblivion—

"Come on," the jailbreaker — that's right, we have a damn jailbreaker, how did I forget that — whispered urgently. "We've got to go, now."

Rune allowed Cynric to haul him up and drag him to the tunnel, where a very nervous-looking Redguard girl in Guild leathers was waiting. Cynric passed him off — Rune was still tempted to laugh, but a wide-eyed stare from the fresh recruit shut him up — then climbed down himself, reaching up to set the stone back in place almost as an afterthought.

"What—" Rune started at last, but Cynric shook his head.

"Sorry, mate. Not here. C'mon. Shula, carry him if you have to. He may be weak."

Shula took one look at Rune and promptly scooped him up (passing her torch to Cynric), and he didn't have the presence of mind to protest. A dream. This had to be another dream, right? But Shula's arms felt solid. More solid than his own.

He laid back and left them to it.

The tunnel led to a large abandoned sewer, and Cynric lead them around recently-slain skeevers to an open gate, and another tunnel. Rune resisted the strong urge to drift off again. Just in case this wasn't already a dream. Cynric kept sending him sympathetic looks over his shoulder. The air was beginning to change, smelling less like sewer and more like earth and... flowers. Pollen. He tried valiantly not to sneeze.

They stopped at a ladder set into the wall, though the tunnel ran further on into the darkness. Rune swayed on his feet when Shula set him down, head spinning even worse than it had in the cell. This was it. This was not a dream. He wondered how much farther the tunnel went, and where to. He wondered how his father was doing. He wondered about anything and everything except for what awaited him beyond the trapdoor, because he would surely faint if he thought about that too much. And fainting in front of Cynric was not his idea of fun. Even if he was looking on with pity already.

"Steady, man. Steady," Cynric murmured, then pushed open the trapdoor.

♢~♢~♢

Rune woke up to an army of miniature Orcs forging armor on the inside of his skull. The light was orange beyond his eyelids, and familiar voices were murmuring nearby. He was lying on his side in a nest of furs, cocooned snugly, and it was very warm. Too warm.

He opened his eyes. The furs were arranged to create a window through which he could see a campfire, and beyond, the plains of Whiterun in evening. They hadn't gotten far, then. A quick glance up told him he was under an overhang, and in a permanent camp as well — they wouldn't need to hang garlic from the ceiling just for a rescue mission. Probably commandeered from smugglers.

And then he was surprised by how clearly he could think even with his headache.

It was still hot. Rune wiggled, dislodging the furs around his face, and the low conversation stopped.

"Hey," Cynric said softly, coming over and crouching down. "You okay, Rune? You just..." He made a vague gesture. "Fainted, back there."

"I think he knows that," came a sharp voice just before the Guildmaster came into view.

Rune squeaked. Oh shit. From the downturn of his mouth to the steel in his gaze, down to his right hand which flexed as if the elf was barely holding back a fireball, Rune knew he was in for — something. He'd avoided Mercer's famous wrath, but of course he had to slip up with the infinitely-scarier Rordil. Just his luck. Was it the job? No. Probably Viri.

"Er— Hello, Guildmaster." As if he couldn't tell he was about to get a tongue-lashing or worse.

"Rune," Rordil greeted with an equally-curt jerk of his head.

Cynric scattered, not even bothering with an excuse, and Rune cursed inwardly. So much for friendship.

Well, at least I will die in the fresh air, he reasoned, and struggled out of the fur swaddling. He wasn't as afraid as he thought he would be. Just disappointed, and mournful of what could have been with Viri. Who knew, maybe he'd just get kicked out of the Guild. What would he do then? Go to Cyrodiil, join their Guild? Or High Rock's? Or start his life anew?

Rordil stood back while Rune arranged himself into a sitting position. The Guildmaster's arms were folded, but he had simmered down a bit. "By Mara, you look like a condemned man," he grumbled, rolling his eyes. "I'm not going to kill you. Not for the foreseeable future, at any rate."

Rordil's words did break him out of his melancholy, but not, perhaps, as the elf wanted. Exile. Because I courted the Guildmaster's daughter, never mind that she's a grown womer and even, in all likelihood, older than me. Evidently jail hadn't destroyed his nerve. Maybe it had even given him audacity that wasn't there before, for Rune felt bitter anger creep up his spine and out his mouth before he could stop and cut his losses.

