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Chapter Text

The cool rain was a welcome delight as Eonwe Jorgiis tipped back her head with a groan, letting the moisture wash away the layer of perspire and road dust from her face. Boot-high in muddy streams of water and aching terribly from the long, grueling journey – on foot, no less – to Riften was almost incomparable to anything else. The young Nord wiped rain out of her eyes and squinted through the heavy layer of mist that had begun to settle through the streaming sheets to see a stone watchtower looming mere yards ahead. Finally… have I reached this blasted place?

Blasted it was alright, especially when the gate guard planted himself in front of her and stuck out his hand. Eonwe stared at the worn leather glove hovering below her nose. “Am I not allowed in?” she raised one slender eyebrow.

“Until you pay the toll, you’re not going anywhere,” his thick Nordic accent drawled as he purposefully stretched out his vowels. Eonwe regarded the gate guard in disbelief.

“Since when do people have to pay to enter a city?”

“Since right now, girl. Pay up or haul ass,” he crossed his arms, intending to wait until Eonwe paid him. She wasn’t about to do that, especially if she wanted to buy herself a room and sleep off the nagging headache the guard was beginning to invoke. Eonwe rolled her eyes and, by doing so, glimpsed the guard on the opposite side of the gate watching them intently. Too intently.

“How much?” Eonwe asked carefully.

“Fifty gold.”

“Fifty?” she exclaimed.

“Don’t like it? Too bad,” the guard shrugged. “You see that stretch of road behind you? I suggest that you start following it before you cause too big a commotion.”

Eonwe's already-present frown deepened and she crossed her arms, mimicking the guard’s pose. He shifted back under the overhang and looked out beyond Eonwe’s head – which was easy, considering that she was likely the shortest Nord to have walked Skyrim’s hills – and pretended to not notice her. She’d already figured it out though: This was a scam, through and through, and the guard had given it all away. Eonwe knew what to do, provided that the other guard was still paying attention.

“I pay you, you let me in, deal?” Eonwe asked. The guard looked back down at her silently. “How’s twenty-five gold sound? Enough to line your pockets with, yeah?”

“It’s fifty, and I’m not going to change the toll,” he replied stubbornly, though his voice wavered slightly.

It was enough of a waver for it to matter.

“Perhaps I should make that commotion and bring your superior officers out here?” Eonwe threatened. “I’m sure you’ll have a fine time trying to explain why you were skimming coin off of travellers, and furthermore,” she raised her voice. “Why you’re attempting to give me a shakedown! Now will you let me in or do I have to start shouting?”

Little was the guard aware that he was standing across from the Dragonborn herself, and she wasn’t meaning traditional shouting whatsoever. Eonwe would have easily given up fifty coin to have seen his reaction, but a dank little prison cell didn’t sound as appealing as a warm, dry bed.

If anything, Eonwe had managed to ruffle the guard’s feathers, and the other guard was now looking at him with her hands on her hips. Almost in a guilty manner, the guard looked back and forth and said in a hushed voice, “Alright, keep your voice down! Do you want everybody to hear you?” Yes. “I’ll let you in. Just… let me unlock the gate.”

“Thank you,” Eonwe muttered, waiting as he did so. He was pretty quick about it too. Why, he even held the gate open for Eonwe. Before she entered however, Eonwe turned to the other guard and pressed a septim into her palm. “For your trouble,” she said sweetly. She then entered the city of Riften for the first time with a grim outlook on what she was going to find within.

Chapter Text

“Brynjolf. Look for Brynjolf,” Eonwe muttered to herself, a mantra, over and over under her breath. Delphine had provided very little information on him; gods, she hadn’t even offered to give Eonwe a description of the man. Nord, Redguard, Breton… he could have been anything. She hoped that she would find him quickly and get on with her business in the city, although Eonwe was convinced that she was going to have a sweet-arse time looking for not just this fellow, but for Esbern as well.

The rain was unrelenting and Eonwe was cold. She sniffled, already feeling the effects of being stuck out in the poor weather, and she sought out the inn. There was a large building immediately to her right as she followed the stony path, bypassing a muscular blonde Nord warrior and a smaller, finely-dressed man speaking in hushed tones. Eonwe avoided the steel-wearing mercenary and ducked through the nearest door. The sound of scraping silverware and low conversations stopped abruptly as about a dozen heads turned to regard Eonwe.

Through their eyes, she probably looked like a scrawny, lost dog in search of shelter. Scaled armour was the wears of a brigand, and a vast collection of elven weaponry on a Nord only registered as trouble. Eonwe felt a flush of alarm at the prospect of having walked into somewhere she was not at all invited.

A tall blonde woman rose from the dinner table to greet her. “And you are?” she asked. A cold-faced brunette woman in leathers and an assortment of races poked their heads around the corner curiously.

“Uh, sorry,” Eonwe cleared her throat and tried to act nonchalant. “Is this the inn?”

“No, this is my bunkhouse. And it’s not for the likes of you,” the woman looked Eonwe up and down with a wrinkled nose. “The Bee and Barb is what you’re looking for. It’s across the bridge. Keerava runs it.”

Eonwe nodded and backed out of the bunkhouse, glimpsing a sign hung over the door too late. It read “Haelga’s Bunkhouse”. The blonde woman shut the door in Eonwe’s face and she heard laughter within. She ground her teeth and turned, seeking out the Bee and Barb.

The inn was a decent size, smaller and less welcoming than most of the inns Eonwe had encountered. When she opened the door to the establishment, she was greeted by silence. No cheerful songs or ballads were played in these parts, she assumed. Drained of all colour, Eonwe thought as she strode past wary eyes to the counter.

The milk-skinned Argonian was busy fiddling with something clinking under the counter and she hissed in surprise when she noticed Eonwe waiting. “You surprised me!” she accused.

“I hope I’ll be welcome here,” Eonwe told whom she assumed was Keerava. The Argonian flicked out her forked tongue and tilted her head. “You’ve met Haelga, yes?”

“Oh boy, have I ever,” Eonwe sighed, pulling herself up onto a stool. Her lower back pained for a moment and she shifted, easing the flaring muscles.

“What would you like, provided you’ve the coin?” Keerava asked.

“A room. And something warm to drink, please,” Eonwe added, remembering long-forgotten manners. Ever since she’d started this Dragonborn business, “Please” and “Thank you” had seemed to have fallen out of her vocabulary. Keerava accepted the small handful of coins – she even took a brief moment to count them, then hunted down a clean mug. She poured something that smelled earthy into a pan and set it over the little cooking fire. “It’ll be just a minute. It’s been slow today.” Eonwe guessed that was as much of an apology as she was going to get, but she waved her hand dismissively. She could wait.

Eonwe took the opportunity to look around the inn, swiveling around on her seat to do so. It was a small, sparsely furnished place, but it was cozy. Lanterns and candleholders reflected off the wooden walls and floors, giving the interiors a glow that reminded her of honey. She recalled several guards and people in her travels mentioning a popular meadery in Riften that used honey in its mead. She’d have ordered one, but Eonwe only had enough money to buy a carriage out of the city to take her back to Whiterun with the old Blade. Speaking of that…

“Excuse me,” Eonwe turned to where Keerava was pouring her drink into the mug. The Argonian glanced up with a hum. “If I wanted to find someone, would you be the right person to ask?”

“I should think I know everybody in Riften by now,” Keerava said. She slid the drink across the counter to Eonwe and rested her scaly forearms on the wooden surface. “Who are we talking about?”

“Uh, a man named Brynjolf?”

The Argonian curled her lip immediately and shook her head. Disheartened, Eonwe thought Keerava didn’t know him until she murmured, “That bastard’s right over there, leaning on the wall. See him?”

Eonwe followed Keerava’s subtly pointed finger. Sure enough, a man was leaning against the wall, seemingly oblivious to everything around him. He was as tall a Nord Eonwe had seen and he had thick, dark auburn hair hanging into his eyes as he fiddled with a small object in one hand. He wore something similar to the man speaking with the blonde warrior woman at the gate, but it didn’t suit him. A man with hands as big as those and with shoulders as broad as that… that man was a warrior, yet steel or iron wouldn’t suit him at all.

If anything, Brynjolf looked dangerous, and Eonwe suddenly doubted that Delphine had the right person in mind. His presence was intimidating, and yet here he was all the way on the other side of the inn. Eonwe looked away and met Keerava’s eyes. “Is there another Brynjolf around here?”

“Thank the gods, no,” Keerava growled. “If I had to put up with another, I’d likely have left this city a long time ago. That Nord is nothing but trouble. I’d advise you to stay away from him.”

I would if my arse wasn’t on the line, she wanted to say, but she instead asked, “What kind of trouble are we talking about?”

“He’s certainly not worth my time, gossiping about him,” Keerava blew out sharply through her nostrils. “As I said, stay away from that man. He’ll do you no good, girl.”

“Listen,” Eonwe lunged across the counter, almost knocking over her drink as she did so, and wrapped her fingers around Keerava’s wrist. The Argonian fixed her with a wary glare. “I’m not here to mingle with strangers. I’m here for information. I need to find someone, and this Brynjolf is the only lead I’ve been given. Can you help me?”

The Argonian bared her reptilian teeth and tugged her wrist free, putting a bit of distance between herself and Eonwe. “I think I’ve given you more than you need to know,” she suggested bitterly.

Eonwe’s patience broke. “Do you know of a man who could be hiding in the city?” she blurted. Keerava’s stiffened and Eonwe took that as a yes. She lowered her voice and said, as gently and pleadingly as she could, “Tell me where he is. I need to find him before someone else does. His life is in great peril.”

Keerava’s inner battle was visible but in the end, much to Eonwe’s dismay, the Argonian shook her head and crossed her arms. “The door across the hall is yours. I’ll see you out in the morning,” she said firmly. Eonwe sighed and closed her eyes, cursing herself for slipping, and she rose stiffly. She left her drink on the counter, forgotten.

Chapter Text

It was very dark in her room when Eonwe woke to hear a rapping on the door. She flailed about, knocking over the candleholder and an empty bottle from the last room’s guest, and she stumbled to the door. She cracked it open cautiously, blinked rapidly as light shone into her eyes. It was Keerava.

“Morning already?” Eonwe mumbled, covering her yawn. Keerava motioned a request to come in, and Eonwe held the door open for her. The Argonian set the lantern down on the chest and retrieved the candleholder, lighting the wicks. As Eonwe’s tired eyes adjusted to being awake, she noticed that the Argonian’s movements were slightly erratic.

“What’s going on?” Eonwe asked her. Keerava motioned for her to sit on the bed and she did. She pulled the edges of her nightshirt down around her hips, her legs bare expanses of skin in the dim glow of the candles.

“It is not yet morning, but I needed to speak with you. I must be quick,” Keerava said. “Riften is a dangerous place, I’m sure you know-”

“Get to the point then,” Eonwe said impatiently. “What happened?”

“That man you asked about. Brynjolf,” Keerava lowered her voice to hardly a whisper. “He approached me after you’d left. He wanted to know why you were in the city. I told him you were visiting a friend.”

“Why should he care if I’m here or not? Delp… I mean, my contact couldn’t have contacted him in time. I don’t think she knows him anyway,” Eonwe said. “What else did he say?”

“Nothing,” Keerava replied. “He simply came up to me and asked, “What did that lass need?” He seemed awfully suspicious of your presence, though. He kept looking towards the stairwell every once and a while, as though expecting you to come down.”

