Work Text:
Delvin knocks on the door, which used to be Gallus' old room. It still sometimes weirds him out to walk by and expect for a response, after it being deserted for over a decade. It's far enough in the corridor, where the old rooms around still mostly remain empty, so one doesn't simply just stumble past it every day. He loved his own space. And so seemed the new occupants of the spaces, too.
He hears some tired mumbling behind the door, a tired groan trying to shape itself to a question of 'What is it', but it never really comes out the correct way from Shiala's mouth. He waits patiently, until the small, barefoot steps against the stone starts to approach closer to the door. The thought of it makes him shiver, how is her feet not freezing?
The door opens with a quiet creak and as soon as he sees his short friend, a wave of worry rushes over him. The smell of old smoke lingers from her and the room.
"Dibella's tits, Shiala. You look like shit." He snorts as his eyes measure her tired form. Day old lipstick stained on her cheek, her hair escaped from the lazy bun, and there's marks all over on her face from the texture of her sleeve. "Have you thought of going home once in a while?"
"No."
"Glover's old place then, at least?"
Shiala pulls her hair out of her bun and ruffles it into a messy shape. "This is my home now." She mumbles back to him, rubbing her eyes.
"Starting to sound dangerously close like Brynjolf, you are." He gets back only a blank stare. "Speaking of.. did you find anything about where he went?"
"No." Her eyes keep looking past him.
As talkative as ever.
She looks so out of it, Delvin's eyes gaze briefly behind her and the desk. The ash tray of her pipe is knocked off over the table and some of it is even on the floor. A lockbox laid open with its key still stuck in the lock. The note written 'Be back soon' left on the same spot that Shiala had found it days prior.
"Well he can't be that far now, can he," he says at last, "He'd let anyone know if it was something serious."
"He doesn't get to decide what's serious enough to leave without letting me know."
"Oi, you don't need to tell me that." Delvin's tone shifts more defensive, his arms lifting to the air. "Besides, you've disappeared longer times without letting anyone know for shit."
"Yeah, but I am—"
"Only the most important thing in his life, you are."
"It's different." Her words crumble under his scrutiny.
"With all due respect, Shiala, you do not know what he's like when you're not around." He says to her with softened look in his eyes. "C'mon now, let's sort you out. I'm not planning to hear any complaints from him how you've been looked after once that oaf returns."
Shiala's ears burn. Ridiculous, she doesn't need to be looked after. "If he isn't back tomorrow, I'm going to look for him." She mumbles at last. "And then I'm going to kill him."
"That's better." Delvin laughs, earning a quick, timid smile from her, too. "I'm sure he's just fine."
The next day arrives with a drag. Shiala's head is pounding, while she sits at the Guild Master's desk, sorting out the current loose jobs by the dates of their arrival. She darts each of them carefully, looking for any hints if he could have just picked up, as a quick job by himself. None of them bring any clarity to her, at first. Names of contracts and fences have all circled and marked in the order of priority with his simple system of numbers and shadowmarks, at first glance there's nothing out of the ordinary that catches her eye.
Only odd difference being that one of them had been crossed and corrected more than once.
Niranye, the fence of Windhelm. Someone that the city had been ridiculing for the longest time under a suspect for being an agent of Thalmor. Obviously, she wasn't, as far as Shiala was aware, Niranye despised them as much as they did. Time and time again she had gotten into problems with Summerset Shadows as they were still attempting to gain footing, not in just Windhelm but other parts of Skyrim, too.
Was she in trouble?
Shiala feels a knot in her stomach forming. Brynjolf couldn't possibly be that stupid and go anywhere near Eastmarch by himself. The Jarl knows they are.. acquainted and not exactly in best of terms. Brynjolf had gotten a little too comfortable with expressing his disapproval of Ulfric's attempts to request her aid in politics. She didn't like it either, but at least she was able to keep it to herself and at least pretend to be civil. Even without it, the bounty on his head was high enough to put him in danger without her presence.
Not to mention the amount of Thalmor that must have circled around the outskirts like vultures.
Maybe the wrong people among Skyrim have finally started to get intel she's tried so dearly to protect — the people she holds dear. Those being the ones wanting her dead, or trying to get her to fight on their side, or even turn herself in—
She takes a moment for herself to breathe. Is she looking too much into this?