"Really? You think you are showing mercy, do you? What have I done to deserve leaving the Guild? My family? I haven't touched your daughter! I've been courting her, by the Divines, because that's what she wanted—" Hot, stinging tears sprang to his eyes, but he didn't care. Let them judge. Let them see.

"Whoa, whoa, now hold on—"

"I get that you're protective, but this isn't fucking okay—" He balled his fists in a pelt, but he wasn't wrecked enough even then to attack Rordil. He just needed something to hold on to.

"Rune, shh. This isn't what you think. My father isn't going to kick you out," called a voice from outside the overhang. Rune gasped as Viri herself appeared like a vision from the Divines he had sworn by, hair mussed around her head and catching the light of the setting sun in a fiery halo. She glided forward as graceful as ever, removing a line of fire-singed rabbits from her shoulder as she went. Taking Rune's hands, she crouched down in front of him, shooting a glare at her father. "Don't scare him like that. Think about your actions."

"Virilanya—"

She ignored him, stroking Rune's face. Her fingers were gentle and warm.

Rordil huffed and retreated a few paces to tend the fire.

"I'm sorry it took so long," Viri murmured. "We tried getting you out the diplomatic way, first, but the Jarl is a stubborn mule. Even Father's Thaneship couldn't sway him, and he couldn't push the issue without causing suspicion."

"It's okay," Rune whispered back. They were so close, he could see flecks of gold in her irises. "I'm just glad you're here. What was that about?"

"I insisted on coming, and then Father asked why, and... well, I had to tell him. About us. Don't worry, he only set one of the Guild banners on fire. I think he's... not okay with it, but less murderous at least, now."

"That's very. Um. Reassuring," Rune said, a half-hysterical giggle pooling at his lips.

"Don't worry, I'll bring him around. He just never wanted me to be involved in anything work-related. Much less..." She waved a hand between them. "But I'm not his little girl anymore. I have to find my own path." She grinned suddenly, sun-bright and blinding, and leaned in to brush her lips against his.

It was slow, and gentle. Rune closed his eyes and let her lead; he was curious how far she would go, and even if Rordil hadn't been nearby he wouldn't go faster than she was comfortable with. What he could taste of her was sweet. Her hands came up to trace his jaw; feather-light touches that became surer as the kiss deepened a bit. He was hyper-aware of her shifting closer to him as if she wanted to crawl into his lap but kept thinking better of it. He wanted to touch her, too; instead he twisted the furs in his hands and cursed Rordil's hovering.

Viri pulled away slowly. How long it had been, he couldn't tell, but even if it had only been a few seconds Rune knew this was the turning point. At least in their relationship.

"I think I've found it," Viri said, looking at him through her lashes.

Rune blinked. "Huh?"

"My path."

His ears were probably bright red now; certainly his face was. He hadn't been expecting that, but really, who would? Despite — because of — his dedication to courting, he had resigned himself to being the more invested one in the relationship.

"And you know, I feel like you've been heaping all this attention on me and I haven't been reciprocating. What would you say to dinner at the Bee & Barb when we get back? Now that Father knows..." She glanced at the other Altmer, who was staring into the fire with his arms crossed, trying valiantly to look like he wasn't listening.

"Of course. But..." The mention of Rordil nudged at something in his recent memory. "Viri? Did you say that the Guildmaster is a Thane of Whiterun?"

Rordil's head snapped up and around, jaw dropping open. "Shit!" A look of pure panic crossed his face; Rune would have laughed if it were anyone else with that expression. The dots were beginning to connect in his head; bits of rumors from years ago dredging themselves from the back of his mind. The only Thane of Whiterun for a long time was Hrongar, the Jarl's brother, but a couple years back a new one came from out of nowhere: a traveler, or an adventurer, who had helped to kill a dragon. The first dragon to attack Whiterun Hold — there had been many after, and there was still the occasional sighting even now — and the fellow had killed it, singlehandedly if the rumors were to be believed.

And from the dragon's body had come a soul, revealing the traveler as the Dragonborn of prophecy.

The Dragonborn was also a Thane of Whiterun.

Rordil was the Dragonborn.

The mer in question groaned. "Oh, come on, please don't do that."