“Do you think he overheard us talking?” Eonwe paled in worry. Keerava shook her head. “Then what? Keerava,” Eonwe placed a hand on Keerava’s knee, forcing the Argonian to look at her. “Am I safe here?”

Keerava looked pained to have to answer, but she didn’t need to. Eonwe stood and started to haul on her cuirass, hastily doing up the buckles. Keerava sat for another moment, contemplating the situation, then stood to help. With double the fingers, Eonwe was strapped in quickly and only needed to tighten her bracers. Unease made her fingers slip on the metal buckles.

“Listen,” Keerava said. “I know of the man you’re looking for. He’s down in the Ratways, but I have no idea where. There are a lot of psychos holed in down there.”

“Sounds like he doesn’t want to be found,” Eonwe commented. “How do I get to the Ratways?”

“There’s a door on the lower levels. Gated, and usually locked. If you can get past that, then all you’ll have to do is navigate the passageways and cut through the Ragged Flagon.”

“What’s that? A tavern?” Eonwe buckled the last strap and started sheathing her weapons. Sword, war axe, a pair of daggers, and the bow and quiver went in all of their respective places. Eonwe felt a bubble of comfort at being armed again.

“Yes. A nasty little place, only for the braggarts and bullies of this city. It’s dangerous to go in there unprepared,” Keerava surveyed Eonwe’s outfit. “But I don’t think you’ll have too much trouble in a fight.”

“A few bandits never bothered me,” Eonwe assured. “Is Brynjolf still out there?”

“As far as I know. He usually heads out to the stalls at eight.”

“Stalls? He’s a merchant?” Eonwe raised an eyebrow.

“Sells some ridiculous horse crap every once and awhile,” Keerava chuckled. “Either way, it’s best to avoid him if you don’t want to get into trouble.”

“Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind.” Eonwe looked at the windows. “Is there a way out of here so he doesn’t see me?”

“My plan was to warn you, but…” Keerava hesitated. “I could try to distract him at the stairs. You can make a run for the door.”

“Sounds as good as any last minute plan,” Eonwe smiled dryly. “Let’s go.”

If someone’s posture couldn’t have been any stiffer, then it was Keerava’s. The Argonian moved with a forced normalcy across the floor, leading Eonwe to the stairwell. Eonwe was aware of every creak of the floorboards. There was no point in walking quietly. Keerava went down the stairs at a more normal pace, Eonwe nearly tripping over her flicking tail, and she locked her eyes on the door. No sense in searching for Brynjolf; she needed to get out and move as fast as she could.

The bottom of the stairs couldn’t come fast enough, but when they did, Eonwe and Keerava both received a shock. Brynjolf wheeled around the corner, apparently waiting for them, and Keerava’s scales rattled in fright. Eonwe’s eyes widened as she found a pair of narrowed green ones glaring back at her.

Eonwe acted quickly. She pushed by Keerava, ducked towards the door, and the moment it was open, she was running full tilt for the bridge. She didn’t know if he followed. Eonwe dodged the woman in gray leathers arguing with a Redguard, stabbed her hand with a few dozen splinters as she swung around a post, and clattered down a set of weathered stairs for the lower levels.

Eonwe’s heart was hammering in her ears by the time she reached the gated door Keerava had mentioned. The canal lapped idly at the bottom of the boards, surely rotted on the underside, and the air smelled dark and sour. She turned to contemplate the lock, breathing deeply to slow her heart, and came face to face with Brynjolf.

Chapter Text

The red-haired Nord towered over Eonwe, his face twisted into a scowl. Eonwe backed away but didn’t get far. Her heel collided with a tipped-over barrel and she sat down, hard. Brynjolf planted his hands on his hips and stared down at her as she swallowed nervously. She was right about him being intimidating, but that was on the other side of a room. Up close… he was terrifying.

“An outsider like you would know that you can’t get far from someone in their own city,” he rumbled. “Now are you going to tell me why you took off like that, lass? Got something to hide?”

“Hide?”                                       

“Aye. You took off like a shot the moment you saw me. I knew you were up there preparing an escape plan with old Keerava.”

Eonwe would have grinned if this was a simple game of hide and seek between two children, but it wasn’t. This was a game of hide and seek alright, but it was between two fully-grown, very hostile Nords. And the fact that they were both armed and willing to use their weapons should either feel threatened only made the game even more deadly.

“Are you going to tell me what you’re doing here in Riften?” Brynjolf asked.

“What’s it matter to you?” Eonwe challenged. She was in no position to do so, figuratively and literally, but she went ahead anyways. Brynjolf’s scowl softened and he settled for a cold smirk. It suited him, but made him no less imposing.

“It matters quite a bit,” he took up her challenge. “But until you start talking, you’re going nowhere.”

Eonwe considered this. She could have easily made a dive for the canal, but she didn’t know what could be lurking in the water. Not to mention she wasn’t the greatest swimmer. She could see the stairs but getting to them was a long shot. Eonwe could have screamed for help, but judging Riften on what everyone said about it, she doubted anyone would come running and help her. Not only was she on her own, but she was caught in a trap and she was afraid that she was going to make the wrong choice.

“Well?” Brynjolf asked, impatient. “I haven’t been standing here enjoying the sound of my own voice, lass.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were,” Eonwe retorted sarcastically. She met the Nord’s flaming stare and saw a flicker of amusement tugging the corner of his mouth. “Why are you following me?” she asked.

“I’m not answering any questions until you explain yourself,” Brynjolf stated crossly.

“Well, what do you want me to say?” Eonwe snapped. “Here I am, visiting Riften for the first time, and I’m literally being chased out of the walls before I’ve had a moment’s rest! It’s certainly none of your business why I’m here, but it’s definitely my business to know why you’ve been stalking me.”

“Fine,” he growled, leaning down so he was nose to nose with Eonwe. She shrank back as he drew close enough for her to see the subtle line of raised skin on his cheek beneath coarse ginger stubble. A knife wound, she guessed. Poorly executed too, considering the severity of the gash. Her eyes flicked from scar to eyes as he began to speak. “You’re going to tell me what you’re doing in Riften, and I might let you live. Is that clear enough for you?” his accent thickened enormously when he was angry, Eonwe noted.

Afraid but determined to not let it show, Eonwe straightened her shoulders and met his thunderous expression head on. “I am looking for someone who can point me in the right direction to… a friend.”

“Is this that friend Keerava mentioned?”

“Yes.” It might have been a half-arsed attempt to lie on the Argonian’s end, but it played awfully well into Eonwe’s actual reasons for being there. Could she consider Esbern a friend? Right now she could, though she never wanted to think of Delphine as a friend. The Breton was paranoid, a control freak, and hadn’t let Eonwe make one choice since her perilous journey through Ustengrav for something that wasn’t even there.

“And who were you looking for, to point you to that friend?” Brynjolf asked softly. Eonwe couldn’t help but smile at the irony of it all. She held his gaze, gauging his reaction, as she murmured, “Someone named Brynjolf.”

He must have been a master of keeping himself together, but the glow of humour was bright in his eyes. Eonwe wasn’t sure if he believed her or not, but she had managed to surprise him. Brynjolf regarded her curiously; he was trying to figure out if she was just playing him or not.

“Well, it seems that fate has a sense of humour,” he commented after a moment, straightening and leaning against the opposite wall. He crossed his arms. “Who’s this friend of yours?”

“He lives in the Ratway.”

“Does he now? Nothing but criminals down there, maybe a few loons,” he gave her an easy grin. “Who sent you to find me?”

“A contact,” Eonwe said.

“A contact, hmm? I see,” he nodded. “Wouldn’t happen to be the Thalmor, would it?”

“Huh?” It was Eonwe’s turn to be surprised. “The Thalmor?”

“Aye. Are you working for them?” Brynjolf asked seriously. “I wouldn’t have guessed they’d send a Nord of all races to do their bidding, but if it works for them, then who am I to argue with their methods?”

Eonwe shook her head, utterly confused. Brynjolf must be mistaken, although all this seemed to tie together almost perfectly. Did he really think she was a spy working for those damned elves? What had given him reason to think that?

“I’m not working for the Thalmor,” Eonwe tried this approach. “If you really want to know why I’m here, then why don’t you look for someone by the name Rarnis? He could tell you everything that happened at the-”

“Embassy,” Brynjolf finished for her. He reached into his pocket and drew out a small object. It was the object he’d been playing with at the inn. Eonwe gaped in shock. My mother’s emerald!

“How…? Where…? Give that to me!” Eonwe jumped up and lunged for it but he raised his arm high above his head.

“I am well associated with Etienne Rarnis,” Brynjolf said. “He returned to Riften with a grand story about being trapped in the Thalmor Embassy and his “heroine” that helped him escape. Considering how far we’ve come with this conversation, I haven’t any doubts that that heroine… was you.”

“He’s alive, then,” Eonwe was relieved. Why did Brynjolf have her emerald, then?

“Aye, very much so. And I intend to keep him that way.” His words were a threat. “Did the embassy send you to finish him off?”

“Finish him off…” Eonwe shook her head in disbelief. “No. No! I’m not here for Etienne. I’m not with the Thalmor. I’m just looking for some old man who’s supposed to be hiding out here from the Thalmor.”

“An old man?” Brynjolf echoed. “Well, lass. If you’re expecting free information, then you’re dead wrong. We aren’t exactly friends, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” Eonwe watched him return the emerald to his pocket. It made her skin itch. That’s mine, her mind echoed over and over. It was like a hunger, knowing her most precious possession was in the hands of a stranger. “Give it back,” she heard herself plead.

“Sorry, lass. I can’t do that,” Brynjolf sneered. “Unless you’re willing to make a deal, then you can say goodbye to-”

“That was my mother’s!” Eonwe shouted, all of her anger unhinging. She could feel her Thu’um scratching the back of her throat like a cough. “Give it to me or I swear I’ll cut you down where you stand.” Brynjolf’s eyes followed her arm to where it rested on the hilt of her elven sword, then he looked back up at her. Eonwe was quivering with unbidden rage. She unsheathed her sword halfway, prepared to fight for the emerald.

“Alright, it’s yours,” Brynjolf muttered, reaching into his pocket. Eonwe watched with a feverish intensity and didn’t see the playful smirk until too late. Her heart sank.

“But if you want it, you’re going to have to do something for me.”

Chapter Text

“But that’s against the law!” Eonwe hissed as Brynjolf led her, hand clutching her elbow securely, back up to Riften’s main square. Several merchants were standing behind their stalls, holding up valuable wares worth more than what coin remained in Eonwe’s purse.

“Aye, it is. But so is attacking an innocent, unarmed citizen,” Brynjolf raised an eyebrow, signalling Eonwe to not try anything stupid. Eonwe ground her teeth and avoided looking at the red-haired scoundrel. What a bloody bastard. More than anything, she would have loved to have bloodied his nose.

Brynjolf guided her through the market to his unoccupied stall at the edge. A beggar sat on the ground nearby, clutching a chipped bowl in her hands. A few coins sat in the bottom, hardly enough to buy a bite to eat. Eonwe would have given her a coin or two if Brynjolf wasn’t steering her about like a goat herder.

The plan was foolish, idiotic. Stealing a ring was one crime, but planting it elsewhere was even worse. Eonwe wasn’t the kind of person to set up someone for a false crime, no matter how much she despised them. But the targets Brynjolf had chosen were complete strangers to her, but simply looking at them suggested that they weren’t doing well with their sales. They were probably poor and hardly scraping by enough as it was.

“I’m not doing this!” Eonwe growled to Brynjolf, who was arranging the tall red vials he was selling. “It’s not right.”