No. She isn't. Something must be wrong. She's waited long enough, without him leaving a good reason and it's driving her more crazy she dares to admit.
"Hey, boss?" She hears the voice of Cynric, causing her to visibly jump on her chair. He keeps looking over and behind her, not so subtly.
"I'm not your boss, Cynric." She wants to snap at him harder calling her that. "Do you know anything about this?" She lands the piece of paper to him without looking at his direction. "I'm trying to trace where in Oblivion has Brynjolf gone, before I begin to drop some heads."
"I mean.." he grimaces while digesting her threats. He takes the note, and puts it in his pocket. "Yeah. You might want to see this."
Shiala's shoulders tense along her deep exhale. "If it's about anything else, I don't have the time to—"
She hears a pair of steps behind, and her words fade. Familiar shoes with a different rhythm to them, it's light, but one-sided. Her body freezes in place.
Really? Now he shows up?
"Missed me, lass?" Brynjolf stumbles in holding his rib and a day-old blood on his face. His chuckle followed by a sharp breath, he leans onto a stony wall, letting himself slowly drag and collapse on his knees.
"Brynjolf..?" The chair she sat falls over as she runs to him, Cynric following her close behind and kneeling on his level. "Yi daelha,.." She grabs his head to both of her hands, lifting it up. "Look at me."
“Just.. need a breather is all.” Brynjolf's eyes flutter rapidly, as he trails on the edge of consciousness. A weak chuckle leaves from his lips.
"You're alright, big fella," Cynric puts himself under Brynjolf's arm, "You're home now."
Shiala doesn't move her feet are frozen in place. Somewhere in the distance she hears the voice of Rune and Thrynn — one of them starts to run out of the trap door and yelling about getting a healer. Some other guild members stay at the side lines in the safe distance. She can feel the eyes wandering over them. People are watching, whispering with worry. Asking questions. Her head spins from the thought — every pair of eyes she feels upon them makes her more uneasy.
A hand of the size of her whole shoulder reaches her from behind. "Shiala." Thrynn calls her by her name. "Hey. Snap out of it."
Brynjolf winces in pain, his hand guarding close to his ribcage. With Thrynn's help, Cynric guides him to sit down on his bed.
"Thank you, lads." He smiles faintly.
Shiala holds her breath, trying not to give a way the increasing amount of worry and fury that grows inside. Having any more of a breakdown right now, in front her fellow brothers and Brynjolf won't fix anything. So instead, she releases her breath and pulls a chair near to seat herself next to Brynjolf, leaving Cynric and Thrynn standing.
"I came back and found your bed empty." Shiala’s posture is timid, her nails digging on her own thighs. "You didn't tell anyone where you went."
"You do that all the time."
It stings how he points it out to her, just as Delvin did the night before.
"Thrynn," Shiala calls him with a brief pause, "could you let Delvin know he's back?"
Thrynn glances at Cynric quickly, who gives him a light nod and a smile to ease his worry. "Aye. Of course." he confirms and leaves them.
Though left alone with the two, for the time being Cynric doesn't seem to mind. Without saying anything, he helps Brynjolf with his outer layer of clothing, taking his long, dark cloak from him.
The cloak comes off from his shoulders with ease. Shiala sees the lighter version of his usual guild armour, covered under the one of his better outfits — something he usually wears for fancier occasions. Neither of them had offered enough protection — the fabric of the both layers has a tear close in its middle, on the same spot Brynjolf had held his arm for support.
It makes her feel sick in ways it shouldn't. Seeing Brynjolf like this.
Shiala's fingers brush over the embroidery of his sleeve, its right cuff is smeared in old blood. "Is it yours?" Shiala asks him.
"No, love." Brynjolf says as he continues to undress clumsily.
"Whose is it, then?"
"No one worth, your time." The words come out with pauses from breaths he struggles catch in full.
Not good enough, she says in her mind. "Then at least tell me you didn't go to Eastmarch by yourself."
Dread looms on Brynjolf's face. She knows something. “Not.. all the way.” He gives Cynric a quick glance, of which Cynric reacts with a faint shook of his head. "Please don't get mad at me."
Cynric swallows before he speaks. “Should I.. leave?”
“No.” They both say simultaneously, making Cynric even more worried, feeling he's stuck in the middle of something now.
