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gloomwitchwrites · 6 months ago

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Lavender: Part One

Brynjolf x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): second chances, past relationship, angst, kidnapping, denial of feelings, referenced harassment (non-graphic), suggestive themes

Word Count: 6.2k

Working as a lady's maid to Jarl Laila Law-Giver is supposed to provide you peace and a steady income, but your old life is quickly catching up to you. An old flame comes knocking, bringing you flowers and reminding you of the affection you've missed. Do you keep running? Or do you finally face the future you've always wanted but fear you'll lose again?

Part Two

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The dawn has not yet risen. It is near, but there is still time yet before the sun’s warm glow breaks the horizon. Sunrises in Skyrim are your favorite. It is one of the reasons why you greet the day so early.

From your apron, you withdraw two tiny bundles wrapped in simple beige cloth. It is not much, but it is good to give something to the gods whenever you visit a shrine. Even a simple prayer is a gift, but today you have more than just your voice.

Before you is a Shrine of Talos, located against Riften’s eastern wall. The shrine is slightly secluded and situated in a curved corner near Mistveil Keep and Black-Briar Manor. To your left is a small graveyard that backs up to the Hall of the Dead and the Temple of Mara. Other than an occasional guardsman that walks past, there is no one else around.

It is quiet. Peaceful. Just as it always is at this hour.

Behind the shrine is a statue of Talos himself. He towers over you, helmeted head slightly bent as if he too is in prayer. Trees with golden leaves create a half-circle around the back and sides of the shrine. At your feet, near the stone base, are little flowers springing forth from the ground.

Warmer weather is coming, and they are reaching out to seek it.

Unwrapping one bundle, you gently retrieve three gold coins. From there, you deposit the gold coins into the small silver bowl before the shrine. They clink softly in the subdued dark. The candles surrounding the shrine burn low, their stunted, melted bodies showing their use.

From the other bundle, you carefully remove a small handful of flowers, placing those in the bowl next to the gold coins. Your offerings do not amount to much, but it is all you can spare.

While working at Mistveil Keep for Jarl Laila Law-Giver has given you job security, the pay isn’t nearly as good as you originally believed it to be. Most of what you earn is used to feed, clothe, and house yourself. While Mistveil Keep provides all this, a portion of your earnings is still taken as a small fee to cover those costs. When you first accepted the job, the fee didn’t bother you because that practice is standard across all Jarl residences.

But once you received your first earnings, you realized quickly how little ended up in your hands. You always save just a few gold coins for yourself. The rest is sent away to your ailing mother and cranky aunt who are far from Riften.

Although you have little, you always make the effort to leave offerings at Talos’ shrine. The practice is not for you, but for your father and brothers. They are no longer here, but they all perished as any Nord should, with weapon in hand. That is why you come to the shrine to pray.

You pray that they are happily feasting in Sovngarde. You pray that they at least have each other.

Standing before the shrine, you bring your clasped hands against your chest, head bent just like Talos. Your lips move silently.

When the final word is whispered, you breathe deep, and drop your hands at your sides. Glancing up, you stare at Talos’ face, admiring the craftsmanship of the sculptor’s work. It is then that you notice a change in the air.

A disturbance.

A subtle shift.

It is not the direction of the wind. It is an old sense. Ancient. Prey noticing predator.

You’re being watched.

“You’re not as sneaky as you think you are,” you say, glancing over your shoulder toward the small graveyard.

Brynjolf leans against one of the gravestones.

Even with his hood up and cowl in place, you know the shape of him. You know his body language, and the casualness that comes with it. He’s so relaxed in his leather armor. You remember when he first put that armor on. He wasn’t nearly as muscular then but that was many years ago, and now it fits him like a snug glove. Amongst the public eye, Brynjolf forgoes the armor for more luxurious fare, pretending to be something he isn’t.

But he never hides who he truly is with you.

Never.

Slowly, Brynjolf pushes off from the gravestone, strolling over with a swagger that brings a bit of heat to your cheeks.

“That’s because you know my habits, lass,” he replies, a tease in his tone that always flips your stomach.

You turn toward him fully, pushing your wanton anxiousness down until your heart is Skyforged Steel. But Brynjolf keeps walking, clearly intending to leave no space between the two of you. You do not budge from your spot, and he comes to a stop just inches away. Like this, he towers over you, invading your space.

“Why have you interrupted my morning prayer?” you ask, using every ounce of willpower not to touch him.

Brynjolf chuckles softly and the sound of it is a hammer against tempered metal. This man is going to break you down. “Is that what you were doing?”

You playfully shove at him, the instinct to touch him too much for your weak control. Brynjolf snags your wrist right out of the air. Using his grip on your arm, Brynjolf tugs you against him, pinning your wrist to him. Your free hand reflexively rises, pressing against one of the leather straps across his chest.

All you can see are his eyes. They shine like emeralds even in the dark.

“You come here almost every morning,” he murmurs.

“I do,” you snap, regaining some composure. “And you also bother me almost every morning.”

“Is that right, lass?” Brynjolf’s thumb rubs over your pulse point. The pressure sends a little shiver through your body. “Do I bother you?” He adds a bit more pressure and you inhale sharply. Brynjolf leans down like he’s about to kiss you, but he doesn’t lower the cowl. “I think you’re lying.”

You are lying. Brynjolf doesn’t bother you. Never has. The two of you are forever linked by an invisible teether.

You avoid the accusation. “Why are you here?”

Just above the lip of the cowl, you notice the corners of his eyes crinkling. He’s finding this exchange incredibly amusing.

“To give you these.” He releases your hand and takes a step back. With your wrist free, you immediately tuck your hands to your sides, his touch still lingering on your skin.

Reaching behind him, Brynjolf tugs on something and then brings it out in front of him. There are stalks of lavender and bundles of different colored flowers that grow in the mountains grasped in his fist. The bouquet is slightly squished and several of the flowers are missing petals.

“You only ever give me flowers when you want something,” you blurt, immediately regretting not thanking him instead.

Brynjolf doesn’t even blink. Doesn’t seem to mind at all that you haven’t shown gratitude.

“You know what I want,” he says softly. He transfers the flowers to one hand, and then reaches up, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. It is a gentle gesture, one that pushes you toward sweet memories that seems so distant now.

You shake your head. “I can’t.”

“Why?”

He knows why. The two of you have been playing this game for years.

“My family,” you insist. That is always the excuse, and it’s a poor one, because there is so much more beneath the surface.

Brynjolf sighs but it’s not with annoyance. The two of you do this dance every time. It plays out in the same routine.

“I have contacts in Solitude,” says Brynjolf. “I can have them check on your mother.”

“My mother is fine,” you insist.

Brynjolf shifts slightly on his feet. “Do you even know if she’s alive? When did you last visit?”

You hold your head high. “I receive letters.”

“From your mother? Or your aunt?”

All your stubbornness evaporates. Your mouth turns down in a frown and your face falls. Brynjolf steps into your space again, his voice becoming a caress. “Let me help, lass.”

“I’m fine,” you reply. “Been doing well on my own.”

These last few years have entirely been on your shoulders. You’ve carried the family burden, and a Voice that you’ve kept silent since the deaths of your father and brothers.

“Have you?” Brynjolf’s voice is still gentle. He is not a soft man, but with you, he’s different. Always has been.

“Yes,” you answer, still not looking at him.

“How’s the palace? The Jarl?”

“The Jarl is fine.” You glance up at him and Brynjolf arches an eyebrow. “A good employer,” you insist.

“How much are you earning?”

“Enough.”

Brynjolf grunts, his upper body retreating slightly. He doesn’t believe you, and you don’t blame him. It really isn’t enough, but you’re not going to admit that to him. Brynjolf used to be part of your life, and no matter how much he tries to fit himself back in, you know you’ll only drag him down if you do.

He holds out the flowers to you. “Take them.”

“Give them to Talos.” You nod in the direction of the shrine.

Brynjolf laughs. “They’re for you, lass.” He bends forward a bit, whispering. “And what would the Heir to the Seat of Sundered Kings do with flowers?”

“I offered him flowers.” You indicate the small bowl next to the shrine.

“So you did, lass.” Brynjolf removes a few of the lavender stalks and tosses them into the bowl. “Talos can have those, but the rest are for you.”

Brynjolf holds the bouquet out in front of him. Reaching for them, Brynjolf’s fingers brush against your own. The contact is liquid fire, flooding through your limbs.

“Thank you. They are lovely.”

Yes, they are slightly smashed and wilted, but it is the thought that counts. Brynjolf went out of his way to pick them and bring them to you even if his motivations for doing so are completely selfish ones.

You just—you can’t let him back in, even though you long for it.

Brynjolf’s fingertips lightly graze the underside of your chin. “Turn around, lass. I need to disappear.”

You giggle, giving him your back, clutching the flowers to your chest. You lean in and inhale, eyelids closing slightly in pleasure.

The wind kicks up, and the grass rustles. You exhale and glance over your shoulder.

Brynjolf is gone.

Jarls are some of the messiest people you’ve ever met.

Perhaps it’s because they have a fleet of people constantly waiting on them. They have no reason to care about what they do because an attendant will swoop in and fix it all. Someone else will always clean up the mess.

Right now, you’re staring at chaos.

There are empty bottles of wine and Black-Briar Reserve scattered everywhere. Amongst the bottles are plates, goblets, and platters. The Jarl’s private balcony is trashed, and you’ve been left to clean it all up on your own.

It’s…fine. The quiet will be nice, and the spring air is cool compared to the heat within Mistveil Keep. You’ve been helping in the kitchens all day, and this is the first time you haven’t felt like you’ve been stuffed inside an oven.

Sighing loudly, you start piling up plates and platters. Anything that still held food is long gone, likely sent back to the kitchen to be quietly distributed amongst staff to reduce waste. Sig, one of the kitchen maids, is always taking scraps to the beggars.

Once the plates and platters are removed, you begin to clear the empty bottles and goblets, washing your hands before returning to sweep. With broom in hand, you survey the private patio.

You turn. Glance up. Stifle a scream.

Between the balcony railing and wood awning crouches a man. One hand grasps the edge of the wood awning while the other holds a bouquet of flowers.

“Brynjolf,” you hiss, quickly resting the broom against the table with the intent to approach him. “What are you doing?”

Brynjolf’s hood is up but his cowl is down, showing off the rest of his handsome face.

“Bringing you a gift,” he says simply, as if that is a perfectly logical thing to do at this exact moment.

The worst part about his sudden appearance is his smile. You adore that smile. It is a teasingly soft thing with just the slightest hint of mischievousness.

“Right now?”

He shrugs, slipping to the floor, unfurling to his full height. “Couldn’t wait.”

“By the Nine, Brynjolf,” you exclaim, raising one arm in exasperation. “Sometimes you are just an insufferable—”

Your next words are snatched from your lungs. It only takes Brynjolf two large strides to intrude into your space. You have nowhere to go, and he is right there, both hands grasping your waist.

“No comment about me wanting something, lass?” he asks with a gentle croon.

That sweet sound melts your bones. “The answer is still no,” but even you don’t believe what you say.

Brynjolf murmurs your name, his head dipping.

“We can’t. We live different lives.” At this point you’re simply making excuses.

“You were almost mine once,” he says, voice a whisper.

“We were children.”

“We were young,” he corrects, lightly squeezing your waist. “But we knew what we wanted.”

You did. He did. And then you didn’t. Everything changed and the only thing you had left in the world was your mother who couldn’t even help herself. And there was no one to help you. Not even Brynjolf.

When you don’t answer, Brynjolf rests his forehead against your own. “What can you give me?”

He asks so sweetly, and the old memories are hard to ignore. They bubble up to the surface only to sink into bone and blood, flooding you with the peacefulness you once knew with him.

You’re going to regret these next words.

“You can have a kiss.”

Brynjolf’s hold on your waist tightens. He draws you in, bodies pressed close. One hand slides slowly up your side, stopping at your throat. Brynjolf’s hand is large enough to cradle the bottom half of your cheek.

Everything in you stutters for a moment, and then Brynjolf is right there, hovering as if unsure of this offering. Maybe it is the emotion on your face or his own need moving him to action, because the distance closes and you suddenly realize just how much you missed this.

Brynjolf’s kiss is all tenderness. He doesn’t smash his mouth against yours or use too much tongue. You are lost in this, opening for him, and he takes it.

His hands fall away only to slide to the backs of your thighs. He lifts, and your arms immediately drape around the back of his neck. He brings you to rest on top of the table.

You promised him one kiss, but giving him more won’t hurt. You can give those to him.

Brynjolf’s hands slide to the tops of your thighs and then downward. With an ardent quickness, Brynjolf pushes your skirts and apron up, exposing your bare thighs to the cool air. You don’t even blink because it’s him.

His kisses deepen. Lengthen. His hands are on your bare thighs, caressing. They move up, and then one hand dips between.

His touch upon your sensitive skin makes you gasp, breaking the kiss.

“Oh, lass,” he groans. “You do miss me.”

He presses in and you moan, his mouth coming down to stifle the sound. With one hand on your upper thigh, Brynjolf drags you to the very edge of the table, slotting himself between your legs.

There is a loud clatter followed by a laugh. You both freeze, slowly easing apart but Brynjolf keeps his hand between your thighs.

You wait a beat before you speak. “You need to go.”

Slowly, achingly so, Brynjolf withdraws from your body. Almost absently, he brings that glossy finger up to his mouth. His gaze remains on the door to the Jarl’s chambers as he sucks it clean.

Only then does he turn to face you.

His face is grim like he doesn’t want to leave you out here alone.

“Go,” you insist, squeezing his upper arm. “Before you’re caught.”

That gorgeous grin of his returns in full force. He steals one more kiss before retreating to the railing. He pulls up the cowl, covering his mouth, and swings one leg over the side. He glances back once before sliding off and disappearing into the dark.

Brynjolf does not come to see you the next day or the next.

You’re not sure if somethings happened, but extended absences are not uncommon for him. You know who he is and what he does, but even you aren’t sure of the specifics. That part of his life is closed off. Only those who walk with him in the Thieves Guild completely understand. There are always the rumors you hear from others, but it doesn’t change your perception of him.

But that is not what worries you. Never has. Brynjolf can take care of himself.

It is the Jarl’s son, Harrald, that concerns you. That cretin of a man has a lingering eye, staring for far too long. The man is wholly arrogant, but he’s smart. Harrald never says anything to you in front of his mother or anyone that might report him for his poor behavior.

Instead, he watches, keeping a close eye on your every step.

His stare is like the slime scraped off the sides of ships. Nasty business, and you don’t want any part in it.

But just as Harrald has a wandering eye, he has wandering hands.

It is why you’re pacing, why you are out in the middle of the night on a walk to clear your head. You stick to the outer wall on the eastern side near Talos’ shrine, walking in one direction and then the other. Pacing and thinking and worrying.

How do you approach this issue? And who can you tell? Who would believe you?

“Need some company?”

You yelp, and whirl around, only for Brynjolf to melt from the shadows.

He chuckles softly. “Didn’t mean to scare ya, lass.” He starts walking in your direction. “But—” Brynjolf freezes. Pauses.

His gaze roams over you before his legs find the will to move again. “What’s wrong?”

Do you look that bad?

You start to reach up toward your hair, but Brynjolf is grasping your hands, bringing them to chest-level, inspecting them. “You’re shaking.”

Is that what this feeling is?

“I’m fine,” you say, but it sounds of drowning.

“You’re not.” Brynjolf’s tone is firm. You’re upset and he wants to fix it.

“It’s nothing,” you whisper.

“Did someone hurt you?” You shake your head. “Say something?”

“No, Bryn.” The little pet name rolls off your tongue uninvited.

Either he doesn’t notice or he doesn’t say anything because Brynjolf continues.

“But you are not fine.” He cups your cheek. “Your face is puffy. And your eyes are red.” He gently squeezes the hand he’s holding. “Your hands are cold. Talk to me.”

You sniffle, only realizing then how stuffy you sound. “I’m probably imagining things. Making a big deal out of nothing.”

“I don’t believe that.” Brynjolf’s words are a comfort. They slide over and around you. If anyone in Riften will believe you, it’s him.

“It’s the Jarl’s son. He—” You pause when you notice the deep frown on Brynjolf’s face.

“Go on,” he prompts.

“He—he touched me. At dinner. Maybe?”

“Touched you?”

You start to draw back, regretting saying anything at all. “It was probably an accident.”

“Which son?” he growls. The anger in his voice surprises you.

“Harrald.”

Brynjolf’s frown deepens. “No. It wasn’t an accident. Not with him.”

“Bryn. What should I do?” This job is the only thing keeping you afloat. You need this.

The muscles in his jaw tenses. “Steer clear of him if you can. Make sure you’re never alone with him.” He places his hands on your shoulders. “Is there someone there you can trust? Someone who will listen?”

“I think so.”

Anuriel would listen. She might be the Jarl’s steward, but she has a good heart and looks after everyone.

Brynjolf’s hands cradle the sides of your face. “If he touches you again, say something. Understood?”

You nod.

“Good girl.” He kisses the top of your head. “I’ll walk you back.”

“In that?” you laugh, indicating his Thieves Guild armor with a nod of your head.

“From the shadows, lass,” he teases.

“Finally. Didn’t think I’d ever have a moment alone with you.”

The familiar, arrogantly slimy voice sticks to the insides of your ears. You are in the market. You are not alone. And yet Harrald is right there, standing far too close, grinning widely.

You swallow, the salvia in your throat momentarily sticking. “How can I help you?”

Harrald’s grin widens, and he leans in. You immediately lean back. He makes no indication that your retreat bothers him.

“You’ve been making eyes at me.”

I haven’t you rodent.

“I’m sorry. You’re mistaken.”

He laughs. “I’m not.”

You quickly glance around but no one is paying the two of you any mind. “Apologies, sir. But I—”

Harrald shrugs and then waves his hand dismissively. “Hard to get is fine. I’m up for a chase.”

“That’s not—”

“I’ll play.”

“My lord, that is not—”

His voice lowers and some of his smile recedes. “Pretty thing like you needs a bit of taming.”

A shadow falls over Harrald’s face. You sense a presence to your left just behind your shoulder. The fading smile on Harrald’s face evaporates. In its place is a deep frown.

“You’re interrupting,” spits Harrald, head turning in the direction of the intruder.

“She said she isn’t interested.”

Brynjolf. Thank the Nine.

Harrald stands stall, puffing out his chest. It does little for him. “Do you know who I am?”

“Yes,” says Brynjolf flatly. He steps around you, inserting himself between Harrald’s red face and your body.

“I could have you locked up for this!”

“We both have connections,” replies Brynjolf casually. He leans and lowers his voice. “Mine just go a bit deeper.”

Harrald’s reddened face loses all color. He begins to blubber, mouth opening and closing like a fish on a hook. Brynjolf takes a deliberate step forward, completely cutting off Harrald’s connection to you.

The paleness is replaced by redness again.

“You—” begins Harrald, his lip curling. He glances around, and this time there is an audience.

Harrald inhales sharply and turns on his heel, storming back toward Mistveil Keep, shoving a guardsman out of the way as he ascends the steps. Brynjolf doesn’t address you until Harrald has disappeared.

But Brynjolf does not speak. He simply inclines his head in your direction before moving back to his stall. The chatter of the market resumes, and you go about your business.

Harrald leaves you alone the rest of the day, but you remain on edge. The tension sticks around until bed, keeping you awake and alert as if Harrald will appear at any moment.

Sleep eventually comes but you hardly notice when you drift off. But your body knows routine, and you awaken at the time you usually do for morning prayer.

The ground is covered in a low mist and the grass is dew-laced. Head hurting from lack of sleep, you stumble through your routine. And when the air stirs, your alertness sharpens, the thread of excitement rushing through your limbs.

You turn, expecting to find Brynjolf.

You do not find him.

Instead, you find two men. Both are tall. One is thin and lanky with greasy yellow hair. The other is burly and balding with his face all scarred.

The burly man grins, showing missing teeth.

You don’t even see or feel the blow.

It’s just their faces. And then darkness.

“What are we supposed to do with her?”

“He said rough her up a bit. Just avoid the face. He likes that.”

You stare at the grimy stone wall. With the lack of light, you can’t tell if the stone is scorched or simply weathered. Distantly you hear dripping, and faint rattling as if something moves behind the stone. If something does, you don’t want to know.

When you breathe in, a dampness clings to the air, sticking to the insides of your lungs. It’s not exactly foul-smelling wherever you are, but it certainly isn’t pleasant. You are underground, that much you know, and there is only one place in Riften that is entirely beneath the earth.

“She awake?” comes a nasally voice. It’s the one that mentioned he wants you “roughed up.”

“I don’t know.” This is the first voice. It is low and droll.

You’re in the Ratway. You’re certain of it. But where, exactly? The place is large. It is easy to lose yourself in the maze of tunnels.

“Well find out.”

You stay perfectly still as one of the men approaches.

“She ain’t moving.”

Beside you, part of the wall crumbles outward. Slowly, you reach out, fingers finding a solid chunk. Within you, there is a Voice, but you haven’t used it in years, and the power you once wielded is a distant memory.

That is tucked away. You’re not even sure if you remember how to use it or if you might do more harm than good.

“Give her a kick.”

Grip tightening on the broken stone, you turn over and hurl it. The chunky rock nearly collides with the burly, balding man. They both start, faces awash with surprise before anger crosses their faces.

The greasy, yellow haired man’s mouth forms a snarl. He approaches quickly, fists raised. “You—”

But the blow never comes.

His head is there and then it’s not.

It is at your feet. The eyes looking upward, and the mouth shaped into an exaggerated “o.”

The one with his head still on stands there, glancing down at his friend’s unattached head. There is a beat of silence. A pause as his gaze turns to you.

Before either of you can speak or move, a thin blade bursts through the man’s neck.

His eyes go wide, hands reaching up in disbelief. His mouth opens, gasping for air he cannot inhale. The blade slides out. Disappears.

The bloody gurgling increases in volume as he falls face-first into the ground. It tapers off as you push yourself against the gently curving wall. You glance up from the black pool quickly forming beneath him.

In the shadows, something moves in the dark.

You reach for another stone, ready to throw the thing. The moving shadow emerges, and you promptly drop it.

“Brynjolf,” you breathe.

“Lass.” He reaches for you, and you throw yourself into his arms.

“Are you hurt?” he asks, hands roaming as he inspects you.

You take stalk of yourself. Nothing hurts expect a faint throb at the side of your head. “I think I’m all right.”

Brynjolf wraps his arms around you, and you melt into him, clinging so tight the buckles across his chest dig against your skin.

“Take me away from here, Bryn.”

“You can’t expect me to stay here.”

When you told Brynjolf to take you away, you meant above ground, not to Thieves Guild headquarters.

A Guild member strolls by and Brynjolf grabs your arm, pulling you further into the dark. “Mercer isn’t all that inclined in letting you go.”

The two of you stand nearly toe-to-toe in one of the alcoves surrounding the cistern. It’s not well-lit, and your voices are hushed, but this is a conversation between the two of you. No one else needs to take part.

“Why?” you hiss, already knowing.

“He thinks you’ll compromise us,” replies Brynjolf calmly, but you hear the subtle tension. Even he doesn’t entirely believe what he’s saying.

“Everyone already knows the Thieves Guild operates out of the Ratway,” you insist. “They already know you’re down here. How will I change anything?”

Brynjolf glances over your shoulder and you follow his gaze. Mercer Frey stands in the middle of the cistern with two others. One is a woman with white hair and a permanent scowl. The other is a man who keeps glancing at the scowling woman with a soft smirk.

Brynjolf sighs, his head dipping slightly. “Yes, lass. But where? They don’t know and they don’t dare come looking. Not with Maven in their way.”

You scoff. “And you trust her?”

“As long as money is involved.”

You shake your head and look away to a spot over his shoulder. Discovery of where the Thieves Guild is located isn’t the point. Mercer intends to trap you here. Either you stay down here with all of them, or potentially put your life at risk.

Brynjolf lowers his voice. “Mercer won’t harm you.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.” Because it’s true. Brynjolf would intercede if it came to that. The issue is with not being allowed to go.

“I’m not a prisoner,” you finish, returning your gaze to Brynjolf’s face.

“You aren’t.”

“But I can’t go.”

Brynjolf laughs softly and it’s a lovely sound. “You want to run from me that badly?” he teases.

“Be serious,” you hiss.

“I am,” his tone shifting. Brynjolf moves closer, shielding you from the cistern. “You keep running and it has gotten you nowhere.”

“Don’t,” you begin but Brynjolf isn’t having it.

He leans in, placing both hands against the stone wall behind you. You’re trapped. Pinned. Wherever you look, wherever you turn, it will only be him.

“You’re running from yourself. From your family. From me.”

“Brynjolf,” you warn, but he ignores it.

“You say you don’t want me but we both know that’s a lie.”

You huff and attempt to dip under his arm. He moves with you, keeping you in place. Shooting him a warning look does nothing.

“Listen to me, lass,” he murmurs. “You don’t shy away from my touch. You always give me soft smiles. Kind words. Kisses.” It is then that his gaze drops to your mouth. There is clear appreciation in that look, and it instantly stirs a heat in your core.

“We almost married once.” His tone softens, and then Brynjolf’s gaze returns to your eyes. “It did not happen. But I still consider you my only option.”

You fall into memory, of the times before, of when Brynjolf meant everything to you, and your family was whole. A time when you wielded a Voice so powerful it scared you, but you knew it meant you were destined for greater things.

How quickly things change.

How quickly they fall apart.

“Don’t say that,” you murmur, shaking your head.

“Why? Can I not speak freely with you?”

“Of course you can, Bryn.”

“Then that is how I feel.”

You cross your arms over your chest, retreating slightly. Years have passed and the two of you have not faced this. Is it fate that led you to Riften? You knew Brynjolf was here, but that is because of his involvement with the Thieves Guild. Maybe you should attempt to rekindle what the two of you shared—what you still share.

There is still love there. It does not fester or wither.

It is loud and bold beneath the skin. It simmers. Lingers. Waiting for the two of you to finally find each other again. Every time you see Brynjolf, it warms you all over. You feel safe, and you silently hate it when he leaves.

“If you truly do not want me, say so,” he murmurs. “Plainly and firmly. Tell me there is no chance for the two of us to be together.”

Your gaze settles at his throat. It is the only place you can look. If you look into his eyes, if you see those emerald pools, you will drown in him.

“Bryn.”

“Look me in the eyes when you reject me.”

This makes you start, gaze snapping to attention, finding those green gems you’d know anywhere. And you are lost. Completely. You stare at him, the tension increasing until it’s a knife through the heart.

You drop your gaze. Shake your head. “That isn’t fair.”

It’s not a rejection and Brynjolf’s sigh of relief is palpable. It would be unfair to say you don’t love or want him. Because you do. You’re just—

Scared.

Brynjolf leans against the wall with one arm, dropping the other. Using that leverage, he creates an intimate space, faces close enough to come together but not meeting.

“Everything you need will be provided for if that is what you worry about. I promise you,” says Brynjolf. Casually, the backs of his knuckles brush against your upper arm. “Money will be sent to your mother. I’ve already been looking after her care.”

You blink, startled. “What do you mean?”

Brynjolf shrugs. “You think your measly earnings for the Jarl are enough?”

Your mouth opens and then closes, your mind trying to process this information. “How long has this been going on?”

Brynjolf remains quiet.

“Tell me,” you insist, lightly beating your fist against his chest.

“I’ve been sending money for many seasons.”

“Since when?”

“You know,” he says simply.

The whole reason you broke it off with Brynjolf all those years ago was because of your mother’s health and the death of your father and brothers. All that income disappeared, and you were the only person available to keep you and your mother afloat. Maybe if you had married Brynjolf, money wouldn’t have been an issue, but you didn’t want to drag him down with you. The threat of the streets was constant, and all your hopes for the future suddenly vanished.

And he’s been sending money all this time?

“You didn’t have to. Brynjolf—you shouldn’t—”

Brynjolf starts shaking his head. He pushes off from the wall, face stern. He glances back at the cistern and then returns his gaze to you. “Come with me.”

Brynjolf grabs your upper arm and pulls you away from the wall. A small part of you tells you to stick your heels in and resist because it’s all you know. But you allow him to guide you away into what must be some sort of training room.

“You didn’t need to send anything. I have it handled.”

Brynjolf has his back to you, hands on his hips. He sighs audibly and speaks. “I wanted to. Want to.”

“Bryn.”

He turns, one hand up to ask for silence. “We were to be married.” He drops it, that hand forming a fist at his side. “That didn’t just disappear for me.”

You can’t fault him for caring. It was you that severed the connection, who walked away from a good man that loved you beyond care for himself. Even now, he looks after what’s left of your family.

“Do you remember how happy we were?” he asks.

“All the time,” you reply, voice cracking slightly.

Brynjolf moves toward you, and without thought, you extend your hand to him. He takes it, pulling you into his arms, inhaling deeply of your scent.

“I’d choose you every time,” he says, pressing his lips to the top of your head. “I’d bring you a priestess of Mara. Bind ourselves to each other. Give you anything you ask for.”

Brynjolf pulls back enough to change his position. With one hand, he cups your cheek, and draws you in. “You’ll never have to work.” He hesitates, then closes the distance. The kiss he offers is sweet. Gentle. “Never worry.” Another kiss, this one tinged with a spark of fire. “I would provide.” This next kiss is deep, all need and passion. You open for him and Brynjolf groans into your mouth.

When the two of you break apart for air, his thumb begins caressing your cheek. “You know I speak truly.”

“What would I do here?”

“Whatever you want,” shrugs Brynjolf. “Could even teach you our ways.”

“I’m not becoming a member.”

Brynjolf’s smile is infectious. You can’t help but match it. “If you marry me, you do by default.” He lowers his voice. “And you know where we live.”

“Is this your way of forcing my hand?”

Brynjolf laughs. “If I was going to force you, lass, I’d have done it already.”

It’s true. Brynjolf has had years to make you his without your input. But he has always given you space. Given you time. And you do love him. You do long for the times the two of you shared together before you pulled away.

Perhaps it is time to accept, to know that his support is there and so deeply wanted on your part.

“You’ll fetch a priestess of Mara?” you ask softly.

“Right now,” he answers immediately. “If that is what you wish.”

You see the hope in his eyes, feel the anticipation in his muscles. All these years, and still you are so enamored with him, and he with you.

“You did ruin my job with the Jarl.”

“Me?” he laughs, pulling you tighter into his arms. The two of you stay like this, just embracing.

After a long moment, he finally speaks. “Is this a yes, lass?”

You take a deep breath and snuggle closer into him. “It’s a yes.”

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ironwoman359 · 8 months ago

Text

A Thief's Gamble - Ch.8

Caught Red Handed

Prev: Ch.7 - A Dampened Pursuit || Next: Ch.9 - Every Cloud... Fic Masterpost

Fic Summary: Brynjolf is certain that the only way the Thieves Guild will return to its glory days is by bringing in new, talented members. Unfortunately, Mercer doesn't agree, and it's not like Brynjolf's latest attempts at recruiting have gone well. But when he meets a stranger in the marketplace one morning, he's willing to take the risk and bring her on board....only time will tell if his gamble pays off.

Chapter Summary: Brynjolf and Ariene try to make time for one another, but before they're able to slip away, more than one crisis rears its head and gives them pause.

Content: Brynjolf POV, Thieves Guild quest spoilers, game typical violence, blood.

Ships: Brynjolf x Dragonborn OC (slowburn)

Word Count: 4,323

Check the reblogs for a link to read on AO3!

— — —

Brynjolf being a lieutenant for the Thieves Guild was the best worst-kept secret in Riften. A handful of the city’s wealthiest and most influential citizens knew all about his identity, as did its poorest and most unscrupulous inhabitants. Yet as far as Jarl Laila Law-Giver was concerned, he was just another merchant plying his trade in the city marketplace, and most everyday citizens thought he was nothing more than a peddler of, charitably, eccentric wares.

This dichotomy was perfectly illustrated by the members of the town guard, half of whom were on his payroll and half of whom had no idea who he was.

Of course, with their helmets obscuring their faces and muffling their voices, it was difficult to tell at a glance which guards were in on Brynjolf’s various schemes around town, so he had to keep a tight lid on communications.

“I didn’t know you lads could shop while on duty,” Brynjolf remarked casually to a guard who approached his stand in the market.

The guard paused, and Brynjolf waited. Either the man would ignore him, bristle about being told how to behave by a citizen, or…

“If there’s a guards’ discount, I could be persuaded to buy,” he replied, and Brynjolf smiled.

“Aye, it so happens there is,” he said, reaching beneath his counter to pull out a bottle.

The guard dropped ten septims into Brynjolf’s hand, and Brynjolf passed the bottle to him.

On the outside, the bottle was identical to all the others that Brynjolf sold. On the inside though, it was anything but. A rolled up scrap of paper was stuffed into the neck, and the guard would take it out later to find his instructions for the week scrawled on one side and a dead drop location that contained his next payment on the other.

Brynjolf didn’t put too much stock in the other guards’ investigation skills, especially with Maven’s agent Anuriel keeping the other palace officials from spending any serious time hunting down the Guild, but it never hurt to be careful. Anuriel couldn’t be everywhere at once, and the last thing anybody needed was some rookie guard trying to prove himself and ratting on his fellow officers.

Brynjolf passed instructions to two more guards throughout the rest of the afternoon, and sold a half dozen or so elixirs while he was at it. When the sun began to dip behind the roof of Mistveil Keep, he packed up his stall for the day and took the opportunity to visit some of the other local establishments.

He dropped by the Pawned Prawn first, smirking when he saw the cracks in the Dwarven urn on display by the window. Once his business there was concluded he took a “delivery” to Haelga’s Bunkhouse. To an outside observer, he appeared to simply be doing regular errands at the end of the work day, but Bersi and Haelga were perfectly aware of his intentions. They each handed over that month’s protection money without a word of complaint, though if looks could kill, he’d be bleeding out on the bunkhouse floor.

Still, he couldn’t help but smile as he stepped back out into the cool evening air. A part of him had been worried that their newfound cooperation would be temporary, but for now at least, everything was back on track. And if they did ever lax in their payments again, he knew just who to send their way.

Brynjolf rounded the corner of the Bee and Barb and there, standing at the edge of the market as though summoned by his thoughts, was Ariene.

She’d traded her usual attire of Guild Armor and a quiver full of arrows for a short-sleeved blue dress and a belt lined with leather pouches. She’d even let some of her hair down from its ponytail, and she looked for all the world like any other townsperson running their errands for the day. She didn’t look quite like herself without her bow over her shoulder, but her orcish dagger still hung on her belt, the hilt of the weapon glinting in the last few rays of sunset.

She had a notebook in her hand and was talking to Marise, nodding and scribbling down something in response to what the dark elf said. She closed the book and slipped it into the pocket of her dress, then caught Brynjolf’s eye as she looked up. She smiled, bid Marise farewell and headed down the walkway towards him.

“Fancy meeting you here, lass,” Brynjolf said as she approached. “I must say, you make a very convincing citizen.”

Ariene looked down at herself, as though scrutinizing her own attire.

“Do I? I admit, I’m not the most familiar with Skyrim’s fashion. It’s not too much, is it?”

Brynjolf tried to look at her as though she were a stranger to him, another mark out of dozens to be carefully scrutinized.

The dress she wore wasn’t particularly ornate, but it was far from the plainest garment he’d seen the women of Riften wear. Delicate embroidery lined the dress’s hem, collar, and sleeve cuffs, telling Brynjolf that the wearer was someone who could afford more than simple necessities. However, the boots paired with the dress were well worn and caked in a layer of dirt and grime, she wore no jewelry, and her hairstyle was something she could accomplish easily on her own, without the help of a maid. All this told him that this was not a rich or noble woman in her day or travel ware, but a commoner wearing what was probably her best dress to market.

Of course, Brynjolf had a pretty good idea of how much money Ariene had made with the Guild over the past month or so, and knew that she could have afforded even nicer clothing if she wished to have it. The fact that she wasn’t wearing more expensive clothes or her Guild armor told him that she wanted to be discreet, to blend into the crowd and not draw attention to herself.

“It’s perfect,” Brynjolf said, nodding in approval. “Blue is your color, lass. Brings out your eyes.”

Ariene’s cheeks flushed slightly, and Brynjolf grinned.

“So,” he said. “What brings you out to the market at this hour? Most of the stalls are getting closed up for the evening.”

“Actually, I was looking for you,” she said. “I thought we might have a drink at the Bee and Barb.”

“A drink, eh?” Brynjolf repeated, raising an eyebrow playfully. “We could have a drink in the Flagon.”

“True,” Ariene acknowledged. She glanced around, then took a step closer. “But I thought it’d be nice to have a little…privacy.”

“Well then lass, by all means–”

“Stop! Thief!”

The marketplace exploded into pandemonium. Vendors shouted, shoppers screamed, and guards materialized seemingly out of nowhere, swarming towards the commotion like moths to a flame. Ariene had spun around to see where the shout had come from, and so she and Brynjolf both saw the exact moment that a figure wearing Guild armor burst into the center of the market, a guard hot on their heels.

“Stop him!” the guard shouted again.

The thief had a sword drawn, and Brynjolf’s stomach dropped when he realized that there was blood on the tip of the blade. Guards all around them drew their own weapons, and even as the thief raised his sword, Brynjolf knew it was over.

He glanced at Ariene, just in time to see her hand drift towards her dagger, but he caught her by the wrist. She looked up at him, frowning, but he just gave a small shake of his head. He didn’t need to speak. Looking back towards the fray, she knew as well as he did that there was nothing they could do.

As soon as it had begun, the chaos was over, and guards were directing people away from the scene. Brynjolf took a breath and forced himself forward, Ariene falling into step behind him without a word.

“Let me see him,” he said to the guard who tried to stop him as he stepped forward. He watched the man closely for a reaction to his presence, but there was no recognition in his posture.

“We have this under control sir, please move along,” the guard said.

“My father’s amulet was stolen last night,” Brynjolf insisted, the lie falling easily from his tongue. “At least let me see if it’s on the scoundrel.”

The guard hesitated, but then he nodded and stepped back, allowing Brynjolf to kneel beside the dead man. He did his best to ignore the blood already pooling beneath the body and made a show of checking the man’s pockets, while discreetly checking under his hood as well. He caught sight of a pointed nose and a scraggly beard, and he bit back the sigh that welled in his chest.

“Damn,” he said, getting to his feet. “The bastard doesn’t have it. This city is getting ridiculous, I tell you. Thieves in broad daylight now? Why can’t you lot do your jobs properly?”

“We have things handled here, sir,” the guard said, barely hiding his frustration. “You can move along now.”

“Come on dear,” Ariene said, pitching her voice a little higher than normal and tugging on Brynjolf’s arm. “We should go.”

“I have half a mind to complain to the jarl,” he called over his shoulder as he and Ariene walked away.

“Very good, sir,” the guard said tiredly, and Brynjolf would have chuckled had the circumstances not been so grim.

He tilted his head in the direction of the Temple of Mara, and Ariene nodded silently. They headed through the temple courtyard into the cemetery, ducking into the mausoleum when they were sure no one was there to see them. Brynjolf paused in front of the stone coffin, letting the haughtiness drop from his posture.

“Who was it?” Ariene asked quietly, and Brynjolf sighed.

“No one that you know, lass. His name was Girrolf.”

“Girrolf?” she repeated, and he nodded.

“Technically he’s not even one of us, not anymore. He was a new recruit a while back, before you joined up. He got caught on his first job and was sent to prison in Falkreath. Mercer didn’t think he was worth the risk to break out.”

“So what, he broke out on his own?” Ariene asked, but Brynjolf shook his head.

“I doubt it. The lad didn’t have that kind of skill. To be honest, he wasn’t as well suited to our line of work as he thought he was, but I’d hoped with some training, he’d improve.”

Mercer had not shared that opinion, and Brynjolf had endured weeks of not so subtle digs about his recruiting tactics once Girrolf had ended up in jail. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

“If I had to guess, the lad’s sentence was up and he was released. He must have thought that if he came back to us with a good haul, he’d be brought back into the fold.”

“But he got caught again,” Ariene mused. “And instead of running, he tried to fight his way out.”

“Which is a surefire way to just create more trouble,” Brynjolf said. He raised an eyebrow at her. “Something I’d have thought you’d know, lass.”

Ariene folded her arms, raising her own eyebrow right back.

“You didn’t need to hold me back, you know,” she said. “My brain would have caught up with my body before I did something drastic. It was just…” she trailed off, a thoughtful expression crossing her face.

“Just what?” Brynjolf prompted.

“Instinct.” She shook her head. “And look, I did know better than to get involved back there. In my father’s crew, if someone ever had any trouble with the guard, it was their problem and their problem alone. Why risk your entire organization over one fool who can’t even handle a minor scuffle with the law?”

“It sounds like your father and Mercer would get along,” Brynjolf observed, and Ariene chuckled ruefully.

“You’re probably right. Gods know they’ve both got a mean streak, not to mention an ego that could fill a room.”

She fell silent, but the thoughtful expression didn’t leave her face, and Brynjolf decided to press his luck.

“What’s bothering you, lass?” he asked softly.

“It’s just…my father’s rule didn’t always stop people from jumping to their friends’ defense if things got ugly. For some, personal loyalty ran deeper than any adherence to my father’s rules.”

Brynjolf nodded, eventually prompting her to continue with a quiet “And?”

“And…I was never one of those people,” Ariene said, her voice uncharacteristically soft. “Every man for himself; it was the one rule my father had that I didn’t have trouble following. Even after I got away from him, I just…lived my life like that. Looking out for myself and only myself, and running whenever the heat got to be too much.”

Brynjolf thought back to that day he’d confronted her in the training room, to the distant look in her eyes and the slump in her shoulders when she’d said:

“It seems no matter where I run to, I find something else to add to the long list of things I’m running from.”

“But back there?” Ariene said, pulling him back to the present. “I didn’t even know who it was, but I saw the Guild armor, and my instinct was to draw my blade.” She pulled her dagger out of its sheath, looking down at it curiously. “I don’t even have my bow with me, but my first thought was to fight, not run.”

“I wanted to fight too, you know,” Brynjolf said quietly. “Every part of me wanted to rush into the fray and pull that fool out. Despite Mercer’s cold streak, we try to have each other’s backs whenever we can.”

“I know,” Ariene said. “And I know why tonight, we couldn’t. It’s just…never mind.” She shook herself, and gave him what was probably meant to be a smile, though it came out more like a grimace. “Let’s go downstairs. Probably best to let everyone know what happened.”

Brynjolf nodded.

“It’s not a good night to be hitting the streets wearing Guild armor, that’s for sure.”

He activated the secret entrance, then stepped back to let Ariene descend the ladder first. He followed her down, and his boots barely touched the stone below before an angry and all too familiar voice rang out across the room.

“There you are!”

Brynjolf turned to see Mercer stalking towards him, a look of death in his eyes.

“Mercer,” he said. “Something happened–”

“We have a lead on the Goldenglow buyer.”

Brynjolf immediately straightened, pushing what happened in the market aside in his mind for later.

“Someone identified the symbol?” he asked.

“No,” Mercer growled, clearly put out by the failure. “But the contact I spoke with did identify something else. The name on the Goldenglow bill of sale, Gajul-Lei? It’s one of Gulum-Ei’s old aliases.”

Brynjolf’s eyes widened.

“Gulum-Ei’s mixed up in all this? That Argonian couldn't find his tail with both hands.”

“Who’s Gulum-Ei?” Ariene asked, and Brynjolf jumped. The lass had been so still that he hadn’t realized she was still in the entryway.

“Gulum-Ei is our inside man at the East Empire Company in Solitude,” Mercer explained. “I'm betting he acted as a go-between for the sale of Goldenglow Estate and that he can finger our buyer. I want you to get out there, shake him down and see what you come up with.”

Ariene frowned.

“Just so we’re clear, you’re asking me to do that?” she said.

“Who else would I be asking?” Mercer snapped. “You leave tonight. I’ve already arranged a wagon for you; it’s waiting at the stables.”

He turned and stalked away without another word, and Ariene glanced back at Brynjolf.

“He’s in a good mood,” she muttered.

“Just this once, I can’t blame him,” Brynjolf admitted. “We’ve been trying to get a lead on this for weeks.”

“Well, I guess I need to pack a bag,” she said with a sigh.

She flashed him a small smile, then she turned and headed off towards the Ragged Flagon. Brynjolf watched her go for a moment, then turned his attention back to the matter at hand.

“Mercer,” he called, stepping up to the Guildmaster’s desk.

Mercer looked up at him as he approached, and his frown deepened into an outright scowl.

“I won’t have my methods questioned, Brynjolf. You were the one who was so determined to convince me that the girl would be a good investment; now that she’s proven her worth I see no reason not to make use of her skills. Besides, she’s already tangled up in this mess. She may as well be the one to dig us out.”

Brynjolf blinked.

“Eh, I actually wanted to give you a report on something that happened in the market tonight,” he said, folding his arms. “I’ve got no problem with you giving the lass the assignment.”

Not strictly a lie; he was glad that Mercer seemed to finally consider Ariene a trustworthy operative. The insistence that she leave immediately when it could take anywhere between three days to a whole week just to get to Solitude was frustrating, and in his mind, a bit unnecessary. But Mercer was in one of his moods, so the last thing Brynjolf wanted to do was point that out to him and start another argument.

Mercer grunted, but didn’t say anything else, gesturing instead for Brynjolf to continue.

“There was an…incident,” he began, then he went on to describe Girrolf’s failed attempt at burglary and subsequent death.

“You’re supposed to have the guards under control, Brynjolf,” Mercer snapped when his story was finished, and Brynjolf grimaced.

“We don’t have the funds to buy off all of them,” he replied. “And besides, Girrolf fought back, in the middle of the street surrounded by witnesses. Even the guards we do have sway over would have to defend themselves in a situation like that.”

“I knew that lout wasn’t cut out for this,” Mercer muttered.

Brynjolf wisely chose to keep his mouth shut. Even if he thought Mercer was being overly harsh, he couldn’t deny that the lad had brought his fate down on himself.

“I’ll speak with Maven,” Mercer continued. “Maybe she can use her resources to redirect the Jarl’s attention. Let everyone know to keep off the streets in the meantime. Hopefully the heat will die down in a few days and we can get back to work.”

Brynjolf nodded and turned, but Mercer spoke up before he could make his exit.

“Remember what I told you about attachments, Brynjolf.”

Brynjolf frowned, looking back at him.

“Excuse me?”

Mercer just raised an eyebrow.

“Do you honestly think the rumors about the two of you somehow wouldn’t reach me?”

Brynjolf fought the urge to roll his eyes.

“Last I checked, we were running a Guild, not a gossip chain,” he said, and Mercer scoffed.

“Last I checked, the Guild’s first lieutenant needed to keep himself free from distractions.”

“Why is everyone suddenly so interested in how I spend my spare time?” Brynjolf demanded. “I don’t need your permission any more than I need Vekel’s, Guildmaster or no.”

“True, and as far as I’m concerned, you can bed whoever you damn well please when you’re off the job,” Mercer growled. “As long as you’re able to keep your priorities in line.”

“That’s what you’re worried about?” Brynjolf asked, crossing his arms. “The Guild will always come first, Mercer. I shouldn’t need to tell you that.”

The two glared at each other for a moment, but then, to Brynjolf’s surprise, Mercer sighed and nodded his head.

“You’re right, of course. And you’ve done nothing that gives me any real reason to think otherwise.”

“Damn right I haven’t,” Brynjolf said with a huff. “So why the sudden scrutiny?”

Mercer glanced around the room, then leaned forward and lowered his voice.

“It’s just that the last time a member of Guild leadership got involved with a subordinate? It didn’t exactly go well. That’s not something I’m eager to revisit anytime soon.”

Brynjolf winced. He had to admit, the comparison wasn’t entirely without merit. He could imagine how a strong willed, quick witted, and highly skilled thief like Ariene, who used a bow as her main weapon on top of it all, would give Mercer some bad memories.

He hadn’t known Karliah as well as he’d known Gallus; if he was honest, he’d felt a bit intimidated by the Dunmer when he was a young footpad. Still, it’d been plain even to him how much both Gallus and Mercer had admired and cared for her, which only made her betrayal sting all the more in the end.

“This won’t end like that,” he said quietly, but Mercer just raised an eyebrow.

“And you can guarantee that, can you? Listen, like I said. Bed whoever you want, I can’t stop you. Just keep what I’ve said in mind. Men like us, we aren’t meant for the softer things in life.”

“Whatever you say,” Brynjolf muttered, turning away.

He scanned the cistern, and he knew from the way every Guildmember in the room became very absorbed in what they were doing the moment he laid eyes on them that this conversation would be all over the Guild by morning.

Fine, let the footpads talk. It didn’t make any difference to him, as long as everyone still did their jobs.

He approached Rune, who in his estimation would be least likely to indulge in any gossipping.

“The streets are hot tonight, and probably will be for a few days,” he told the lad. “Everyone should lay low down here until things calm down a bit topside. Spread the word, and if anyone has work in other holds, they shouldn't wear guild armor until they leave the city.”

Rune nodded, and Brynjolf cast another glance around the cistern.

“Ariene went through towards the Flagon,” Rune offered in an overly casual voice. “Just in case you were wondering.”

Brynjolf looked back at him, raising an eyebrow, and Rune blinked a few times, holding his eyes wide open. They stood frozen for a moment, staring at each other, then Brynjolf finally laughed.

“The innocent look doesn’t suit you lad,” he said, shaking his head. “Play to your strengths and stick to picking pockets.”

“Whatever you say, boss,” Rune called after him, and Brynjolf chuckled as he walked away.

Sure, the other Guildmembers could be a pain in the ass sometimes, but in their own strange way, they were all a family. He knew Mercer had his reasons for keeping things close to the chest, but that didn’t mean the rest of them had to live like that.

True to Rune’s word, he found Ariene sitting at a table in the Ragged Flagon, a new quiver of arrows and a pack of supplies at her feet. She was still in civilian clothes, though she’d pulled a thick travel cloak over her dress, and her bow was once again strapped across her body.

She looked up as he approached, and nodded to the empty chair across from her. There was a drink and a small plate of bread and cheese sitting there for him, and Brynjolf smiled.

“Sorry it’s not the meal that I’d hoped we’d have tonight,” she said as Brynjolf sat down and took a grateful sip of the ale.

“Don’t worry about it, lass,” he said, waving off her concern. “Vekel’s cooking hasn’t killed me yet.”

“Don’t tempt me!” Vekel called from across the room, and Ariene snorted.

“Have everything you need, lass?” Brynjolf asked, gesturing to her supplies, and she nodded.

“I think so. I have to say, I’d planned on avoiding Solitude, what with it being the site of the Imperial headquarters in Skyrim and all. But I doubt anyone that far north will be concerned about a border runner, what with the war in full swing after Ulfric’s escape.”

Brynjolf frowned.

“If you really want, we can assign someone else to this–” he began, but Ariene shook her head.

“I’ll be fine. I know how to blend in in a big city like Solitude. What about Gulum-Ei, any tips on how to handle him?”

“He’s one of the most stubborn lizards I’ve ever met, I’ll tell you that much,” Brynjolf said with a snort. “You’re probably going to have to buy him off; coin is just about the only way to get his attention.”

He tapped his chin thoughtfully.

“Now that I think about it, I’ve not heard of him dealing with property before. Smuggling goods is his usual scheme. But then again, he hasn’t done business with us in the last year or so. I’ll bet you my last septim that whatever he’s up to now, he’s in way over his head.”

“Hmmm…maybe I can use that as leverage,” Ariene mused. “Thanks for the insight.”

She rolled her neck and shoulders, letting out a sigh before getting to her feet and grabbing her knapsack.

“I should probably get going, before Mercer comes in here and sees me ignoring his orders.”

“Stay sharp out there, lass,” Brynjolf said. He took a breath, then added: “and I’m sorry too. About tonight, I mean.”

“It’s not your fault,” Ariene said, shrugging. “Hopefully I won’t be gone too long, and we can pick things up where we left off.”

“Come back with good intel, and I’ll buy you one of those fancy concoctions Talen-Jei makes at the Bee and Barb,” Brynjolf promised.

“Deal,” she said, smiling.

She started to move past him, to leave through the cistern’s back door, but Brynjolf caught her by the hand before she could exit.

“Good luck, lass,” he said.

A phrase he’d heard Gallus use years ago flitted through his mind, and he found himself repeating it.

“Walk with the shadows.”

— — —

Prev: Ch.7 - A Dampened Pursuit || Next: Ch.9 - Every Cloud...

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