“Listen, lass,” Brynjolf sounded bored. “You’ve caused me enough trouble today as it is. Now you’re simply making up for it.”

“You’re withholding my property!”

“That you freely gave away to a stranger you know nothing about!’ Brynjolf flashed back irritably. “Tell me, what do you know about Etienne? What’s his profession? Where did he grow up? By the gods, what’s his favourite bard song? You don’t know anything about the lad, and you gave him your mother’s emerald anyways?”

“I saved his life. If you’re such a close friend to him, why didn’t you try to?” Eonwe cried, gathering a few pairs of eyes. Brynjolf went rigid. Had she struck a soft spot? She hoped so.

“I looked for him,” he lowered his voice, aware of their audience. “I spoke with all of my contacts; I visited the cities. He was nowhere to be found.”

“You should be thanking me, not… this,” Eonwe gestured. “I watched what the Thalmor did to him. Rulindil had a guard beat him until his wounds reopened. He dragged answers out of him until he was sobbing from the pain. I got him out of that prison and gave him the emerald because I was scared. I was scared he wouldn’t live.” Eonwe let out a long sigh. “Etienne was supposed to give it back to me when we met again. And now, because you have it, I’m not even sure if you’re telling the truth about him being alive or not!”

Whether it was respect or simple acknowledgement that passed through Brynjolf’s eyes, Eonwe didn’t know and didn’t really care. She held out her hand and nodded sharply, refusing to simmer down. “Give it up or I’ll have the guards come running.”

“You do this errand for me and we’ll forget all of this ever happened,” he stubbornly countered. Eonwe dropped her hand and rolled her eyes, exclaiming, “By the gods. Come on.”

Brynjolf chuckled. “You might find I’m not so easy to bribe.”

Eonwe felt herself slipping. She couldn’t win this fight. Either she turn it into a clash of weaponry or walk away… or just do his stupid “errand” as he called it. Eonwe wanted to do neither. An increasing part of her didn’t even care if the Thalmor got to Esbern first. That was mainly because the elves wouldn’t have any hope standing up against a bitchy, Thu’um-wielding Nord at the end of her rope.

Besides, it wasn’t like Eonwe hadn’t broken the law before. She wasn’t exactly clean, although her crimes centered around murder and casual robberies as opposed to setting up a helpless victim. Brynjolf must have seen the fight die in her eyes because he handed her something wrapped in a bit of linen. Eonwe took it and found a bundle of lockpicks nestled within the cloth.

“What you need to do is-”he began but Eonwe interrupted him.

“I’m not your little pawn,” Eonwe objected fiercely.

“Just cut the attitude, lass. Both of us are stuck in this mess and that’s on your head. Neither of us are going to bed tonight until you quit your sulking and do this job,” he snapped. Eonwe’s eyes widened, insulted. The intimidating force she had first seen was back, glowering down at her. Eonwe desperately wished that her mother hadn’t had Bosmer blood; for that reason, she hardly topped five and four. Brynjolf must have been a full six feet or more, and he knew how to use it to his advantage.

“I’m not “bedding” with you,” Eonwe muttered. Brynjolf’s eyes twinkled unexpectedly. “I never said we would. You’re too much like someone else I know.”

“Oh really?” Eonwe smirked. “Then you should know, if I’m so much like them, what my answer to all this is going to be.”

“Unfortunately, lass,” he gave her a, surprisingly endearing, crooked little smile. Eonwe betted not a lot of people saw it often, but it really changed his features to something almost bearable. “She’s got your stubborn streak but she knows when to accept a job.”

Dammit.

“Fine.”

Brynjolf simply basked in his triumph. “Glad to see you came to your senses. Do this right, and I’ll throw in some extra coin for your trouble.”

“I don’t care,” Eonwe spat. “Let’s just get this done and over with, okay?”

Brynjolf bowed his head in mock formality and turned to face the crowd. Snatching up one of his red vials, he lifted his voice, “Everyone, everyone! Gather ‘round. I have something amazing to show you that demands your attention.”

Eonwe smirked as citizens and visitors plodded over to Brynjolf’s stall like cattle, some grumbling under their breath while others looked on, eyes shining with interest. Moving backwards, she bumped into a Bosmer woman with an expensive taste in clothing. The Bosmer glared down her nose at Eonwe and brushed by with a snort. “No pushing, no shoving!” Brynjolf called.

Eonwe drifted to the back of the crowd, her pulse quickening anxiously. What if she screwed up? Or worse, what if she was thrown in jail? Would she be able to convince the guards that it was Brynjolf’s little plot? Only now, as Eonwe was separating from the masses and walking around the back of the drywell, did it occur to her that the task at hand was far less important than rescuing Esbern. Curse you, you arrogant bastard, she thought as she looked to where Brynjolf was attempting to enchant some of the crowd into buying one of his “Falmer Blood Elixirs”. Eonwe found herself hoping that the contents of the vial were poison, and that Brynjolf would demonstrate just exactly what the potion would do.

Not before long, she was crouching behind Madesi’s stall with one of the lockpicks in her fingers. While not a skilled thief, she did encounter several chests and sealed doors in her travels, and she was completely familiar with the excruciating care it took to crack open a container. She’d pushed aside the sliding door, had opened the strongbox, and was pocketing Madesi’s silver ring from the pool of shimmering jewels and gorgeous jewelry when someone cleared her throat behind her. The hair raised on the back of Eonwe’s neck as she turned to see who it was.

Two guards, with a Khajiit standing a little ways behind them, were looking down at her with their hands on their hips. “Well,” the female guard proclaimed. “It looks like we have ourselves a little thief headed off to jail!”

“Gods be damned,” Eonwe muttered under her breath as they reached down and seized her.

Chapter Text

“I’m telling you. It wasn’t my idea! It was Brynjolf’s!” Eonwe cried plaintively as the guard herded her to a cell. He took her weapons, handing them to a nearby guard one by one, and shut the gate in her face. Eonwe clutched at the bars, fixing him with a desperate look.

“We don’t tolerate thieves in this city,” he said, turning away.

Eonwe slammed and rattled the bars, yelling after him, “But you have a thief right out there in the bloody market!” The guard spared her no expense; he disappeared around the corner, leaving Eonwe groaning in frustration and cursing Brynjolf’s name.

“Did I hear you say “Brynjolf”?” a voice echoed from down below. Eonwe raised her head sullenly and looked down as best as she could. She glimpsed the top of a Nord’s head in one of the lower cells, but just hardly.

“Yeah, why?” she replied meekly.

“That bastard got me locked up in here for killin’ my marks,” he replied. “Name’s Molgrom Twice-Killed.”

“So you didn’t get caught trying to plant a ring?” Eonwe asked dully. Molgrom laughed, and it was an obnoxious laugh too.

“You’re kiddin’ me. That’s child’s play!” he barked. “No, Brynjolf told us that we needed money. So I get him money. So what if I spilled a little blood? It washes off the septims well enough.” Eonwe stepped away from the bars, disgusted. “Brynjolf got all pissed off about it and had me thrown in here. Last thing he told me was that he “doesn’t put up with murderers”. I’d love for a chance to make a stab at him. Make it a little err… chance arrangement for when I get out of here, eh?”

By now, Eonwe had stopped listening all together. She sank down onto the provided bed and rested her face in her hands. She fumbled in her pocket after a moment and looked at the silver ring. “How can such a little thing cause so much trouble?” she whispered to herself. She considered throwing it, but instead returned it to her pocket and decided that she would whip it at Brynjolf’s ugly face the next time she crossed paths with him.

“He can have his stupid ring once I’m out of here. Do the job himself.”

The day slowly slid by and Eonwe spent it pacing or lying on the bed. She thought about the whole blasted affair over and over until she gave herself a nasty headache. Now, as night was creeping over Riften, she lay with her head pressed between the pillow trying to soothe the pound, pound, pound in her head. She hated headaches.

It didn’t help that guards kept passing by her cell to annoy her with questions or incriminating comments. She merely gave them all a fowl glare or stuck out her tongue, gleefully watching them saunter off again. Then, she would hide under her pillow again and sulk.

The ring weighed heavily in her pocket the entire time. She was surprised that the guards hadn’t taken her armour or checked for concealed weapons – or stolen items. Either they were too lazy to bother or they just didn’t care. Eonwe chose to go with the latter – it made her feel a bit better to mentally berate them as much as she could.

It made the waiting worthwhile.

…

Morning crawled around at the speed of a slug on a stick, and Eonwe was rudely jarred awake by an incredibly loud bang. She jerked to one side of the bed and attempted to defend herself, at first thinking that the horrendous noise had come from above her. It turned out that it was the jail door.

Groaning, Eonwe used the wall to lift herself upright. The beds in this place were shite, no kidding, and she couldn’t remember the last night she got a decent night’s sleep. She smirked sourly as she staggered to the water basin shoved into the corner and splashed smelly water onto her face, hoping that the last cell’s inhabitant hadn’t chosen to piss in it or something. Just to be safe, she didn’t drink any.

Eonwe could hear voices. Loud voices. She peered outside the bars of her cell, interested in what was going on. It sounded a little like the guard that had thrown her into the cell, and there was a woman. The woman sounded as crabby as Eonwe felt, but she didn’t blame whoever she was. To get up this early in the morning was a shared sympathy.

Well, that is until Eonwe actually saw the source of the crabby-voiced woman. She was tall, taller than Eonwe by at least a head, but whether she was a Nord or an Imperial, Eonwe had no idea. The woman was fair in all aspects, and her hair hung in long strands around her face. It was the palest shade of blonde she’d ever seen, shining almost like platinum in the dim light of the jail.

When she spoke though, it was obvious that she was an Imperial. Her slightly nasally, sharp-tongued twang was Cyrodillic for sure. “Is this her?” she demanded, eyeing Eonwe coldly. Eonwe avoided meeting such an icy gaze; she instead studied the Imperial’s armour. Black leather, layered, and held together with multiple buckles and straps. At least a dozen pockets were spread out across chest and along the back of her belt. Good for storing small items, and lots of them.

“Aye, that’s her. Got caught thieving in the market yesterday,” the guard answered. “Roslyn brought her in. Said a Khajiit spotted her behind Madesi’s stall, rifling through his strong box.”

“A Khajiit?” the Imperial turned to the guard. “Have you got fluff for brains, or is your eyesight just that impaired behind that helmet? Those cats aren’t allowed in the city, as far as I was aware.”

“Heh, well. You’ll have to take that up with the commander,” the guard chuckled nervously. Eonwe blinked. Did this woman really have that much power over a guard? He jangled the keys. “You taking her?”

“Yep.” Eonwe dared to meet the Imperial woman’s eye, but she wasn’t paying attention to her anymore. Instead, she was peering over the railing down below at where Molgrom was locked up. “Good to see you, Molgrom,” she crooned. “Enjoying your prison sentence?”

“If I didn’t love you as much as I did, Vex, I’d strangle you,” Molgrom replied with a bitter laugh. The sound of it sent shivers down Eonwe’s spine. The Imperial – supposedly called Vex – blew him a kiss and turned around as Eonwe cautiously stepped out of the stall.

Ice queen, Eonwe thought as Vex peered down her slender nose at her, like she were a disgusting yet interesting beetle. Eonwe straightened her shoulders and locked gazes with her. “Who sent you?”