Shiala’s attention drifts back to Brynjolf, her shoulders slouching with her over-exaggerated exhale. "Why, Brynjolf?"
Silence pools around them, Brynjolf could only wish his plea had any power over her. "Niranye had some intel that needed confirming, that's all."
Not an answer she was hoping for.
“Your nose is bleeding.” Shiala's hand lifts to Brynjolf's cheek and he lets himself lean to it. Her thumb brushes the old, dried blood that ran from his forehead down his face.
She looks over his injuries again. Apart from his nose, he's not actively bleeding from anywhere else — her guess being that he drank a potion and made a run from whatever he got himself involved with.
Once the armour is gone, she lifts up his tunic with a swift motion that makes Brynjolf grimace. His left rib is bruised black and blue, whatever struck him must have broken them. In all its color, in the middle shines an injury that doesn't quite look like a stab wound. Some spell had hit him hard enough to make it bleed. Fortunately, it doesn't look too deep.
Something else had had nicked his forearm, just below his tattoo. A slash from a blade, maybe an arrow.
‘I will kill them. I will kill all of them.’ She chants as she tries to keep herself calm.
She brushes with her hand on top of Brynjolf's injury, and the direct contact blows the wind out of his lungs. His reaction startles her enough to back off in her chair. “You okay?”
“N-never better.” he winces between his teeth with shrunken pupils from the pain.
Cynric too, looks at Brynjolf, while his own face is slowly losing its colour when he sees the bruise. "You.. look like you could use a drink." He clears his throat awkwardly, not looking back as he begins to move towards the door.
“Please, hurry back.“ Brynjolf grunts after him. “With her alone, my life might actually be in danger.”
The glare Shiala gives him could cut stalhrim. They hear nervous snicker as Cynric disappears into the hallway.
The relief from assessing the severity of his laceration slowly shifts into fury. "You went past the temple and came here instead.”
"Th," Brynjolf inhales sharply between his teeth, "It's not as bad as it looks."
Seconds pass before she says anything else. He's trying to look so strong behind the pain, but he cannot hide the his posture that bends forward wrong and his faint tremor that shakes his hands.
“You can drop the brave face, now,” her monotone voice stops him in place. “How bad?”
“Could be worse.” He chuckles with immediate regret.
“Mm. So you don’t mind if I touch this again?” Her hand hovers over his rib again.
“Hah.” He pauses again — talking clearly brings him agony, yet he refuses to stay quiet. “You are charming when you threaten me with pain.”
The faintest smirk tugging at her lips irritates her. He sees it, because of course he does. A small victory for him.
Weak, green hue glows from Shiala’s hand. Brynjolf flinches at first, but soon sees Shiala is not going for after his injury — not directly. “Hold still for me.” Her words are not much more than a mumble.
She places the hand on his head, combing some of his hair between her fingers in the process.
“What are you—?” His eyes close when her cold fingers come to direct contact with this forehead. As he opens them up again, the glow nearly blinds him for a moment, as it grows stronger.
“Ohm shoyl, mephad.” she whispers to herself. The green spell reflects brightly from her violet eyes.
It takes only a moment, but the the ache of his side is gone. A direct trick to his mind. Brynjolf's posture fixes, and the tremor is his hands weakens. “Remarkable.” He whispers to her. “Thank you, lass.”
Shiala fails to hide amusement on her face from Brynjolf's reaction. "Don't overdo it, now. The damage is still there.”
“I might struggle to remember that.” The source of his pain paralyzed in place — and more, leaves Brynjolf slightly disoriented. The area of effect on Shiala’s spell spreads wider than only on Brynjolf’s source of pain. “It feels like I’m missing a chunk of my body. It’s.. odd.”
She only hums softly back to him.
Cynric returns to the room to rummage his pockets, from one he pulls out a whole bottle of Honningbrew. “Couldn't find anything stronger at hand.” Another pocket reveals rolls of bandages and vials of restoration, clumsily, he drops them on the desk followed by clinks from the glass. "These ought to do before Nura or Denya comes down. Unless you want to go up yourself."
Most of his pain is gone, Brynjolf stares at Cynric impressed with all the things he managed to bring one go. "Bah. I assure you, it's just a scratch." He grins and wipes the bloodied lip, his fingertips tingling slightly.
The sudden boost of Brynjolf's mood puzzles Cynric. He looks at Shiala, questioning at first, only to meet her eyes with a subtle roll in her head. Can never read that woman.
"You would call that a scratch?" The look of the bruise makes Cynric light-headed. "I don't think I have the stomach to look any longer."
"Hah. You do look a little pale, lad."
They watch Brynjolf chug down a potion and flushing the foul tasting concoction down with Honningbrew. There's still some tension to his breathing, Shiala notes as her eyes refuse to leave him. Good. "Who did this to you?” She asks him with a stone-cold face.
"Doesn't matter." Brynjolf repeats himself to her. "They're dead."
"And you'll be next if you keep avoiding the question."
Shiala could see from the side of her eye Cynric shifting his balance uncomfortably. His jaw clenches as he looks at them from the side — rustling the note on his hand that Shiala had thrown at him before. He's not sure if he should leave while he still can, while observing if Oblivion is about to get loose between them. "I don't mean to pry, boss, but.." He speaks at least, his mouth thinning into a small line. Shiala's head turns towards him slowly.
"Cynric–" There's a subtle warning behind Brynjolf's tone, but it's already too late.
Shiala's eyes switch between the two. "So you do know something? Spit it out, then."
Cynric holds his tongue a little longer before muttering about her not having time in the first place. Shiala continues to glare them both, while she listens to Brynjolf's breathing. The rhythm is still unsettling, wrong.
"We only heard rumours." A shiver runs through Cynric's spine. "There was talk about some remnants of the Dragon cult looking for you.”
"The.. the what? Are you serious?" She doesn't believe her ears. On top of everything else..
Shiala hadn't even thought that being one possibility. Another nuisance she was convinced she had rid herself from once Miraak was gone — clearly she was wrong. What an unfortunate oversight.
"And you thought of going after them while wearing nothing but your un-padded vest?" Shiala’s glare turns back to Brynjolf.
"I wasn't meant to fight them." Brynjolf mumbles in weak defence. "And it worked as a decent disguise, for a while."
Shiala grits her teeth. "Until it didn't."
"Right."
Shiala extends her hand to the desk and wraps her hand twice around the bandage. “This won’t do much, apart from stopping the chafing against your clothing. ” She notes out loud. “Your ribs are probably broken.”
“Yeah..” Brynjolf grunts softly. “It slowed me quite a bit.”
“So it would seem.” Shiala takes in a deep breath. "You think yourself invincible at times.”
“And you think you can keep me here sitting on my hands while there's all sorts of lunatics after you.”
Another glare from her that looks almost poisonous. He's right, she can't, and it irritates her.
Cynric fails to hide his restlessness as the two bicker at each other — starting to feel that he’s overstayed his welcome. "What would they even want, then? Revenge for Miraak?" He throws questions in the air. "A new Dragonborn to lead?”
The thought of it irks her. "Don't even joke about that.” She sees him shrug nervously. “Was there anything else?”
Briefly, in Brynjolf's stead Cynric tells about the crow sent by Niranye, passing a message about the suspicious-looking group arriving at the docks of Windhelm — harassing the local folk, asking one too many questions about the Dragonborn. Though nobody really knew, apart of from Niranye as their fence, but it was a matter of time they would find out.
Brynjolf takes the Honningbrew and braces himself for telling his side of the events onward — what had went down once he got the wind of them.
"I'm.. going to leave you two it, then." Cynric mumbles as he sees his chance to excuse himself and drops the piece of paper on to the side table as he flees the scene. “Shout if you need anything.” The door clicks close behind him.
They let him leave without objection, this time.
“Well?” Shiala’s attention returns to Brynjolf in full. “What happened then?”
The sun had already began to settle by the time Brynjolf found their exact location. Cool breeze blew from the north, the rain rustled the leaves enough to give Brynjolf a chance to get to the hearing distance of them without any difficulty.
For some time, he waited patiently under invisibility only to listen. There was no doubt this was the group Niranye had warned about in her letter. Some of them wearing their masks still, made of the bones of a dragon with an unsettling shapes. Six of them, sat on top of an old log and stones, circling around the crackling fire. He waited until one of them separated, going to take a leak alone. Brynjolf's eyes still darted on the group of them — He could take the stray-one out without him even knowing it happened.
But he needed them to talk.
He ambushed the one struggling with his zipper in the bushes — perhaps undignified, but Brynjolf couldn't care less. The man felt Brynjolf's cold-enchanted stalhrim against his throat and froze in place.
“Not. A sound.” He growled at the stranger whimpering under his blade.
Pushing the cultist forward ahead of him, they walked back to the circle of them all, Brynjolf's dagger freezing on the man's neck. “Evening, ladies and gentlemen.” He announced with a smug smirk on his face. The chatter between the group faded with turned heads, hands hovering to their weapons and staves. Mages. Was it too many? “Care for a quick chat?”
One of the mages stepped ahead taking the lead, a spell of ice hovering in his wrist. “Got a lot of gull in you to walk on us like that.”
“Just a couple questions, if you may. And depending on your answers, maybe you get to walk out alive.” Brynjolf’s eyes began to glow under the spell of Charm reverberating from his amulet.
The spoken mage snickered, but his is smile faltered when the crackling of the fire behind him died out, leaving only a trail of smoke. Heavy veil of shadow-magic fed itself in the dark. “The agent of Nocturnal. Guess we are on the right track.”
“Why are you asking around for the Dragonborn?” The timbre of Brynjolf’s voice changed as the spell took its effect.
“She has something of ours.”
“What’s in it for you?” Another asked, heated from Brynjolf’s boldness. There was a hush and shaken heads against the one who intervened. Birds in the nearby trees took flight, startling the one asking the question.
The man held by Brynjolf squealed as the dagger sunk deeper into his neck, cutting to his skin. “P-please…”
“Maybe I can change your minds.” Brynjolf’s cocky smile remained. “You’ll find no Dragonborn here. I’d suggest you be on your way.” Nocturnal’s shadow loomed over him when his crow landed on his shoulder.
Many of them suddenly felt eager to leave.
Despite being six against one, the sight of Brynjolf unsettled the leading mage. “She can’t hide forever.” He said firmly gripping to his staff.
Brynjolf’s amused chuckle echoed hauntingly in the air.
A quick slash from his blade, followed by the shower of blood that gushed out from the cultist’s neck . Brynjolf let him fall on his face, cracking his skull on the stone and choke on his own blood. One of their screams drowned the sounds of the bleeding cultist’s chocking and gurgling as he took his last breath.
“Wrong answer.”
Shiala's stomach sinks as she listens to it all. "So… what hit you, then?"
"One of them managed to throw an ice spike at me." Brynjolf’s eyes squint a little as he looks down on his body. "I got greedy and tried to to get a last shot with my bow before I cloaked myself, but I was too slow."
That explains the bluntness of his injury. “Unnecessary risk.” Shiala pinches the bridge of her nose for a brief moment, taking a breath, trying to understand why. "You.. When did you become so reckless?"
“When I fell in love, lass.”
That makes it so much worse, the knot sitting on Shiala's chest tightens. His smile is light and carefree when his eyes squint slightly —he says such a thing so easily while putting himself under direct danger, because of her.
"The idea of you running into a punch of cultist and get beaten up because they are looking for me.. doesn't exactly fill me with joy."
"For you, I would do it again."
His way of trying to talk himself out by being sweet doesn't go unnoticed by her.
“You're a Guild Master now, you s’wit.
"Yet you treat me like a child."
"You can't keep running out there chasing danger like some— ”
“You can't ground me down behind a title you left me alone with.” He snaps back, before she gets to continue. He knows it stings her and he says it anyway. “I can't just sit here and wait.”
Her breath stills. He sees her lips quivering while trying so hard to deny any emotion behind her eyes.
“I'm.. I'm sorry.” he says softly.
Ignoring him, Shiala busies her hands with the bandage roll. She plays with its edge, pulling a bit of it out and rolling it back in, attempting to smother the burning anxiety inside her. “These people.. they need you.” her voice has no strength.
“And I need you.” He smiles to her, knowing exactly how she couldn't possibly admit she was talking about herself.
There's that feeling again, her chest feeling as if it was carrying a rock as big as Baar Dau.
She wants to yell at him. Tell him how much of a s'wit he is over and over again. She hates how her mind began to race to the worst kind of outcome as soon as she found him gone. Him daring to leave just one, stupid note behind. Does he not know how many targets he has on his back? Because she was selfish enough to think the underworld of Riften was going to keep her hidden deep enough from the problems she doesn't want to face?
It all eats her from the inside. Old, cruel words comes floating back on the surface.
'At this rate you're starting to be more trouble than you're worth keeping, lass.'
Oh, he didn't know her well back then, but he was right all along. Brynjolf probably doesn't even remember saying that, but it still stings regardless.
He has become her blind spot and it has hurt him again.
It's too much. She should just leave the whole continent, it's too dangerous to stay and try to keep any connections between her and the Rift. Eventually she will get discovered by the Thalmor, again, or the both sides of the civil war that keeps coming at her doorstep , demanding her to get warped up with their stupid political shits-show. "I need to leave."
“What?” Brynjolf fails to hide his own sudden worry from his voice.
“Solitude, maybe. Stay with at the Manor. Or even better, you should go.”
“Don't be ridiculous, lass.”
“What if someone escaped and saw what you did?”
“Nobody will find us,” Brynjolf's head tilts to the side. He wants to sound confident for her. There could always be a possibility they did. Thalmor's spies had lured their way in the past, so it wasn't unreasonable fear. His mouth opens and shuts again, as he watches Shiala pacing around the room, eventually he speaks with a tone she barely hears. “You're not thinking straight.”
He's right, she isn’t. Seeing him like this again is clouding her judgment. With the Thalmor still being on her tail, not to mention her business with the Brotherhood that has gone unfinished.. and now these psychopaths, too? It would only be a matter of time that the Guild will get caught in the crossfire of her—
Brynjolf's arm grabs hers, causing her to hitch abruptly.
"Hey."
The soft voice stops her thoughts from racing. Her mind becomes blank.
"I'm here. I'm sorry."
Shiala's eyes open wide. The rush of sudden terror shifts to grief. “Not good enough—” Brynjolf closes their distance and pulls her to his embrace — she stares at him dumbstruck, her arms hovering in the air while standing between his legs. "How dare you.." her voice shudders.
Brynjolf's still oddly breathing gut brings a muffled wince into Shiala's chests. He stays still for several heartbeats before lifting his head up and facing her again. Those eyes of hers are filled with dread that only he is to blame. Words Shiala wants to say refuse to come out right. She only nods faintly.
"Look at me, trying to help you out, only to make a fool out of myself.” Brynjolf gathers both Shiala's hands into his, kissing the ink of her fingertips. He feels the tremor from them against his lips weaken as he stays still. “And it seems that the only one, who can cure the real source of this pain,” he takes a short breath, “is but the Dragonborn herself.”
“Mm.” Shiala hums softly, lifting a thumb to caress his bottom lip. “And what's that?” She asks.
“A wistful heart.”
“Oh. That does sound rather fatal.”
“The evidence speaks for itself.” He enjoys the look on her face, as if it was a small victory for him. “Ask any healer or priest, they will tell you the same.“
“Any, you say?” She sees her opportunity. “I know a priest of Mara who would more likely support the idea of tossing your hide at the Lake Honrich.”
“Perhaps.“ Brynjolf chuckles lightly. “Better hope he's no up for a pilgrimage any time soon, then.”
They share a moment of silence, Brynjolf still holding to both Shiala's hands, while resting his head on her chest a little longer. He listens her heart fluttering against his ear. Restless little thing.
His hand lets go of hers as she lifts them up, letting her fingers get lost in Brynjolf's hair one more time. She leans to kiss him on his forehead and takes a deep breath against it. “You have to be more careful, daelha.“
Brynjolf's cheeks flush under her plea. The moments like this, where she only shows worry for him without it being concealed behind some violent sarcasm, were rare enough to make him fluster.
He would do anything for her.
“Yeah. I will be.”
“Good.” she whispers against his hair before lifting her head. “Come on. I'll help you lie down.”
“Stay with me a while?” He asks with a smirk on his face.
Shameless man.
“Mm.” She hums as her shoulders drop. “I'll stay.”
Not much later Denya had arrived down the cistern with Sapphire, assessed Brynjolf's injury and demanded him to have bedrest until the end of the month. Using her restoration, she had closed the wound on his arm and alleviated some of the bruising on his stomach, but had refused to fully heal the ribs themselves. Disappointing at it was for Brynjolf to hear, at least now he has an excuse to ask Shiala stay by his side a while, before she would disappear again, divines know for how long.