"Do what?" Viri said, looking back and forth between them.

"You know what, daughter! That starry-eyed look, that hero-worship... Look, I know I saved the world, but I am not a hero. Stop that. Stop it!"

Rune closed his eyes and fought the urge to roll them skyward. "Yeah, okay. I never put stock in the rumor, but I'm not that surprised it's true." Surely, Rordil was crazy if he thought Rune was going to follow him around like a puppy.

Rordil froze. "A rumor? What kind of rumor?"

"That you're the Dragonborn. I have no idea who started them, by the way." No way was he getting anyone in trouble. Or murdered. There was still that other rumor about the Dark Brotherhood, after all.

The Guildmaster buried his head in his hands. "They already knew?" he moaned, shoulders shaking like he was about to cry.

"Father, it's fine. They aren't going to treat you any differently than they have been. If anything, they'll be more terrified of you."

Rune was inclined to agree, and this seemed to reassure Rordil, at least a little.

"We shall see, daughter," was all he would say after that.

Chapter Text

The trip back to Riften was awkward, to say the least. The clouds broke just outside of Helgen and drenched them all in freezing rain. Bravely, or perhaps rashly, Rordil pushed them on — past the Stormcloaks in their not-so-hidden camp, who eyed the thieves passing them by from the warmth and safety of their tents. Cynric didn't have to even open his mouth; Rordil shot him a look that promised death and the jailbreaker's long, lovelorn glances towards the rebel camp stopped immediately.

By the time they reached Haemar's Pass, the road was frozen over, though the downpour had lessened to a light drizzle. The third time Shula went down, Rordil finally gave up and hustled them instead to the nearest tree. There would be no climbing the steep, narrow pass right then.

That night was spent in a miserable pile with Shula and Cynric, trying to stay warm. Rordil had promptly disappeared into the twilight. How his Guildmaster managed to stay unruffled by the weather, Rune would never understand.

Viri had managed to unfreeze their packs from the back of their armor; they'd assess the damage later, though Rune was certain everything would be damaged beyond repair. She sat a little removed from them through the night, maintaining the ward that kept the fire from being snuffed out and also covered the pile of humans. She, too, was far less affected than them, though more tired-looking than her father.

Eventually, Cynric and Shula drifted into an uneasy sleep. Rune could not. Some part of him was afraid he would never wake up, as cold as it was. His eyes remained open, staring over Cynric's head at Viri's profile in the darkness. The shimmering blue ward and the fire beneath it were the only light, as rainclouds obscured the stars and the moons.

His eyes unfocused and his thoughts grew more and more muddled, turning down dark roads back to his imprisonment, when he had thought he would never see Viri's face again or feel rain on his skin. Was it still a dream? Or was that a nightmare?

Viri stood up, jolting Rune's eyes back into focus and his attention back on the present. A shadowy figure was approaching from the other side of the fire. Rune tensed, but his muscles were sluggish, and he remained frozen to the ground. Then Viri called lowly, "Father?" She flung a magelight; it stuck to a tree inches from the figure's face, making him recoil and blink furiously. But it was Rordil, though he had changed armor at some point. He had been wearing his Guildmaster's set, whose pieces fit him like a glove, but this one clung to his body like a shadow, and was as black as Molag Bal's heart. A symbol of a bird with an orb, perhaps the sun or, more likely, the new moon, was visible in the center of the chest.

Rune had seen that symbol before. The Nightingales.

"Mara's mercy, Viri, don't do that," Rordil hissed, shielding his eyes with the edge of his short cape.

"Well, what am I supposed to do then?" she shot back. "Gallivanting about in that... it's like you want me to fry you with a lightning bolt." Her arms were crossed again, voice as loud as it could go without waking Cynric or Shula. Which wasn't very loud. They were thieves, after all.

"You say that like you'd be able to, daughter." He picked his way over to Viri. He was holding a hood in one hand, presumably the last piece of the Nightingale armor.

"Hmph. I'm better than you take me for. Not as good as you or— or her, but I'm not a child anymore, father."

Rordil sighed, a long-suffering sound. A sound which made Rune's gut churn. Viri was her own woman, and here she was being treated like she wasn't capable of defending herself. Never mind that the Guildmaster had left her alone to defend herself and three exhausted thieves. He wanted to get up and point this out, but he knew that would defeat the point, so he stayed silent and unmoving.

The magelight burned out, casting them all in semi-darkness once more. It was a moment before Rordil spoke, but when he did, Rune had to strain to hear him over the crackle of the fire and the patter of rain on the leaves.

"I've never heard you speak of your mother in such a way, Virilanya."

"I— I didn't mean it like that. I miss her too, you know that, but someday you have to stop running. We both do."

Silence.

"I'm sorry," she tried. "What were you doing out there, anyway?"

The change in subject was just abrupt enough to work, though Rordil seemed to appreciate it. "I went back to Helgen. I couldn't think about it while we were going through before, but I've always known I would have to stop and relive it someday. Tonight felt like a good night."

Viri stepped back, out of the protection of the ward, and turned her face up into the rain. "It is a good night..." she murmured.

"You're right, daughter. You were right about the running, too. Wayrest, Bruma, Helgen, the Brotherhood—"

Rune's heart stuttered, stopped, came back racing. Both rumors were true? There was only one Brotherhood he could mean.

"—the Greybeards, Alduin... and now I feel like running from the Guild too because you've gotten yourself tangled up with an Imperial, and this family's secrets are in more danger than ever before."

Rune closed his eyes, not quite believing what he was hearing. On the one hand, Rordil was just tossing names left and right, without a bit of his former tact or secrecy. On the other, why would his brain make up something like this?

Maybe Rordil was snapping, like Mercer did.

"Father, please. There are worse secrets in this world. It's not like he's going to the guard or anything. He's a good person, and he has a more level head than that."

"Yes, yes, a good person. A true rarity nowadays. What about the rest of the Guild? Surely someone else will tell tales. They already did, with the Dragonborn rumor."

"Surely it wasn't that hard to figure out. Everyone knows the Dragonborn is a mer. It was all anyone could talk about. But if you're that worried, why not tell him everything before he has a chance to go digging? Better to hear it from the source, and you can judge his reaction, too."

"...If you insist. I need to properly judge him as a suitor for my only daughter, too."

"Let me wake him up," she said, and light footsteps approached him. "Don't want him to have a heart attack. He's already scared of you enough."

"Good."

♢~♢~♢

He managed to extract himself from the pile with little difficulty, but he feigned it was harder than it was — he really did not want to have a frank conversation with his Guildmaster, or any conversation at all. He didn't have much connection to his Imperial heritage, so he couldn't speak for them, but Nords were not nearly this involved in their children's love lives. There were no arrangements, even among Jarls. Why couldn't he have fallen in love with a Nord?

Viri helped him up, and he knew why, or at least why she was the one, regardless of race: she steadied him, searching his eyes as he looked up at her, hands lingering on his arms. Oh, she was beautiful — however, her face was not just lovely but etched with concern. "It's all right," she whispered. "I'm here."

Which was more reassuring than it should have been. Whatever Rordil was, his daughter had a good soul. She would anchor him in this madness — and he did wonder whether he hadn't been visited by Sheogorath in the dungeon.

"Shh," Viri said, though he was fairly certain he hadn't said anything.

Rordil had perched himself on a log, just far enough away from the fire so shadows flickered over his face in tandem with its warm light. Rune sat cross-legged across from him, Viri kneeling alongside with her hand on Rune's shoulder.

And Rordil began his tale.

♢~♢~♢

Some two hundred years ago, Summerset was still called Summerset. A mystical land of mage-towers and cities carved from jewels, to hear the rest of the Empire speak of it. And the Isles were part of the Empire, though not nearly as cosmopolitan as Cyrodiil or High Rock or Morrowind — it maintained its distance, both in sheer miles, and in the aloof nature of its populace and the foreign landscape.

Rordil had been a young nobleman then, a Kinlord whose family had lost its trade-born riches but, by the grace of Auriel, kept some political influence. He was spoiled, as he remembered the times he could wave a finger and servants would come running with all manner of expensive clothes and food and wine. The loss of that power had hit him hard. His mother, who had kept her dignity and gained pragmatism, had little time for his nonsense and had sent him to work in the nearby city of Alinor.

In Alinor, he fell in with what could only be described as a gang of young Altmer who stylized themselves as the true inheritors of the first and second Aldmeri Dominions. They despised the Empire and the ruling class of Summerset, who they believed were mere lackeys of humans, and had abandoned their heritage and true destiny as the superior race of Tamriel. They worshiped as a sort of god-ancestor the Queen of the first Aldmeri Dominion, Ayrenn. Though records of her time showed her as anything but a supremacist, having faced a challenge from her racist sister-in-law Estre, the gang held the belief that the records were mere propaganda: the Unforeseen Queen and her rival the Veiled Queen were one and the same.

Rordil ate this all up, of course, and was in prime position to become a founding member of the new Thalmor when Oblivion itself opened around them.

Others could speak of the Oblivion Crisis far better than he, but needless to say the world was shaken, and Summerset in particular was vulnerable from the fall of their Tower. The Tower! Those which held the world together at the seams.

(Which was existential cosmic stuff that Rune couldn't begin to understand, but he dared not interrupt.)

A few well-placed whispers, and the Thalmor were the heroes. Never mind Martin Septim, or the Champion of Cyrodiil, each of whom were gone in their own way. The Thalmor. They hadn't done a thing, hadn't been able to against the onslaught, but it was for the greater good, Rordil believed.

Years passed as the Thalmor grew in strength, and when they rose up against the Kings and Queens, Rordil finally had both the power and the money he had always wanted. A cozy position as head spymaster, the ear of the council. A return to the way things should have always been.

And if the purges of dissidents and non-Altmer innocents alike turned his stomach, he said nothing.

He had a hand in organizing the takeover of Valenwood, finding and recruiting restless Bosmer and turning them against the failing Empire and their own brothers. And if they didn't know they wouldn't be full citizens, at least they were above humans. The Aldmeri Dominion was almost complete.

Though he remained loyal, he'd never been very good at the politics, and a jealous rival had him demoted to mere agent and shipped off to High Rock, where he would remain for another hundred years, ear to the ground for news.

Oh, and he met her.

She was one of the Beautiful, though he hadn't known it at the time. A group that had been around since before the Crisis, though it had truly gained followers after the Thalmor coup. They had been mere thugs, destroying ancient monuments and art, and had their hand in one or two assassinations of traditionalist leaders. They were now the underground resistance to the Thalmor, as sophisticated as the Thalmor themselves. And she was one of their finest, with a pedigree that could have landed her any position in the Thalmor she pleased. Instead she chose to work in High Rock, tirelessly preforming grunt work though her real position was much higher.

All this he would know in time, though when he first ran into her he just saw the most beautiful Altmer he had ever seen, easy to spot in a sea of Bretons on Wayrest's market day. Golden hair that caught the light and shone like a second sun, flashing across the way even up to the castle.

Her name was Maerlyn, and she was posing as a Thalmor agent who was in turn posing as a diplomat, and she was indeed very good at holding the threads of her cover together. It was how he never suspected her until he was in too deep and carried away in the current of their romance. It was how he never knew until long after they had married, had a daughter and settled down in Wayrest.

He, for all purposes, had abandoned his post. He no longer cared. In too deep.

It took decades for his inattention to come back to bite him.

Virilanya was forty-six years old, still a child by the Altmer reckoning but old enough to question her parents' politics.

("Wait, you're sixty?!" Rune interjected at this point, but Viri laid her hand on his arm and Rordil glared at him, so he clamped his mouth shut begrudgingly.)

She began to suspect where her father had not. It was all terribly romantic to her, a true love story of the ages. And she dug deep enough and long enough to discover her mother's identity.

Viri confronted them both at once, and this was the only thing that kept Maerlyn from being able to flee. It was a conversation rife with misunderstandings, as both Viri and Rordil recalled it, but by the time it was over, Rordil had truly left the Thalmor. He wasn't quite Beautiful, but he would stay with his wife.

If Rordil hadn't stopped paying attention to the Thalmor's movements, maybe he could have saved Wayrest.

The Thalmor stirred up the Iliac Bay corsairs, who had exploded in numbers and activity following the Great War, and set them on the Jewel of the Bay in a genius strategical move mere days later. The city was lost in hours, the royal family murdered. Many were slaughtered by the corsairs as they swarmed from their ships. Many more died in the stampede to get out of the city.

Maerlyn, high-ranking Beautiful, magical prodigy, undercover for nearly a hundred years without incident— Maerlyn sent her family ahead despite Rordil's protests, and the last he saw of her, she was holding the line of defense all by herself, lightning crackling from her fingertips, hair down and streaming behind her in the morning sun, eyes flashing. The last he saw of her, she was still in her nightclothes, but as radiant in her command from atop the steps to the castle as paintings of Queen Ayrenn of old.

She died there, overwhelmed by magic-resistant Breton corsairs, but he didn't see her go down. He turned away, pulled his daughter with him, and he never forgave himself for it.

That was the first time he ran, and it was not the last. High Rock was not safe for former Thalmor, without Maerlyn's skill to keep them hidden in plain sight. Hammerfell was not safe for Altmer at all, so they moved to Bruma, but were only there a year before they had to run again. The local Nords were restless, emboldened by the anti-Empire speeches of some Skyrim Jarl, and it was only a matter of time before a mob came for them — or the Thalmor swooped in to forcibly remove dissent.

Either way, it was time to leave.

Across the border into Falkreath, then, and a chance encounter in Dead Man's Drink. An old acquaintance, now a retired Justiciar, recognized him in passing. Luckily she was deep in her cups, and chose to follow him home rather than contact the Dominion. He had to protect his daughter, and did not regret killing her before she got him killed — or worse, captured.

A murder so close to the Dark Brotherhood's home in Skyrim, though... the assassins took note, and two days later he was recruited. He stayed with them for years while Viri worked as a barmaid in Falkreath, murdering his way across the province and actually getting close to beating Astrid's body count (though never Babette's) before a routine contract brought him to Helgen and straight into history.

That was the day the Imperials brought two cartfuls of rebels to face summary execution. Including the rebel Jarl himself, but Rordil wasn't getting involved in that even if the Brotherhood wanted him to. No, this contract was for Vilod, of juniper mead fame, to be killed for daring to compete with Maven Black-Briar. Rordil hadn't even known about the Imperials coming to Helgen, but it provided a good distraction while he slit Vilod's throat.

Would have, if the dragon hadn't come, maw gaping and ready to swallow them all whole. The town burned. In such chaos, Stormcloak escaped, and so did Rordil, by the skin of his teeth — though Vilod, having avoided the assassin's blade, at least did die to dragonfire.

He had softened in his old age ( though he was only middle-aged for his race, really), or maybe the dragonfire had melted his brain, for he went to warn Whiterun before seeing if Viri was safe — though he did send her a letter telling her he was safe. Which was how she managed to wrangle his location out of the unlucky courier and arrive in Whiterun, breathless from running the whole way and mad enough one-shot the other dragon at the Watchtower.

(Rune had just heard the Dragonborn — and, presumably, some Whiterun guards — had been there; to hear that Viri had been the one to kill it was... shocking, to say the least.)

("It was, of course, weakened," she murmured, folding her hands demurely in her lap.)

He hadn't wanted to save the world at all, having ingrained Thalmor teachings about the endtimes even if he no longer followed them in practice.

(Rune had no idea what that meant.)

Viri, though... he may have had the Dragonblood but Viri was the Hero, pushing him to at least kill the marauding dragons instead of running off to Black Marsh and getting lost in the mires like he'd wanted to. Then she took it upon herself be his intermediary. He had very nearly outraged Arngeir enough to bring the monastery down around them during their first meeting, and frayed Balgruuf's patience quite a bit. Then there was the matter of one Rordil would only refer to as "that damned woman."

("I really, really wanted to prove her right," Rordil growled. More than that, he would not say, and Rune dared not press.)

Needless to say, Viri conducted most of his public affairs from an early point, and kept him from sneaking away. She was the one who got him that last step to killing Alduin, moreso than any Divine's will ever could. But in the end he did manage it on his own.

Then he disappeared.

"The world did not need me anymore. I had done what Auriel or whoever wanted, and frankly the hero worship was frightening," Rordil mused. "By then it was far too late to go back to the Brotherhood. They had already sent a dozen recruits and two of their best after me as a traitor. I heard someone wiped them out a few months ago, anyway. I still look over my shoulder, though."

He looked at the fire for a long moment. The rain had gentled and finally stopped altogether while the tale was told, and a sliver of Masser poked through the clouds. Somewhere, an owl hooted.

"So, Rune? You want to court my daughter, knowing this? That her father was a Thalmor agent — once the Thalmor agent — who watched the slaughter of thousands of innocents, killed a great number himself as part of the Dark Brotherhood, and hesitated to save the world?"

Rune opened his mouth. Closed it again. Actually thought about what he was going to say. While I find your past actions disturbing, that does not reflect badly on your daughter, in fact I believe her efforts during the last year make me love her all the more—

He tried to say this, for it was true. But when he opened his mouth again, he just blurted, "Yes!"

Viri swiveled her head to stare at him. "What?"

"Yes. Yes. I love her. You're scary, but I'm not courting you."

Rordil just blinked at him for a long moment, then the corner of his mouth started twitching, and finally, to Rune's amazement, the Guildmaster smiled. Smiled! And said, "That's what I like to hear. Mind, an Altmer back in the homeland would have arranged their daughter's match before she was even born, and assuredly not to an Imperial, but I suppose Skyrim has influenced me more than I thought. It's up to Virilanya now."

"Yes," Viri said.

Both of them looked at her expectantly, but she just sat there, a serene smile on her lovely face.

"And?" Rune prompted.

She raised an eyebrow. "Yes...? Yes, I will marry you? Isn't that what 'yes' means in this context?"

"You'll—" Rordil choked on whatever he was going to say next.

Viri ignored him, shifting to face Rune and taking his hands. "Yes, Rune, son of a Solitude dockworker, born of uncertainty. Yes, I will marry you."

"Oh," he breathed, tears pricking at his eyes. This was all too sudden, shifting from Rordil's tense story to this, and the emotions overwhelmed him. He reached out to Viri, and she embraced him, letting him sob into her shoulder.

Yes. She said yes.

Chapter Text

Rordil released the muffle spell over Cynric and Shula — a spell Rune hadn't realized was there in the first place until he got to wondering why the multiple outbursts over the last hour hadn't awakened them — as dawn broke. They woke to their Guildmaster calmly announcing the engagement, and then both Rune and Viri were pounced upon by an ecstatic Shula. Cynric was more reserved, but he still shook Rune's hand and congratulated the couple. Cynric was like an older brother to the younger thieves, including Rune, and there may or may not have been unshed tears of pride in his eyes.

The journey back to Riften was easy. Viri and Shula had their heads bent together half the time, discussing wedding plans out of earshot of the menfolk, and for the other half Viri held Rune's hand as natural as could be.

Then back to the Ratway, where the Guildmaster went in first, gathered everyone in the Cistern, and gave the news as Rune and Viri came in. The cheers that erupted shook the ground. Vekel brought some of his best wine, along with the stronger stuff, and the party lasted into the next day. By the end of it, Rune was comfortably drunk, sitting on the table by the cooking fire and leading those still awake in a rousing chorus of "Ragnar the Red". Vex had convinced Viri to try the whiskey, and now the Altmer was tucked into a spare bed, having proved completely unable to hold her liquor. Rordil was... somewhere. Probably passed out under his desk, last anyone had seen of him.

♢~♢~♢

When the hangovers had passed and the Cistern cleaned up, the Guild set to planning. A few ideas were batted about in the initial brainstorming session — have the wedding in the Ragged Flagon? — but Viri insisted on a proper ceremony at the Temple of Mara and Rune, to be frank, agreed with her. The Cistern was certainly nicer than it had been while Mercer was Guildmaster, but it wasn't a Temple under the eyes of the Divines. Rune wasn't particularly religious but it was important to Viri, so it was important to him.

They were to have a mix of Nordic and Altmeri traditions. A small wedding party, not much time to prepare in advance, but also a white dress for her and a fancy tunic for him, flowers everywhere — red and blue mountain flowers, and even columbine. The latter were imported from Cyrodiil but also common in the Isles, and represented their union in addition to the usual meanings of health, wealth, and love.

The days until the wedding were, for him, spent alternately giddy, anxious, and sometimes drunk out of his mind. The bachelor party in particular was uncomfortable, though his brothers in the Guild at least respected that he wasn't interested in strippers. Vipir ended up slipping out with her halfway through the night, and later admitted that they had become something of an item. Rune was happy for him.

He hardly saw Viri, which was apparently tradition in both Alinor and High Rock though it most certainly was not in Skyrim.

The day of the wedding dawned clear but cold. Riften's winters were mild compared to elsewhere in Skyrim, but it had still snowed the week before. Frost glittered on the trees outside the city, and on the lanterns strung up around the Temple for the event.

The entire Guild was in attendance, along with Jarl Laila, all of Rordil's (many) housecarls, and even Niranye had trekked down from Windhelm to be there. All the people barely fit into the pews. Brynjolf and Cynric stood behind Rune, and Shula and Sapphire were on the other side. Having people in the wedding party besides the bride and groom was not done in Skyrim, either.

People were talking quietly amongst themselves as Rune stood there feeling slightly foolish, but when the doors opened and she appeared, all sound and doubt ceased.

She was... she was gorgeous. She'd settled for a veil covering her hair but not her face, and she smiled for him only as she glided down the aisle, one hand on her stiff-backed father's arm. Then she was right there, and he almost kissed her before he was supposed to.

"We will now hear the vows these two to be wed have written for each other," Maramal announced. Rune had entirely forgotten he was there.

Right. The vows. He had written some, with Delvin's help — Rune knew his letters well enough but why not run it by someone who was actually published — but remembering them was a completely different matter. He must have paused too long, or something showed in his face, because Viri winked at him and launched into her own vows. Bless her. He was nervous again.

"Nothing in this world is certain, but love." Viri's clear voice rang out like an Aedra from on high, filling even the high ceilings of the Temple. "In turbulent times, love wins out. The past may be shrouded in mystery, but on this day, Rune, I turn towards the future. Our future. I, Virilanya daughter of Rordil, do take you to be my wedded husband. You, and only you, to love forevermore." Two of the children from Honorhall had been hired for the occasion, and Viri turned to the boy — Adventus? Arentus? something like that — and took one of the rings from him. She looked into Rune's eyes as she slipped the band onto his finger.

Oh dear. Okay. Follow her lead. "When nothing is certain, trust in love," he said, surprising himself with the conviction in his voice. "Viri, you know everything I know about my origins, which is nothing. It doesn't matter who I was then, or you, because today we look towards the years to come. I, Rune, son of none, do take you to be my wedded wife. You, and only you, to love forevermore." Rune took the other ring, hands trembling, and put it on Viri. Her palms were warm, and she squeezed his hand gently before they put their palms together for the final part of the ceremony.

Maramal gestured, and a shimmering gold rope of pure magicka settled around their joined hands. "Then let me be the first to announce you to the world in wedded bliss. Congratulations." The rope faded out of sight, but Rune imagined he could still feel it, a comfortable weight signifying his connection to Viri.

The gathered thieves and others cheered as they kissed, a sweet, gentle kiss full of promise.

♢~♢~♢

Twenty years later...

Honeyside rang with the laughter of children. The house, a wedding gift from Rordil, was filled with them, both theirs and almost-theirs; Viri in the thick of it, dancing with first one, then another, swinging round and round in an old Breton jig she had taught them all moments ago. Maya, their eldest, was helping her father in the kitchen, stirring the potatoes while the roast, a huge thing from Merryfair Farm, turned on the spit. Rune was working on the snowberry sauce and doing his damnedest to be the loudest voice in the carols they sang. Rordil provided the flute, claiming he needed the practice, but in reality his knees were aching and he didn't want to have to refuse Viri another dance.

Saturalia was a joyous time for everyone involved; every year they held a gathering of good food and even better company in Honeyside. Rounding up anyone willing, child or not, in the morning, skating on the frozen lake in the afternoon and finally holding the feast and dancing. That night, maybe they'd go caroling properly, but for now the house was their stage and their performers also the audience.

Being Tamriel, there was always some new threat on the horizon, but for Saturalia it seemed the whole world took a holiday from their bickering and threatening and whatever else.

Finally Viri plopped down in an armchair, utterly exhausted. The sauce now chilling, Rune made his way over with a mug of cocoa. He set it down on the end-table, gave her a peck on the cheek, and then squawked in surprise when Viri tugged him down into her lap to snog him properly.

"Got your second wind, did we?" Rune said through his giggles when Viri had finally let him up for air.

"Always for you, husband, always for you."