“We’ll talk when we get outside,” she muttered, then turned to the guard. “I’ll take it from here. Thanks.” She dropped a coin purse that was bursting at its seams into the guard’s hand and wrapped her strong fingers around Eonwe’s upper arm, towing her to the entrance of the jail. Vex stopped to collect Eonwe’s weapons, holding them up wordlessly to make sure they were actually hers. Then, right in front of her very eyes, Eonwe watched Vex lift a couple of coin purses and tuck them into the pockets on her chest.

“What do you think-” Eonwe was cut off as Vex shoved her forward and snapped, “Move it, footpad!”

Eonwe staggered up the steps with intended vigor, intending to put distance between herself and the Imperial. She couldn’t believe it. Vex was a bloody thief! She just took the purses…

Eonwe considered opening her mouth but thought better of it. Vex didn’t look like the kind of person she could win an argument with, and Eonwe probably owed her the coin anyways, since she’d just paid her bail for no apparent reason. At least it wasn’t coming out of Eonwe’s pocket.

When Eonwe stepped outside, she was blindsided by the bright sunlight. She hurried forward, boots tap-tapping down the steps, attempting to split ways with Vex. She hadn’t thanked her, but something warned her not to. Eonwe simply rounded the corner, eyes fixed on what she thought was a path headed for a gate, when a vice-like grip snagged her ponytail.

“Arrgh!” Eonwe cried, wheeling around to face her pursuer. “What in Oblivion was that for?”

“Just where do you think you’re going?” Vex demanded, letting go of Eonwe’s hair and crossing her arms. “I didn’t come all the way out here and go into a goddamned jail to get you for no good reason, missy.”

“Well I’m not hanging out with you thieves anymore,” Eonwe hissed between her teeth. Her scalp was tingling painfully and only fueled her anger. “I’ll thank you if that’s what you want, but you can forget anything else.”

Vex smirked. “For what I do, a simple “Thank you” doesn’t fill my pockets. That was a whole job’s savings I wasted on you, and I probably only got half back from those two purses. You owe me.”

“Owe you?” Eonwe rebuffed. “Owe you? Do I look like a… a machine full of coins?”

“Interesting terminology, and no, you don’t.” Vex stepped closer, towering over Eonwe like the icy mountain she was. “But I know how you could pay me back.”

“Huh?” Eonwe blinked, her face going numb. Was Vex suggesting what she thought she was suggesting? Vex must have read her mind because she rolled her eyes. “Not like that, you idiot. Gods, what did Bryn even see in you?”

“Bryn…jolf?” Eonwe echoed. “What does he have to do with all of this?”

Vex grinned. “Maybe if you come with me, you’ll find out for yourself. Coming, footpad?”

Chapter Text

The underground bar was, to put it simply, the crowning achievement of Riften’s sewer system. Eonwe followed Vex’s slender form around the steep edges of a shallow pool flooding the center, sticking close to the Imperial as she was guided from the jaws of the trap and into the belly of the beast. No getting out of this one, she thought miserably.

Deciding that she’d sulked enough whilst in the prison cell, Eonwe took the opportunity to look around and study the place. She saw a lot of things she’d have to leap over, and she wasn’t sure how deep the water could be in certain places. Nothing like being stuck between a rock and a hard place. A Redguard woman was sitting on a dock suspended out over the pool, and behind it was a small bar. She could see the heads of a few individuals there, most of them clustered around the counter.

Vex signalled for Eonwe to stop and crossed a creaky little bridge. On the post beside it was a hanging sign. The Ragged Flagon it said, featuring a picture of a little flagon on it. The “ragged” part summed up the entire look and feel of the place. Eonwe couldn’t admit imagining this place looking any better – it was a filthy mess. She sighed and waited, focusing on the familiar weight of her weapons. Knowing she had them nearby was comforting.

Sure enough, curiosity got the best of her. Using the same skills when sneaking up on a deer, she crossed the bridge and snuck into the shadows. Using the bulky shape of a table and a wooden panel to her advantage, she peered around the corner and earned herself a clear view of the entire bar. Eonwe watched Vex lean casually against the counter and take a bottle of mead for herself. She seemed in no hurry to tell anyone about Eonwe, but Eonwe wasn’t sure if she was supposed to be relieved or suspicious. For now, she wanted to do nothing more than watch and listen.

“Give it up, Brynjolf,” someone said. “Those days are over.”

Eonwe craned her neck and her eyes fixed on the familiar shape of the red-haired Nord. He had swapped his fancy set of clothes for the same dark leather Vex wore. Eonwe wondered if it was a trick of the shadows that made him seem even larger in the bulky material. He was leaning across the counter, head bowed, strands of dark copper concealing his face. A short, bald Breton sat on the stool beside him, and a blonde mercenary in simple leather armour was nearby drinking.

“I’m telling you,” Brynjolf sounded strained, his voice low and rough. “This one is different.”

“We’ve all heard that one before, Bryn!” the mercenary scoffed. “Quit kidding yourself.”

“No, listen. She’s-” Brynjolf tried to intervene but the first person who spoke, who turned out to be the barkeep, paused in his duties to pat Brynjolf on the shoulder.

“It’s time to face the truth, old friend. You, Vex, Mercer... you’re all part of a dying breed.” He was sure to include Vex with a nod of his head, who raised her bottle with a frown. “Things are changing!”

At this, even Eonwe could see Brynjolf’s stricken expression when he raised his head. She would have rejoiced in his misery if she hadn’t felt so bad, despite coming in during the middle of a conversation she knew nothing about. She had the strange feeling that the person they were referring to might have been her, but that couldn’t be right. She dismissed the thought quickly, remembering her mess up in the market. Vex hadn’t brought her down here for friendly reasons; Brynjolf was probably furious with her for screwing up his mission, and Eonwe was down there because they were going to beat the living Oblivion out of her.

Now that, that seemed to be a more reasonable explanation for have travelling all the way down to the Ragged Flagon. Not wanting to stick around and find out, Eonwe knew it was time to leave. She stood quickly and bumped into something that was probably a broom. It clattered to the ground noisily and Eonwe froze. She looked back towards the bar.

Everyone had turned, their wary eyes locked on where Eonwe’s silhouette was just visible. Swallowing the lump of fear in her throat, she stepped around the table and into the hanging torch’s illuminating glow.

“Shor’s beard!” Brynjolf exclaimed, the surprise clear on his face. “I wasn’t expecting to see you again, lass.”

It was now Eonwe’s turn to be surprised. “Really? I was led to believe that you…?” her voice trailed off and she looked to Vex for help. Hadn’t Brynjolf sent Vex to bail her out?

“Vex? What do you have to do with this?” the Breton behind Brynjolf asked. The pale Imperial shrugged. “He wouldn’t shut up about her so I went and got her,” she drawled. “Now, can we all get some peace and quiet, perhaps get back to work? I’m not actually here to listen to your sad story all day, Bryn.”

“Gee, Vex,” the Breton muttered. “You don’t have to be so rude.”

“This isn’t rude, you dimwit” she snapped. “This is me being honest. Get it right, you old prick.”

“Oi! Watch your mouth there, missy!”

“Both of you, enough!” Brynjolf finally spoke up, accent thick from his irritation. “Vex, thank you for bringing the lass.” The Imperial snorted and pushed by him, grunting something under her breath. She climbed out onto the hanging deck to sit with the Redguard, who was watching the situation with interest.

Brynjolf sighed, hands on his hips, and he gestured for Eonwe to come closer. Warily, she did, her gaze flitting from person to person. She was expecting a blade to be drawn, a hand to grab. She stopped in front of Brynjolf, keeping a safe amount of distance between them, and he smiled.

“I suppose that meeting Vex wasn’t half as eventful as ours,” he chuckled. Eonwe felt her mouth twitch.

“Oh, so you think you deserve an award or something?” she nagged sarcastically. “For “Biggest Bastard in Riften” or “Most-Conceited Sewer Rat”?”

“Hey, let’s not be like that. I think we’ve spent enough time arguing, don’t you?”

Eonwe crossed her arms. “I don’t know. I think we have some unfinished business to take care of.”

“Well, lass, I was about to-”

“The emerald,” Eonwe cut in and stuck her hand out. “Now.”

Brynjolf stared at her, expressionless. He wears that mask so well, she thought. He reached into his pocket and drew out the smoothened square of vibrant green, polished by time and the rubbing of fingers. He then promptly handed it over, dropping in into her waiting palm.

“Happy?” he asked.

“Yes. I’ll be leaving now,” Eonwe closed her fingers tightly around the gem and turned on her heel, starting to march out of the bar. Every hair on her neck rose when Brynjolf’s seized her shoulder, stopping her. She rounded on him.

“Easy!” he murmured. “I’m just pointing you the right way.” He turned her so she was facing a short hallway that ended with a door. “Your friend can be found through there, in the Warrens.”

“Better not be some kind of trick,” she snapped, jerking away from him. “I’m tired of you toying with me. It was because of you that I landed myself in jail! Does that make you happy?”

“No, lass. It doesn’t,” Brynjolf admitted. “I didn’t think you’d get pinched. But I guess that’s what to expect, with the way things have been going on around here.” He gestured to the bar with a sigh.

“What’s been going – No. You know what? No. I’m not interested,” Eonwe flung up her hands and started to stalk towards the door he pointed her to. “Keep out of my hair and you’ll have lesser problems to deal with, okay?”

Brynjolf laughed. “Alright then, lass. Until we meet again.”

Eonwe halted and shot him a venomous glare. “You’d better hope I never see you again,” she hissed threateningly, pushing open the door into the Vaults.

Most unexpectedly, a hand was closing around her mouth and pulling her backwards, a glowing blue blade pressed to her throat. She caught a glimpse of Brynjolf’s alarmed look as the door swung shut, plunging her in blackness.

“It’s about time you showed up, spy!” a distinctly elven voice uttered in her ear.

Chapter Text

The Thalmor soldier spun Eonwe around so she facing the interior of the Vaults. Above, greenish light filtered in, throwing distorted shadows across the multi-leveled room. From the edge of the third level, Eonwe could see a wizard and another soldier standing on the ground level below, looking up at the commotion.

“Well, isn’t this a coincidence?” the wizard handed the soldier a paper, likely a map or written orders. “You showed up just in time to help us.”

“I’m not helping you with anything,” Eonwe snapped.

“Oh, that’s too bad,” he narrowed his angular eyes. “You’ll need some convincing, then. Send her down, will you?” he commanded and the soldier behind Eonwe shoved her forward. She fell over the edge, bounced off the second level’s precipice, and crashed to the floor with a sickening thump. She wheezed for breath, rolling onto her back, the air driven out of her lungs at the jolting impact.

The toe of a boot pressed down on her throat and her eyes snapped open, seeing the illuminated outline of the Thalmor wizard standing over her.

“The rules are very simple,” he assured. “Tell us where the Blades agent is hiding, and I won’t crush your windpipe.”

“I’m telling you nothing!” Eonwe sneered.

The Thalmor’s grin was visible in the darkness and Eonwe gasped as his boot pressed down, successfully cutting off her supply of air. Eonwe writhed, sinking her nails into the wizard’s boot to shift his weight, but it was no use.

“Are you willing to speak now?” he asked her. Eonwe made a choked sound, slapping at the side of the boot. It lifted slightly and she sucked in a lungful of breath. It tasted sweet and cool.

“Speak, worm!”

“I hope… I hope you rot… in Oblivion,” Eonwe rasped. “And w-whatever is left of you, I’ll tear apart until there’s nothing left.” The Thalmor smirked and pressed down again, much harder this time. His grin had turned into something monstrous. He was thoroughly enjoying this.

“Such a petty attempt to play the brave little hero, just as you’re about to die,” he said, unimpressed. “You Nords are so primitive. It’s a shame that this,” he grinded his boot down even harder, making Eonwe’s eyes water and bug out, “doesn’t bring out the best in you. I suppose there never was anything impressive in the beginning.”

Dagger! Your dagger! Eonwe’s mind cried. Feebly, on the last drags of consciousness, she pawed her hand across her chest. She felt over straps and leathery scales, concentrating on remaining alive. Where is it? her mind shrieked. Your dagger, Eonwe! Your dagger!

Then, as though the gods had heard her pleas, the weight lifted off of her throat and she was able to breathe. Eonwe seized the air that came to her, raw with agony, sweet with the weight of life restored. She gasped greedily and fumbled for her dagger, unaware of anything but… There!

Her hand brushed over the hilt and she unsheathed it, her brain devoid of any thought, her actions reduced to that of an animal seeking revenge on its hunter. She struggled to her feet, the world tilting and spinning dangerously, and she faced the three shapes across from her.

“Lass, put it down,” a familiar voice said. Eonwe’s eyes focused. It was Brynjolf. Behind him stood Vex and Delvin, equally sharing the same look of wary concern. Eonwe blinked and looked around, and found herself staring at three elven corpses. What happened?

“Is she alright?” Delvin asked, peering at her. “She don’t look so good, Bryn.”

“Be careful,” Vex warned as Brynjolf approached Eonwe. She felt completely and utterly confused. Did they kill them? Did they… save me?

“Lass?” Brynjolf reached out for her but Eonwe leaned away. Her rapid movements caused her to stumble backwards, and large hands grabbed her before she could fall on her arse. The next thing she knew, she was standing face to face with Brynjolf, silenced by shock. Brynjolf gently twisted the dagger out of her fingers and tossed it aside. The clang made Eonwe jump and suddenly snap back to reality.

“W-wha…?” she rasped and winced. It hurt to speak. Brynjolf grasped her chin and tilted her head back, exposing her neck. She rolled her eyes down to watch him and saw his brow furrow. She wondered if it already begun to bruise, because it sure as Oblivion felt like it.

“I’m surprised you’re alive, lass,” he commented. He ran a light finger down the skin and Eonwe convulsed; his touch was only slight but burned cruelly. She breathed through her nose, straining to pull away from him. He turned to his two companions. “Delvin, run and look for something to ease the pain.”

“I’m on it.”

“Vex? Go assist Delvin and,” he dropped his voice several octaves and Eonwe immediately strained to listen. It was instinct, the ways of an experienced hunter. “Let’s keep this to ourselves for now. We don’t need a bigger problem than we already have, if you know what I mean.”

The pale Imperial narrowed her eyes and nodded. “Understood.” She followed the direction Delvin had gone, and Brynjolf turned back to Eonwe.

“Do you think you could tell me what this is all about?” he gestured to the bodies. “First Etienne and now you? What’s going on here, lass?”

Eonwe shook her head and looked away. Her eyes fell on the three dead Thalmor and she looked back up at Brynjolf. What was she supposed to say? Her helplessness must have been showing through because he let out a long sigh.

“C’mon then,” Brynjolf gestured for her to follow. Eonwe started after him but hesitated. She crossed to the other end of the room and spotted a door, on the other side of a pool of oil. Was that the way into the Warrens? Eonwe’s stomach plummeted in dread. She was supposed to be looking for Esbern, not running around with a bunch of criminals.

This is all because of Brynjolf. The tiny glow of appreciation for their help suddenly vanished and she looked back at the door into the Warrens. She needed to get back on track and get the Blade back to Delphine, before anymore obstacles arose.

Chapter Text

“Bryn, it’s a bad idea.”

Brynjolf looked across the table at Delvin with a frustrated sigh. “Del, when has anything we’ve done been a good idea? We need someone like her in our outfit.” The old Breton merely shrugged and took a swig of mead, the toe of his boot tapping the wooden deck underfoot.

“You know I’m right,” Brynjolf pressed. Delvin slammed down his drink.

“Open your eyes, mate!” he hissed under his breath. “We need a lot more than this basket case of a girl. If it weren’t for you, those elves would’ve made short work of her. Besides,” he added. “Who knows what kinds of problems she’s dealin’ with? We don’t need more trouble than we’ve already got.”

“Delvin, I’ve got a hunch.”

“Again with the hunch?” Delvin rolled his eyes.

“Aye, and I don’t care what you say. It’s good enough for me. It’s not as though we get the privilege of free pickings down here, if you haven’t noticed,” Brynjolf said with a sarcastic curl of his lip. Delvin eyed him doubtfully.

“Jo was a hunch. So was that Khajiit hangin’ around back in Second Seed,” he reminded the Nord.

Brynjolf made an impatient noise in the back of his throat and stood, shoving away from the table purposefully. “Look, I’m going to give the lass a chance. She’s got spirit, and that’s something we need around here. And I’m certain those skills need just a bit of polishing.” He met Delvin’s troubled gaze confidently. “She’s our best chance in a long time.”

Delvin threw his hands up in the air and sat back, tipping the chair onto its back legs. “Fine. Do what you want, Bryn. Drop the weight of the Guild on the young lass’ shoulders and see what happens. When things go south, don’t come cryin’ to me about your mistake. You hear?”

“Ah, I knew you had it in you, Del,” Brynjolf grinned and Delvin snorted., shaking his head as he rocked the chair back onto all fours.

“Must be that charmin’ smile,” he grunted, getting to his feet to follow Brynjolf off the deck. “Or maybe I’m just getting soft from old age.”

“Old?” Brynjolf echoed. “Delvin, I told you before: You’ll outlive us all.”

Delvin gave him a shove. “Go on and get over there before your little lass takes off on us, eh? Can’t be countin’ our chickens before they hatch.” He plodded off to catch up to Vex, who was seated in the shadows with Tonilia, talking between themselves quietly. Brynjolf headed for the bar, where “the lass” was hugging a cup of tea between her hands.

“You know, I still never got your name,” he said as he sat down on the barstool beside her. She looked up briefly before taking a sip of tea. The steam swirled around her face , and Brynjolf watched the little knot of tension ease in her forehead as she swallowed.

“It’s Eonwe,” she replied softly. “Eonwe Jorgiis.”

“Jorgiis?” he echoed. “Qoren?” Eonwe looked surprised.

“You knew my Da?”

“Aye, only briefly and about three drinks in. I met him down in Skingrad, I think it was… getting on fifteen years ago now?” He tried not to think of just how old that made him. “How is he?”

Eonwe’s gaze dropped immediately, face paling, and Brynjolf felt his chest swell with bitter regret. “I’m sorry, lass. I didn’t know.”

“You wouldn’t have, anyways,” Eonwe murmured. Her smile was cold. “That’s how the Thalmor do it. Can’t even be bothered to execute an honourable man properly in their stupid damn war.”

“Is that why you were attacked down there?”

“No. I’m… it’s something else,” she took another drink, but still refused to look back up at Brynjolf. It made him uneasy. “It’s not important. Trust me.”

“Something tells me it is,” Brynjolf suggested, leaning forward on one arm. Eonwe’s fingers tightened around the cup and she angled her face away, hiding behind her dark curtain of hair. What was she hiding from him? Who knows what kinds of problems she’s dealin’ with Delvin had said. Maybe it was best to keep his nose out of places he didn’t belong. He certainly wasn’t going to earn the lass’ trust if he pried, and if he remembered her father well enough, they likely shared the same stubborn, if not respectable, pride.

“How do you remember him after such a length of time?” Eonwe asked, breaking the silence.

“I’ve a good memory, and an even better memory when it comes to people,” he replied. “The way they walk and carry themselves, how they dress,” he nudged her arm. “How they avoid trouble but just stumble into it anyways. You could say that knowing people is my… profession.

“You look a bit like him, too.” Eonwe finally looked at him, her dark green eyes misted with old sorrow. “Through the eyes. Same… fire.” Eonwe’s lips split into a grin and she laughed softly, the sound burdened by her sore throat.

“Da used to say I looked most like my Ma. Same hair, nose, lips… everything. He taught me how to use my bow, and there was this one time that I back talked him, thinking I knew what I was doing when I really didn’t. Da said, “When you put aside my temper and use the common sense your Ma gave you, then I’ll help. Until then, smother those flames”.”

“Smart man,” Brynjolf commented. “Why did you want to learn archery?”

“If you knew my Da, then you knew he was a ranger. He was a master with a bow, on foot or on horseback. He never taught me how to ride while hitting targets; he was supposed to that summer after my name day.” Eonwe’s fingers shot out to rub beneath her eyes, the action so quick that Brynjolf hardly noticed. He couldn’t imagine how quickly she could have an arrow nocked and lined up with his forehead. “I wanted to learn after I found his bow and military gear. I begged him for months but he told me, “When you’re ten years old, I’ll show you”. I hung on his ear and pleaded him so much that he gave up before I turned nine,” she broke off with a laugh. “Ma was so angry that he couldn’t keep his word, but I was too happy to notice. I shot my first arrow almost in the middle, you know?”

“Luck was on your side.”

“Or just plain chance. Da was so proud of me and showed Ma. She figured it was meant to be and let me keep practicing,” Eonwe lifted her cup but found it empty, and Brynjolf gestured for Vekel to fill it for her. “I stood out in Ma’s garden every day, from the time the sun rose to the time it fell. I remember my fingers were all blistered and I had a huge black bruise on the inside of my arm from where the string kept slapping me, but I loved it. Oh, how I loved it.”

“I guess those deer didn’t stand a chance,” Brynjolf said as Vekel handed Eonwe the tea. It smelled strongly of honey, probably to soothe her throat. Brynjolf could see the purplish bruises splattering her neck under her chin.

“They didn’t. With both my Da and me out there, we brought home twice the meat for Ma. We didn’t go hungry that winter, or the next, so I guess picking up a bow was the best thing for us. Mmm, this is good,” she told Vekel appreciatively.

“Eonwe,” Brynjolf leaned forward slightly, wondering how to approach her with the question. She looked at him from over the rim of her cup, doe-like eyes blinking with an unguarded openness. “How… what happened?” He didn’t have to explain – his tone suggested what he meant well enough, judging from the way her eyebrows drew together.

“I… I don’t like to think about it. Just… it was the Thalmor,” she uttered. “I remember the fire reflecting off their golden armour, even though the smoke.”

“How old were you?”

Eonwe looked into her tea. Brynjolf wanted to take it back, but she was already murmuring, “Thirteen. I… I took Da’s bow and Ma’s emerald and I just… I ran,” she swallowed the lump in her throat and took several deep breaths. “I couldn’t do anything. I just ran away, like a coward.”

“You were only a child, lass,” Brynjolf tried to reason. “They would have killed you if you hadn’t.”

“I could have saved them!” Eonwe exclaimed. “Maybe if I had listened to Da’s advice about sneaking up on deer a little more, or perhaps if I had looked for them instead of just going-” she broke off as Brynjolf grabbed her arm and gave her a little shake. He wore a smile but his eyes were serious.

“What would your parents have done if they learned their little girl died trying to rescue them?” he asked. “Think about it for a moment. Would you have wanted your Ma and Da to have died with so much grief and guilt in their hearts, knowing their daughter didn’t run to safety? That they couldn’t protect you?”

Eonwe clasped her hands together, struggling to keep the tears from spilling over, and met his gaze evenly. “I don’t know if my parents had time to feel anything, but I – I…,” her voice wavered. “I know how much guilt and grief I have to feel.”

Chapter Text

“I’ve said too much,” Eonwe fretted, sliding off the stool. Her head was buzzing and her core ached with loneliness. “I… I have things I have to do. I should go.”

“Alone?” Brynjolf asked. Eonwe nodded, gathering her weapons. She fingered her bow, weighing the golden metal crafted from moonstone. It wasn’t her father’s bow but it was a good one, despite it having belonged to an unlucky Thalmor soldier in her way. She slipped it over her head and passed between the tables, the small audience of criminals and who knows what else watching her back as she strode away, wiping her tears from her face. Brynjolf stopped her at the door, his hand pressing it closed. He loomed over her, features tight with concern.

“It’s dangerous down there, lass.”

“I know that,” Eonwe crossed her arms. “Let me through. I’m not going to get myself killed.”

“You already almost did.”

“Because you were distracting me, trying to make me stay!” Eonwe snapped. “What did you even want me for?”

“Well,” a sly grin settled onto his face and Eonwe huffed, her hands resting on her waist. “Now that you mention it, I suppose I could give you a reason.”

“Oh yeah? Try me,” she dared. “You’ll find I’m not easy to convince.”

“I did a pretty good job of convincing you out in the market.”

“Only because you had my emerald!” she hissed.

“And I’m sorry for that,” Brynjolf seemed as genuine as a coin purse full of rocks. “But I said it once before and I won’t say it again: We aren’t doing so well down here, and I need – we need your help.”

“What is so important that I have to do? Plant another ring and spend a night in jail?”

“Neither. We’ve got three marks,” Brynjolf explained. “I want you to deal with them, our way. Take care of it for me and you can consider yourself free of the debt you owe us.”

“These marks… do I have to… to harm them?” Eonwe stumbled over her words, trying to understand what Brynjolf meant by “dealing” with them. She wasn’t going to get blood on her hands for someone else.

Brynjolf shrugged. “If you have to. If it makes them listen. The whole point is to get the message across that we’re not to be ignored. Like you, they owe us.”

“What do they owe you?”

“Coin. For what trouble they’ve caused us, they empty their purses into ours,” Brynjolf narrowed his sharp gaze. “Think you can handle it?”

“Who are these marks?”

“Keerava, Bersi-Honey Hand, and Haelga. You know Keerava, and if I recall correctly, you’ve met Haelga. That’s the first thing you discussed with that Argonian when you entered the inn.” Eonwe felt her mouth turn up in a small smile. Good memory, she thought before reminding herself that the only way he would know that was if he’d been eavesdropping in on a private conversation. “Bersi runs a shop called the Pawned Prawn, just behind the inn on the waterside.”

“Brynjolf,” Eonwe took a step forward, bringing herself close enough to the Nord to feel the warmth coming off of him. She looked up at him, and she crooked a finger. He leaned down so she could brush her lips against his ear. In as cold a voice as she could muster, she whispered, “Sorry, lad, but I’m busy. We’ll speak another time.”

Grasping the knob in one hand, she pushed open the door to the Vaults and whisked away into the shadows, leaving Brynjolf to run his fingers through his hair and sigh in exasperation over his lost chance.

________

Considering that the Vaults were no longer occupied by Thalmor, Eonwe found it easy to navigate the layered passages back down to the door she’d seen before. Stepping cautiously through the oil slicks, she lifted the heavy handle to the Warrens and crept into the gloom.

The air smelled musty, vague in its traces of recent activity. The sourness of sweat and piss hit Eonwe’s nose as she stepped past a grated window, and she pressed her mouth into her arm as she tightened the tension on her bowstring, choking back the bile rising in her throat. She followed the dripping corridor into an open space, where light filtered in through slats in the high ceiling, a reminder of the world above. Eonwe couldn’t wait to feel the soft brush of wind on her face again and smell the trees and mountains, not grime and disease.

“Bucket, stone, inkpot…” Eonwe swung around, alerted by the voice. She glimpsed a woman hunched over in a nearby cell with a pile of items laid out on the ground, her hands touching each object blindly. She counted off the items over and over, cursing and repeating herself again and again. Deciding she wasn’t a threat, Eonwe released the tension on her bow and climbed up the steps, avoiding the cell holding a man gowned in chef’s robes. Something about his hungry expression disturbed her thoroughly.

The heavy sealed door at the end looked hopeful, so Eonwe glided down to it and stood outside, listening intently. She could hear someone shuffling about inside, muttering to themselves and rifling through something made of paper. She raised her hand and rapped on the door gently, cringing as the sound bounced off all the walls loudly. She heard the person occupying the cell startle and stop moving at once.

“Esbern? Are you in there?” Eonwe asked gently. “Open up. I need to speak to you.”

Silence greeted her.

“Esbern? I said I need to speak to you. It’s urgent,” Eonwe tried again. “Delphine sent me. She has a message for you, if you want to hear it.”

There was a scraping sound next to her ear and Eonwe jerked back, coming face to face with a set of deep-set eyes beneath bushy eyebrows. They narrowed suspiciously. “You don’t look like an elf,” he observed. “Who are you? Why are you here?”

“Delphine needs you. I’ve come to get you,” Eonwe explained. “You can trust me. I have a message from her.”

The elder’s eyes softened. “Delphine? I thought the Thalmor would have gotten her years ago. What’s this message, Nord?”

Eonwe repeated Delphine’s secret message carefully. Esbern nodded slowly to himself, and Eonwe waited as patiently as she could. His eyes flicked back to her, no longer cautious but curious. “How do I know you aren’t a Thalmor spy?”

“I’m not a spy!” Eonwe snapped. She was fed up with everyone thinking that. “But they do know you’re here, and they’re coming for you. We need to leave before they find us.”

“Why? Why should I, when there’s no point anymore?” Esbern’s words held an immense sadness, so much of it that Eonwe felt a twinge of sympathy. How long had he hid down here, alone and afraid, estranged from the rest of the world and all he knew? There was only one thing Eonwe could do to give him hope, to give them a chance at getting out before it was too late for them.

As much as she didn’t want to say it, she didn’t have a choice.

“Esbern, it’s not all over,” she heard herself say. “Because… I’m Dragonborn.”

Chapter Text

Eonwe was cold when she woke up. Rolling onto her back, she groaned as she tried to stand, feeling stiffer than a board. Clumsily, she sought out Delphine and Esbern, who were leaning over a collection of open books and notes spread out on the ground. Still looking for a way in, she concluded, rubbing her tired face back to life.

It had been a long, gruelling week of travelling in search of the hidden Sky Haven Temple, the location of Alduin’s Wall. Delphine had insisted on taking the back roads to avoid any trouble, especially Thalmor, and Eonwe and Esbern hadn’t had much of a say. The Breton was inching beyond simply paranoid, and her agitation in driving Eonwe ahead of the Thalmor’s efforts was mind-numbing and frustrating. If she doesn’t lay off soon, Eonwe had found herself thinking several times after they finally crossed the border into The Reach.

The hold was beautiful, no doubt. Towering slopes loomed over fields of lush green and more plant life than Eonwe thought would be in such a mountainous region. Juniper trees sprouted from nearly every surface, even rocks, creating an entangled, eight-foot plus fence along the edges of the road, and deep blue rivers were packed full of fish. The hold had proven itself dangerous, though. The sound of dragons roaring echoed off every canyon and the slopes were teeming with hungry sabre cats or bears. While they hadn’t run into any Forsworn until the camp bordering the ruins, they hadn’t had one minute to rest for fear of being eaten alive.

Now they sat in the darkness of the ruins just a few feet or perhaps a few miles away from which they’d come all that way for. Tired and confused about the Akaviri symbols, Esbern suggested that they take the opportunity to sleep; it had not fared well with Delphine at all, but gave in, much to their relief. A paranoid, foolhardy Delphine was much easier to handle than a paranoid, foolhardy, and exhausted Delphine. Esbern was conversing quietly to her now, pointing to different scribbles Eonwe didn’t understand; she slipped past them with a low, “Mornin’” and climbed the steps to contemplate the trio of triple-faced pedestals.

One was marked with a symbol that Eonwe thought was fire; another resembled two dragon heads with an arrow pointing down between them. She stood with her hands on her hips, yawning and blinking sleep out of her eyes. The vision of a soft bed and a bath was a distant longing. She was more than used to sleeping on the ground, and usually outside, but not in bumpy armour with weapons still strapped on. Eonwe unsheathed a dagger and started picking grit from beneath her fingernails. I hope we won’t be here all day.

“Ah!” Esbern suddenly exclaimed, making her jump. The elder climbed to his feet faster than Eonwe thought was possible and rushed up next to her, excitedly showing her the notes in his hand. She took them out of his fluttering hands so she could actually read them, but had no idea what she was looking at. Then, she saw the same markings on the papers that were etched into the stone pedestals.

“Did you figure it out?” Delphine asked from below.

“Yes, I believe I have. Eonwe, my dear,” he pointed to the right pedestal. “You turn that pedestal to the one that looks like this.” He jabbed his finger at the marking resembling the twin dragons. “I’ll turn this one here. It should work.”

“What’s it mean?” Eonwe asked as she took up position.

“It is the Akaviri symbol for Dragonborn,” he replied with a wink. I figured, Eonwe thought, turning the pedestal. It turned easier than she believed, and they stood back to admire their handiwork. Suddenly, the bridge next to them thumped down, narrowly missing Esbern, but he simply laughed and said, “On we go.”

________

Simply put, Alduin’s Wall was huge. It stretched the length of a wall and was the main feature of the dim, dank former dining hall. Esbern prattled on about Alduin and the Akaviri’s history with Delphine, but Eonwe was only half-listening. She was staring at the carved dragon and the little figure below, raising a shield in brave defiance against a storm of blazing flames, living in a frozen block of stone. That’s supposed to be me, she told herself Alduin and me, dueling to the death to save this world… or destroy it. It was a peculiar thing to see a depiction of yourself from a time long before you were even a thought on the world, and it was even scarier to realize the real truth.

“It’s a man,” Eonwe whispered, touching the little carved helmet. “It’s not even me.” Her nose stung as tears welled up in her eyes. The urge to flee was overwhelming.

“I don’t even matter,” Eonwe said aloud. Her voice rang off the walls and the conversation below faded away. She deftly wiped her tears and turned to face Esbern and Delphine. “It’s the Dragonborn you need, not me.”

“What in Oblivion are you talking about?” Delphine was bewildered. “You are Dragonborn.”

“I might be,” Eonwe clenched her fists, clinging to control. “I might be your so-called Dragonborn. But I know who else I am, and it’s that person no one cares about. Where am I in all this? The carving is of a man,” she gestured in frustration at the wall. Esbern stood up.

“The Akaviri did not know who the Dragonborn would be in their time,” he explained. “They could only see so much of this world. This was prophecy for them, not fact. You were but a thought waiting to happen,” he smiled. “And here you are.”

“Yes, that’s very nice Esbern,” Delphine said behind him. “But I know what she’s getting at.” Her voice held a distinct coolness that made Eonwe’s skin itch. “Ever since we started this, you’ve made every attempt to find the easy way out of everything. You hardly care, Eonwe, and it’s the world that’s at stake! Did you never stop and think about the severity of this matter?”

“Did you never stop to think about me?” Eonwe shot back. “You’ve treated me like a slave, since day one! Sending me after that stupid stone tablet, having me run all over the province after the horn that wasn’t even there, throwing me into the heart of that nest of elves...”

“And you’re still whining and complaining!” Delphine exclaimed. “When will you open your eyes and realize this world isn’t going to go your way?”

“WHEN YOU DO!” Eonwe yelled. “I’m not your pawn! I’m not your slave! I had a life and you’ve stolen it from me! When will you back off, Delphine? Tomorrow? Next year? You haven’t given me one reason to care about this world! I should just let Alduin burn it all to the ground!”

“No, no!” Esbern cried. “Don’t say things like that! This is a very serious problem, ladies…”

“Shut up, Esbern,” Delphine hissed, then jabbed a finger at Eonwe. “It’s time you realized that life isn’t fair. You are the Last Dragonborn and you will defeat Alduin, even if I have to haul you to him myself. You will fulfill the prophecy and save this world or…”

“Or what?” Eonwe asked. “Or what, Delphine? Are you going to hurt me if I don’t obey? Kill me? I’m afraid that won’t save you miserable little world, but in all honestly… I think it’s beyond saving. Especially if there are people like you in it.” She shook her head in disappointment, and started for the nearest way out. She heard footsteps and quickened her pace, but Delphine had one more thing to say:

“You’re just as alone in this world as I am.”

Eonwe’s brisk pace faltered and she stopped, just a few inches short of the entry hall. The Thu’um itched in the back of her throat, biting hot and coiling like an angry snake. She faced Delphine and Esbern, and the world suddenly seemed brighter, illuminated by a golden glow, as though the sun had settled over the hole in the vaulting ceiling. Her eyes stung like cold fire as her rage spilled into her veins, setting her blood afire. Delphine and Esbern’s disapproving glares suddenly paled in fear.

“At least I’m not as fucked up as you are,” she hissed. She turned on her heel and promptly left the two Blades behind in the temple.

Chapter Text

“Where’s a damn inn when you need one?”

Eonwe’s feet and legs were aching from walking the twisting roads. She didn’t care if anyone saw her; if they got in her way, they wouldn’t be able to run fast enough with the mood Eonwe was in. An eagle screeched overhead and she looked up, shading her eyes with one hand to glimpse the dark shape of its wings drifting in the pale blue sky. I wonder how it feels to fly.

All of a sudden, her foot caught on a root poking out of the ground and she pitched forward, crashing down the side of the hill. She came to a rolling halt in the muddy shallows of the river with a shocked yelp. She got onto her hands and knees, groaning in despair, when she heard a low growl. She looked up slowly.

A ragged wolf stood just up the bank, hunched over the remains of an elk carcass. He was scrawny and covered with filth, the fur stiff along his spine with his teeth bared. Despite his ill-ridden state, the wolf was big – a formidable enemy. Hungry and neglected, he was easily twice as dangerous as a regular wolf.

The wolf was quick to pounce. Eonwe scrabbled backwards and got to her feet just as the snarling beast cannoned into her. Eonwe shrieked as she thumped to the ground, a rock jamming into her shoulder. The wolf was a stinking shadow of fur and fangs above her; she bunched her hands into its neck fur to hold it up. It was all she could do to keep the wolf from tearing her face apart. The smell of rotted breath, tainted further by the metallic stench of blood, rose bile in the back of Eonwe’s throat.

Have to kill whispered through her mind. Desperately, she reached around with one hand, feeling for a rock or something with weight to stagger the writhing monster on her chest. Her fingers closed around a piece of driftwood and she swung her hand up, driving the crumbling wood into the side of the wolf’s head. The wolf jumped off her, shaking his head clear, then glared at Eonwe with menacing yellow eyes. It was like looking into a mirror – the same desperate urge to survive.

The wolf leaped as Eonwe’s hand closed around her dagger.

It felt like hours or maybe even days before Eonwe came to. She found herself kneeling on the ground in front of the wolf’s corpse, her clothes and skin streaked in blood. Eonwe felt the dagger in her hand and looked at it, seeing it buried in the wolf’s neck. The animal lay dead, its eyes sightless, a gaping hole torn into its side where she’d stabbed in a blind rage.

Eonwe leaned over and puked into the mud, realization striking her like a warhammer. She felt like she was floating but her mind was heavy and thick. Crawling away from the mutilated body, she sloshed on hand and knee into the river and scrubbed her face and arms, frightened mewls escaping her as she struggled to wipe away all the red. The metallic tang seemed to stick in her throat and her stomach heaved again. Her eyes watered and she sobbed, clutching her face in trembling hands. She couldn’t bear to look behind her.

Monster, monster, monster, monster looped in a shriek in her ears. “I’m not a monster,” she told herself desperately. “I’m not a monster.”

If not, then what? The little voice in her head asked. Eonwe didn’t have an answer. It was not knowing what that frightened her even more.

________

“If you want water, there’s a stream not too far from here,” Mralki told Eonwe over the counter.

“I just need a drink to clear my head,” Eonwe muttered. Mralki frowned and patted her arm to catch her attention. He pointed to an empty bench along the wall and said, “If you want, you can rest there for a bit. I have other customers who want drinks, so take your sorrows over there to fix.” He straightened and beckoned a man about Eonwe’s height to order, and she caught a glimpse of layered leather as she slipped by him.

Hardly a minute had passed when someone tapped Eonwe on the shoulder. She grumbled and lifted her head, glaring up at the person disturbing her nap but instead, her mouth fell open in shock. “Etienne?” she exclaimed.

The Breton stood behind her holding two Nord meads and wearing a smile. “It’s good to see you, friend!” he said, setting the bottles onto the table and seating himself beside Eonwe. “I heard you ran into Brynjolf… err… what is it now? A week ago?”

“Yeah,” Eonwe nodded, her happiness at seeing Etienne souring slightly at the mention of the red-haired brute. Etienne noticed her expression and laughed, pulling the cork on a bottle and handing it to her. “He’s a nice man, when you get to know him.”

“He’s absolutely charming,” Eonwe snorted. “Between you and me, I’m glad I don’t have to “get to know him”.”

Etienne, in the middle of a swig, raised his eyebrows and swallowed hastily. “What? You’re not coming back?”

“To that dump? No way,” Eonwe shook her head quickly. “Not in this lifetime or the next. I’ve seen enough sewers to build one.”

“Oh, c’mon. It isn’t that bad,” Etienne said. “Besides, if you get in good with us, the drinks are cheaper and there’s a free bed. Secure, safe, and you’ll have me for company.”

“Yeah, I heard you and Brynjolf are well acquainted,” Eonwe rolled her eyes and sipped her mead. It was warmer than the weather outside, but you know what they say when Frostfall sets in…

“We are. We work together,” Etienne prodded her. “Why? What happened?”

“Oh, nothing,” Eonwe waved her hand idly. “Got thrown in jail and beaten up by some Thalmor because of him.”

“Thalmor?” Etienne gasped. “In Riften?”

“Didn’t he tell you?” I’d have expected as much.

“No, no he didn’t. Gods, Eonwe,” Etienne hands shook with distress. “I’m sorry about that. As if the embassy wasn’t enough!”

“Tell me about it,” she scoffed. “But I’m not going back, even if he wants me to. I have better things to do than run around playing his games for him.”

Etienne drank his mead in silence, avoiding Eonwe’s gaze, his eyes shifting back and forth. She noticed him glance towards the bench table across the room and spotted a familiar pale-haired woman in black leather. She was leaning back, propped up against the edge of the table, legs crossed and drink in hand. Vex caught Eonwe’s surprised stare and grinned, raising her bottle in greeting. Eonwe glared at Etienne. “Why are you here? Are you following me?”

“Huh? No!” Etienne said, bewildered. “No, we’re not. We’re out on a… running an errand.”

“You people and your damn errands,” Eonwe muttered, slamming down the bottle and getting up from the bench table. Etienne made to follow but winced. Eonwe’s eyes followed how his hand moved for his side, where she remembered a deep gash had flayed through his skin. “He sent you out before your wounds were even healed? What kind of jerk is this Brynjolf anyway?” Get to know him better, my ass.

“Look,” Etienne sighed. “They’re good people, better than those rich snobs who wouldn’t touch a hero like you with a ten-foot stick. Eonwe, I’ve seen how you fight and… you infiltrated that embassy as good as me, maybe even Vex.” Eonwe glanced at Vex, who was listening in inconspicuously. “Go back to Bryn and try to join. We need people like you.” Etienne was clearly pleading now. His eyes were round and bright like a begging pup’s. “I shouldn’t say it, but we need help, and I think you can pull us out of the rut we’re in. You don’t have to be stuck with us forever, just a little while, until we get our groundings.”

Eonwe crossed her arms, making to come up with some stubborn rebuttal, but she suddenly wondered if she was being selfish. Maybe Delphine was right, maybe she was selfish. Or maybe she’s got me half as paranoid about things that aren’t, just like her. Eonwe found it hard to spit out a no, especially when she saw the ragged glow of hope in Etienne’s eyes. She’d saved his behind before and nothing too bad had come of it, Thalmor aside, so what was jumping into the fire for a friend in need? In her first month in Skyrim, Eonwe had done nothing but help half the city of Whiterun with deeds of all kinds. She was used to this sort of deal, and it usually paid pretty well – not just in gold but in reputation. Maybe helping Etienne’s organization would benefit her; gain her a bit of respect or recognition, give her more control over her life. It sounded better than good already. Etienne’s face could hardly support his grin as she uttered, “Fine. I’ll go.”

If only she knew ahead of time exactly what nest of snakes she was walking into.

Chapter Text

The Ragged Flagon was quiet, albeit the shape of Vekel the Man clearing dishes behind the counter as he prepared to close up for the night, and the lone red-haired thief sitting at a table rolling a bottle between his palms. The cistern smelled as horrible and stale as Eonwe remembered it, and she dabbed at the spot of blood on her lip from her fist fight with a particularly stubborn merchant an hour earlier. She held the ends of three fat coin purses in her other hand.

Eonwe walked up behind Brynjolf and dropped the coin purses on the table in front of him, making him startle. He glanced over his shoulder and recognition flashed through his eyes when he saw her. “Well, well. Took you long enough.”

“Now that that’s done, am I free to get on with my life?” Eonwe asked, crossing her arms as Brynjolf weighed one of the purses in his hand.

“Well, considering you did the job so well, I couldn’t just let you run off and leave us to rot away,” he smiled, and gestured for Eonwe to sit in the chair beside him. She did, sinking down heavily with a groan. “Been places, eh?”

“I didn’t think I could get far enough away from this load of-”

“Mind your tongue or I’ll have Dirge wash it for you in the cistern,” Brynjolf chastised. “I’m not your Da, but I won’t shy from telling you off.”

“Why do you care?” Eonwe shrugged, kicking the leg of a chair across from her. “It’s the truth, isn’t it?”

“Aye, but none of us like to admit it,” Brynjolf frowned. “It used to be a lot better down here.”

Eonwe laughed. “I can’t imagine a sewer looking much prettier. Why don’t you just move into some old unoccupied fort?” Like Sky Haven Temple… just less “destiny this” and “Alduin that”.

“Mercer thought of moving us to Solitude a while back.”

Eonwe tilted her head. “Who?”

“Mercer Frey. Our boss. The Guild Master,” Brynjolf said. “Want to meet him?”

“Do I have a choice in this matter?”

“Aye, but I’d rather you quit kicking my chair and stop sulking like a child.” Brynjolf met her eye and Eonwe stopped swinging her foot, muttering a sorry under her breath. She stood up but Brynjolf grabbed her wrist before she could go far.

“What?”

“Listen, I’m not just taking you to talk to him for entertainment’s sake,” he warned. “I’m taking you to meet him because it’s his say whether you join us or not.”

“Join? You’re not kidding about that, then?” she asked. Join… a bunch of criminals? Since when do criminals have a leader called a Guild Mas- Eonwe stopped dead and her face went pale. These people… was this the Thieves Guild?

“Is something wrong?” Brynjolf asked her.

“Uh, yes I think so,” Eonwe laughed in disbelief. “Is this… are you all the thieves this city’s been going on about?”

“Glad to hear the city still remembers us,” he said in mock relief. “Aye, that’s us. I’m second in command down here, so that’s better than nothing.”

“How is that better?” Eonwe was incredulous. “How is one thief different from another, better than another? And why are you dragging me down here, into a life of crime?” So this is what Etienne wanted me to fix up? A gang of bloody thieves? Gods, no way!

Brynjolf sighed. “Do you want the long answer or the short one?”

“The short one, preferably, if it means I get to hear less and leave sooner.”

“We need someone like you around, lass. You have some remarkable skills that could be put to the test, and you’re proved your worth to me. Mercer will either let you in or kick you out, but I have no say. If I were you, I’d hope he accepts you instead.”

Remarkable skills, huh? Still trying to soften me up for the blow? “What happens if he says no?”

Brynjolf said nothing and Eonwe felt her stomach sour. She figured that if Mercer said no, it wouldn’t exactly be stated with words. A cold shiver clutched her spine and she met Brynjolf’s gaze. “I don’t want Mercer to say no, but I can’t have him say yes.”

“Why not?”

Because I’m some stupid Dragonborn, and the ancient and legendary hero of this land isn’t supposed to run with a gang of thieves, that’s why.

While she tried to come up with an answer good enough to satisfy the thief, Brynjolf was already leading her elsewhere. “Is that the way into the Vaults? Why are we going there…?” Eonwe trailed off as Brynjolf abruptly turned towards a flat wooden wall. She watched as he produced a key from one of his many pockets, flashed her a teasing grin, and felt for the keyhole in the dark. Within seconds, the wooden wall was opening and revealing a hidden passageway into a different part of the cistern. Eonwe was cautious as she stepped through, expecting a group of mean-faced thieves to be waiting with daggers drawn.

Instead, it was just another hallway, lit brightly by a brazier, ending with a door and another small room decorated sparsely. Brynjolf approached the door and turned to Eonwe, offering an encouraging smile. “Ready, lass?”

“No,” Eonwe admitted. “Not at all.”

Brynjolf laughed and turned the handle, holding it open and leaning aside so Eonwe could step through. The hairs raised on the back of her neck as she passed him in close quarters, catching a whiff of his masculine, spicy scent. Supressing the urge to lean away, she entered a hall that opened into a large circular room, shaped just like the Ragged Flagon, only somehow bigger. From where she and Brynjolf lurked in the hallway, Eonwe could see greenish light filtering in from an above source and a large steel door at the end of the massive room. To the left of it was a large desk with a man bent over it, thoroughly absorbed in something. Eonwe could see several people milling around.

“Come on, then.” Brynjolf stepped around her to lead the way and Eonwe felt her knees lock, firmly planting her where she stood. Stop being such a wimp! Sucking in a deep breath, Eonwe took a step forward, her heart a steady thump-thump in her chest. She walked in Brynjolf’s shadow, eyes darting everywhere, taking in as much as she could before she was too far in – just in case she decided to run.

Four walkways stretched like prongs from a center column of stone, and each led to a different set of things. Behind was the exit, or entrance depending on how you looked at it; to the left was the familiar shape of an alchemy table and a hall turning off somewhere unknown; to the right were a cooking pot and a ladder; directly ahead were the big door and the desk. Waterfalls poured from openings in the ceiling, the loudest of the sounds in the cistern next to the person practicing archery at a small set up, and it smelled like stagnant water and clammy, wet stone.

“Well?” Brynjolf asked, having noticed Eonwe taking the opportunity to familiarize herself with the cistern. “What do you think?”

“It’s big. I didn’t realize this was behind here,” she admitted. “I guess no one hears you back here because of the water.”

“Aye, it helps soundproof us from unwanted visitors. We’ve never had a breach of security.”

“Except for me.” Brynjolf raised an eyebrow. “If Mercer says no, then I’m obviously not welcome here. Then you can say that an “unwanted visitor” was here.”

“If Mercer says no, you won’t have time to worry about whether you’re trespassing or not,” Brynjolf murmured, motioning for her to follow him towards the desk. “And I can’t do anything about it; otherwise I’d be risking my own position.”

“Haven’t you done enough of that already with me messing everything up?”

“I’ve put my neck on the chopping block enough times, for you and for others. Don’t make me do it again,” he warned. “Mercer Frey isn’t the most affectionate man, but he’s a decent leader and he’ll want to see what you’re made of.”

Eonwe nodded, her nerves keeping her mouth shut. The sound of a quill scratching on paper and low mumbling reached her ears long before she was standing in front of the desk, staring down at a head topped with what was once ashen-blonde locks turned gray. The quill stopped moving and he raised his head, looking first at Brynjolf then snapping his dark, sea-green gaze to Eonwe.

Suddenly, her blood turned to ice in her veins. It can’t be…

“Well, well, Brynjolf,” Mercer Frey drawled. “What sewer rat have you scrounged up for me to look at today?”

Chapter Text

“She looks like a child playing warrior,” Mercer insulted, facing Brynjolf with his hands on his hips. He hadn’t spared Eonwe a glance ever since he’d looked up from the ledger, and Eonwe was grateful. She was staring at the clasp beneath his chin instead, unable to look at his face. There’s no way it’s him, she thought. Her stomach clenched and unclenched nervously.

“Mercer, you know just as well as I that first impressions aren’t always what they seem,” Brynjolf was pulling every card for a chance. The Guild Master just refused each attempt with a stubborn rebuttal, shaking his head and complaining about Brynjolf’s “waste of time and resources.” It made Eonwe feel sick, but a quiet joy was circling in the very depths of her stomach. If Mercer denied her enrollment with the Guild, it would mean she would have to defend herself. And that would mean…

“Are you deaf?” Mercer interrupted her train of thought and she blinked in surprise. “I asked you a question. Are you going to stop staring at me like a frightened rabbit and answer it, or do I have to repeat myself?”

“Sorry,” Eonwe apologized. “What was the question?”

“What is your name and occupation?”

“Eonwe. I’m a hunter.”

“A hunter? So you understand the art of stealth and archery… am I correct?”

“Yes.”

“And how long have you been using a bow and these “skills” Brynjolf proclaims you are so exceptional at performing?” He sounded downright bored. Since I was little didn’t seem like a suitable answer, so Eonwe opted for: “Eleven years, sir.”

“Forget the formalities,” he flicked his hand in dismissal. “A decade of sneaking around, eh? Sounds like something we can work with. You see Rune over there?” he pointed to a figure in brown leather. Eonwe nodded. “Go pick his pocket. Bring me a coin.”

“Now?” Eonwe asked.

Mercer feigned surprise. “I’m sorry. I was led to believe I that just gave you a direct order. Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know… complying with it?”

“Mercer,” Brynjolf began but Mercer flashed him a venomous glare, silencing the second in command effectively.

“As I said, bring me the coin,” Mercer repeated. “Then we’ll discuss this matter further.”

Eonwe glanced at Brynjolf nervously as she crossed the cistern, but he merely nodded at her. She approached Rune, trying to figure out if she could actually achieve this. Eonwe had never tried to take something off someone before, not unless she was in the middle of a fight and trying to disarm someone. And that method was usually loud and vigorous, not delicate and soundless.

Eonwe realized that Rune had already noticed her and she started to back away, but he smiled and offered his hand. “Hi, you a new recruit?”

“Not yet,” Eonwe admitted, accepting the Imperial’s large warm hand. “You’re name’s Rune?”

“Yep, that’s me,” his smile grew even bigger. “Did you need something?”

“Umm, yeah actually,” Eonwe rubbed behind her ear nervously and glanced back at where Mercer and Brynjolf were waiting, then brightened. “You wouldn’t happen to have a coin, would you?”

“A coin? Yeah, sure,” he dug in his pocket and produced the round gold object. He handed it to her. “More where that came from.”

“Thanks,” Eonwe grinned.

Rune laughed. “Yeah, see you around.”

Eonwe returned to the desk, feeling Rune’s lingering stare, and she stifled her pride as she placed the coin on the wood in front of Mercer. The Guild Master stared down at it for a very long moment. He rested his hands on his waist after an even longer time, and Eonwe heard someone’s foot tapping. Finally, Mercer looked back up, his face carefully devoid of expression.

“Look-” he began but Brynjolf cut him off. “Mercer, you asked her to bring you a coin.”

“That I did,” Mercer admitted. He straightened, brushed his hands together, and stepped around the desk to take Brynjolf’s place beside Eonwe. She stood straight, her heart fluttering nervously in her throat, waiting for her fate to unfold at the hands of the arrogant Breton in front of her. He crossed his arms and focused on her face, and Eonwe instinctively dropped her eyes. The smells and sounds of a dimly-lit, chilly tavern echoed somewhere in her memories, but she shoved it away.

“Before we continue, I want to make one thing perfectly clear,” he said. “If you play by the rules, you walk away rich. You break the rules and you lose your share. No debates, no discussions... you do what we say, when we say. Do I make myself clear?”

Eonwe looked at Brynjolf, who nodded his head quickly. She turned back to Mercer with wide eyes. “Yes.”

The Guild Master’s expression darkened for the briefest of seconds but Eonwe didn’t miss it. “Good,” he murmured then turned to Brynjolf. “Get her set up for training. I expect flawless results by the end of the week.”

With that, he moved back around his desk and returned to staring down at the ledger, scribbling out numbers and filling in new lines. Eonwe shifted from foot to foot, assuming they were done, but noticed that Brynjolf hadn’t moved an inch. What is he waiting for? He cleared his throat.

“Mercer?” The Guild Master looked up distractedly and Brynjolf gestured to Eonwe. “Aren’t you forgetting something…?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes. Since Brynjolf assures me that you’ll be nothing but a benefit to us, then you’re in,” he smiled but it was cold, and his eyes were dead, empty of recognition. “Welcome to the Thieves Guild.”

Chapter Text

“Welcome to the family, lass,” Brynjolf said warmly once they were out of range of Mercer. Eonwe nodded, looking around at the thieves clustered together or sitting alone.

“I’m glad that went well,” she said.

“Aye, but I figured he’d let you in; let you prove yourself as a thief.”

“But I’m not a thief,” Eonwe corrected firmly. “Maybe I’ve stolen, but it wasn’t for fun…”

“None of us steal for fun either,” Brynjolf stopped and faced her. “This is an organization, a business. We depend on theft to survive, and it takes time and a lot of luck to do it right. To become a talented thief takes years, decades even. Don’t think this is a fun and games, lass.”

“Then what was that thing in the market,” Eonwe objected. “And picking on those three marks? That was fun and games. That was harassment.”

“Eonwe,” Brynjolf pinched the bridge of his nose, thinking carefully before he spoke, not wanting another argument on his hands. “Remember what I told you? How this isn’t your world down here? Well, you’re a part of it now, and you’re going to have to get used to doing things you might not want to.”

Guess I’m trapped down here, then, she thought glumly, then changed the subject. “So… what’s this training all about?” Brynjolf brightened and gestured for her to follow him, leading her over to a small cluster of people at the archery unit. Eonwe was greeted with four suspicious faces that didn’t seem at all friendly.

“Eonwe, meet Sapphire, Niruin, Vipir, and Thrynn,” