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Brynjolf's eyes open wide in the dark, strands of his hair sticking to his damp forehead. His mind struggles to find solace in reality for the first time tonight, knowing how much would still be ahead of him. Fuck. It's too dark to even see the shapes of the old, stony ceiling. The small window of the basement doesn’t offer much moonlight either. His eyes slowly adjust to some of it. A mumbled chatter could be heard upstairs, and the bard who is still tuning her lute. Poor woman, his thoughts fleet to her shortly. Stuck in this small village, even after being assured that Sibbi Black-Briar wouldn't be after her head anymore.
The room wasn't anything special, really. It had served the guild as a safe space for as long as Brynjolf could remember, out of use for ordinary visitors. A place to lay low, whether one was on a run from law or like in their case.. a peace and quiet from prying eyes. The old village and its people were rarely visited by outsiders, apart from the individuals climbing the High Hrothgar.
His chest trembles like it's short of breath from the same tormenting nightmare — of something that seemed like an endless cycle of fear and regret; something that could've been, along with the horror-struck nights that followed it all. It won't leave his memory.
How long would one decision, his greatest regret torment his rest?
Each day that he searched for her is perfectly carved into his memory, desperately trying to find anyone who could've seen her; first back to the Snow veil Sanctum, her own little lake house, the temple with the Blades and her housecarl in Markarth — even the Nightcaller temple, where he knows is the last place he's welcome to. Nothing. She had just vanished. Trying to squeeze anything out from Mercer was pointless, him telling Brynjolf to just ‘let go and move on’.
“I'm sorry, Brynjolf. She's dead.“ Mercer's words haunt him. The feeling followed by his cold, sinister expression would haunt him for the rest of his days. From bottomless denial to kind of agony he didn’t even know he could experience. Traitor.
His head turns slowly to look by his side. “My love?” He whispers in the air.
He could see the shape of her outline in the dark, lying still, facing away from him. One of her legs half-hanging off the bed, a sigh parts from her lips, followed by a mutter in dunmeri. If he had woken her up, she did a good enough job pretending to sleep.
A shudder runs down his spine as the sweat behind his neck runs its way down. His mouth feels dry and a cough tickles in his throat. Don't wake her, he tells himself, turning slowly towards her. The sheet under him squeaks dryly from his movement — stupid linen, it was clearly the cheap stuff like in every small roadside inn of Skyrim.
He sighs quietly to himself. As he tries to ground his thoughts and calm down again, he thinks fondly of the time she told him about all the fabrics of Morrowind. Silt striders, nix-ox, even mycelium of their big mushrooms. How does that even work? It sounded bizarre to him, at first. Now he can’t stop thinking of the roughness of some of the linen he was so used to. How uncomfortable it must have been. One day, he will surprise her and will get his hands on sheets made with silk from a strider. To tangle himself with her in them, in a bed of their own. Use the old Delvin's connections for something nice, for once. For his own leisure. Strange how before her he never wanted to do anything like this. No one else mattered like she did.
It is a nice dream, at least.
He returns to the present. His arm lifts in discreet motion, his curled fingers run like a comb through his own hair, throwing it on one side. His eyes adjust in the dark properly at last, enough to see the mer next to him.
For a moment, he only watches her in stillness. She sleeps on her side still. The curve of her hips catches his eye, how it bucks lightly to adjust from his weight moving the mattress under them. Countless times his hands had caressed the shape of her side — like it was molded by Dibella herself to fit perfectly on his hands. When he tells her that, she flusters every time, cheeks turning dark purple from embarrassment. His fingers hover over her, he wants to touch her, but he hesitates. What if she wakes and shatters away?
Her breaths sound light and careless, for once. Whatever force stirs within her slumbers too. He's used to her twitching, finger pinching, sudden hitched breaths like she'd forgotten how to breathe. But tonight.. it's just silence. Knowing her like he did, it usually isn't a good sign. She had described her ability to shout, harness the abilities of some Daedric Princes briefly once — but he couldn’t possibly fathom how someone so small held onto so much raw, ancient power. Whatever had anchored her to turn towards the daedric lords, she never told him.
How innocent she looked now.
He fights for the urge to pull her towards her and inhale her scent until there’s nothing else left for him to consume. Tell her, ‘I can’t stand the idea of you gone’ and ‘Please don’t go without me’. But he shouldn’t stir the sleeping dragon. Instead of embracing her, as much as he wants to, his hand falls down slowly to the side. She's okay. She is alive. She’s here. Tomorrow comes. His eyes close, listening to her sleep, hoping to catch her next time when the dawn is near.
But there will be no peace within his rest.
Patches of bloodied snow trail a path ahead of him. The way is narrow and dark, he can see ahead of him only so much. He knows the road, he has wandered through it many nights and the pattern of the splattered blood is imprinted in his head. The air is treacherous, the wind beats his cheeks raw. An old nordic ruin lies ahead covered in snow, empty and desecrated.
After he sees the dead horse lying on the snow, everything changes. Was it because seeing a beautiful creature murdered in cold blood like that upsets him, he doesn't know for sure. It was Karliah's ride, throat slit without mercy. Unnecessary.
The next moment he always ends up straight inside the crypt, without him understanding how. Many things didn’t make sense. It smells like oil has burned somewhere, likely from a trap gone off. The dust and the smell of metal becomes unbearable. The massive hall is grim, the path forward paved with lifeless undead. He sees the pool of blood at the entrance. Her blood.
Shiala. She's been here.
There, a rattling image of her appears in front of him. What did she really look like at that moment?
Lifeless, she lies on the cold stone. He rushes to her his knees scraping on the stone, shouting her name, rocking her in his arms side to side. She had been left to die. His hand brushes over at her mangled chest, it had been punctured several times by Mercer's blade. Bled to death, cold and alone. Her eyes, once so bright and beautiful, had turned foggy from the embrace of Arkay.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.. Please..”
Desperate cry echoes in the crypt. Why, why had he let her go alone with Mercer, while he was too busy being angry, hurt by her deception? Too busy being stubborn, convinced everything they had was a lie. He had thrown it all away so easily, believed it was all too good to be true, after all. She couldn’t possibly love someone like him.
And this, could've been the price he paid for his dismissal. He could’ve lost her forever. Just like that.
His head shakes violently. Something doesn't add up.
‘This is not real. Why am I here again?’
“Brynjolf.” Faintly, somewhere in the distance, he hears his name being called by her.
Just like she had appeared before, in the same manner her body vanishes in front of him. His ears ring when he sits by the pool of blood by himself, cold and alone just like she'd been. He will remember that moment the rest of his days.Travelling all the way to almost Winterhold against the will of the Guildmaster — but he didn't care, he had left regardless. Refused to believe she's truly gone, she couldn't just die that easily.
Yet it was so much blood.
The old crypt fuses into a blurry mess around him when suddenly, another voice joins him. It feels cold and almost emotionless.
Mercer.
“I'm sorry, Brynjolf. She's dead.”
His mind struggles to adjust for a time, rubbing his eyes to find himself back in the cistern, listening to Mercer's lies from his return from the Sanctum. He smiles at him as he speaks. Fucking smiles. Brynjolf's anger boils over, he wants to smash that smirk out of him, beat his face to a wall and watch him bleed out. Shatter those crooked teeth of his. Make him pay.
Mercer turns away. He doesn't have the stomach to lie straight to his face. “It was Karliah. Can you believe those two worked together? You should've known better, Brynjolf. Always so eager to stick your prick in any crazy you come across.”
The accusation appals him. How dare he?
‘You never complained.’ Brynjolf wants to yell at him, but his words have no voice. ‘But then again, you are fucking crazy.’
“And she killed her as a thank you, just like she killed Gallus.”
That can't be. She couldn't be dead, Brynjolf shakes his head in denial. ‘You're lying.’ He seethes from the inside. He has no choice but to watch Mercer wagging his tongue. ‘You're lying, piece of shit. I will fucking kill you, you hear me?!’
He doesn't.
Mercer tuts to his silence. “Good riddance, if you ask me. Bet she was planning to kill you anyway.”
“Brynjolf.” His name is being called again.
He turns around, and sees her lifeless corpse standing behind him. Dark tendrils crawl out of the sockets where her beautiful Nightshade-eyes used to be, some wriggling out of her back. The right half of her face splattered in ink and blood.
The sight of her shakes him to the core. No.. Is that what she was meant to become? Hermaeus Mora's puppet?
“You sent me there to die, Bryn.” Her voice reverberates. Not out loud, her lips bleed out ink, but they aren't moving. It's all in his head. “Why didn't you come find me?”
‘I..’ even in his head his tone of voice comes out pathetic. ‘I tried, lass, I really did. I'm—’
Her head tilts with a rotten crack. Black tendrils from her back lunge at him.
Everything grows silent after he hears a loud splat.
“See? What did I say?” a crumbling laughter from Mercer echo in his ears.
His vision blurs and his ears begin to ring. Metallic taste spreads in his mouth, as he looks below; impaled by her in place. He falls on his knees for a moment that feels like eternity. He coughs as the blood forces its way up, and with his vision blurred, he looks at her one more time standing in front of him, before everything goes dark.
‘Please, forgive me.’
“Fuck, Bryn. Wake up.”
He jolts awake with a violent twitch from his body. A loud gasp fills his lungs so fast it hurts and a cough follows after it. The panic shakes him to the core.
“Shiala.. By the Eight..” his voice cracks between the breaths. His vision blurs from his teary eyes and his mind struggles to adjust what is real.
Where is he? Where is Mercer? His hand rushes under his pillow where he holds his dagger. He finds its hilt to grab as the cool hand touches his free arm, and a green glow greets his skin, causing his heartbeat to unwind. He looks by his side and the familiar, violet eyes stare back to him. Gods, how he loved those eyes.
“Hey.” Shiala's voice is lower than the hum of her spell. The glow faints slowly as she lets go of him.
“Don’t go, please don’t leave me—”
“I’m here, miramer.”
Brynjolf's racing thoughts decompress, his body feeling heavy, but light at the same time. It's a strange, soothing feeling that flows through him, alleviating some of his stress and forcing him to calm down. Like he's pressed down gently by the hovering of her touch. “Hey,” His words come out mellow under the spell's effect. He takes a deep breath, first in relief, then in slight annoyance. “You know, I'd prefer just to–”
“Suffer?” She interrupts him. “Are you mad? Put your weapon away.”
“..To feel. Mmh.” His hand lets go of the grip of his dagger, leaving it as it was. “I'm sorry, lass.”
Shiala shakes her head softly. Her hand fixes the wisps of hair from his face, pulling them behind his ear. “Don't.” Her hand leaves his hair, her body shifting awkwardly back to sitting and staring straight ahead, resting against her knees.
For a moment neither of them speaks. Weak streaks of light shine through the small window, particles of dust dance visibly in the air. Brynjolf's eyes wander at Shiala's direction, seeing the smallest rocking motion she's making with her legs. Her thighs reveal goosebumps running over her. He hums softly, moving his hand on the thigh close to him. She jumps from his touch, even though she was expecting it. As brave of a face she puts on, she is on edge, too. He lets his thumb brush gently against her leg in a circling motion.
“Only twice tonight,” she mumbles to her knees. “Maybe the change of scenery did help.”
Brynjolf lifts his gaze from her thighs to her eyes. So she had heard him, after all. He wants to apologise again, his shoulders drop with his breath. “Bah. Ivarstead isn't exactly that far, but sure, it did.”
“Mm. It's not like it's the first time we stayed here.” Shiala's lips curve into a thin smile. “At least we are letting them know this time.”
A fond memory rushes to him and he too, can't resist a chuckle that comes with it. A time when the two had sneaked inside in the middle of the night and spent it in each other's throats, muffled moans and their bodies pressed together in the small bed they broke. It was only later they'd been caught by the innkeeper, as they came out of the trapdoor flustered and giggling like teens. Oh, the scolding that they received from Wilhelm that day.
“Aye. Proper part of society, aren't we now.”
Shiala feels Brynjolf's hands wandering, tracing the blemishes and the scars of her back. The bigger marks he kisses gently, the ones she hates. “It will stop one day, you know.” Her voice is but the strength of a whisper. “You have to stop blaming yourself.”
She feels his hand stopping in place.
“Maybe. But not today.”
Not an answer she hoped for, Shiala’s head shakes disappointed. Her body curls together a little tighter, pulling her legs closer, her chin still laying on top of her knees. She turns her head away from his eyes, staring at her belongings on the floor.
“Are you in pain, love?” It's Brynjolf's turn to tuck some of Shiala's hair behind her ear. Her neck reveals small scars from the old bite of a vampire. Barely noticeable. If one did, they were way too close to her in the first place. He watches the moments of vulnerability leaving her, as the walls of defence rouse together with the dawn, shutting him outside again. How could she ask him to stop feeling so strongly, seeing her like this?
She shakes her head again. “No. Held my breath just fine last night, as I'm sure you noticed.”
Brynjolf's cheeks flush from her teasing gaze. “Mm. So you did.” his arms close her to his embrace, pulling her shut form towards him. “What about your..Voice?”
She smirks a little, before her face gets serious again. “I do not need to shout to kill.”
“So it’s a yes, then.”
She stops to think.
“I’m so sorry, lass.” He can’t stop himself from apologising.
“I can whisper.” Shiala’s tone turns almost defensive. ”Stop saying that.”
Another, different wave of guilt gnaws at him. He wanted her to get better, but the thought of her facing a world-dooming dragon fills him with horror-struck anxiety. Fear of losing her again. No. She can’t do it right now, so she won’t go after him. She won’t leave him alone again. How selfish is he for feeling a sense of relief in that?
“Mercer is lucky he's dead. He deserved to suffer more, after what he did.” He nudges his face to the nape of her neck, getting himself lost in her long, slightly tangled hair. It smells divine.
With a deep breath he indulges himself into the scent of her hair, which causes Shiala to shiver. “You’re the one to talk, anyway. After what you went through.” She mumbles at him. Her form relaxes a little, her arm leaves her curled form, wandering to his abdomen. Her fingers brush over the rough scars healed, first, by the priestess of Windhelm, then later patched from a more familiar face — but still raw, in her memory. He had just laughed it off, said another scar would only build his character.
“Bah, unlike you, I don’t mind some scars, lass. Nura has healed my wounds more times than I dare to admit — and she always scolds me afterwards, no matter how much older I get.” He pauses for a moment. “It was an accident, after all. And you saved me.”
Her lips curve to a smile again. “Mm. Lucky for you I tolerate you so.”
“The luckiest.” He kisses her neck once more, before letting his hold of her to loosen up a little. “What’s on your mind, lass? You look like your other foot is already on the go,” His hand lands on top of hers as they clasp together perfectly.
Shiala’s smile vanishes from her face. He doesn’t mean to make her feel the guilt that creeps in, but she can’t help it. “You know how it is. Always something needing to be done, by someone, somewhere, and sometime.”
He huffs with a hint of disappointment. “Aye. Just my luck to have the busiest lass of all Tamriel as my girl, eh?”
“Come with me, then.” The words come out flat, heard before once or twice, maybe.
His stomach stabs with guilt again, as they take turns of feeling unfulfilled need between each other. “You know I can’t right now, love.”
“Yeah. I know.”
She knew his answer from before. Nothing had changed. How life goes on, without the two having peace with one another. Another time, maybe.
“Please.. don't leave me.” His voice is quiet as an exhale. “I can't stand to feel like this anymore.”
His words pain her, really. “It'll only be a day.” Her words get stuck in her throat in the middle of her speech. “I.. I need to know you'll head straight back to the Guild. No detours.”
“It's not fair.” His tone shifts unexpectedly, to something more fitting to freeze the whole room. His chest heaves rapidly again from the rising anxiety, his breath hissing between his teeth.
She doesn't know what else to say. He's not wrong. It's not fair. Nothing about their situation is fair. Thinking about it becomes more suffocating, them being forced to be apart only to rip the wounds unhealed open again.
His grip on her hand squeezes tighter. “Stay with me a while longer, won’t you, lass? Gods only know you’ll find yourself in some other trouble on the way.”
Her brows furrow and their eyes meet. There is a sly tone to his smirk. “Come on now, it hasn’t been that bad, lately.” A shameless lie she knows he won’t believe. “Besides, you always have someone watching my backside for you. They’re doing an awful job, by the way, if they’re attempting to stay hidden.”
A chuckle she loves to hear the most fills their space. Almost carefree, low-toned laughter from the bottom of his chest. Relaxed, even. “And my boys are telling me you’re trying to bribe them to leave.”
Shiala leans to his chest with half of her weight. “Maybe just a little longer, then.”
His smile drowns into her soft kiss as their teeth meet. “That’s my lass. Come here.”
“Mm. Round two?”
“I’m up for three, as long as we hurry.” His hand strokes the curve of her hip.
She exhales deeply, her eyes fluttering as his second hand lands on her other hip. B’vehk, he just knows where she loves his hands to rest. “So greedy, ald miramer.”
“And that’s why I’m the best.” He pulls her into another, much greedier embrace. Between the laboured breathing, his eyes open in epiphany. “Wait, did you just.. call me old?”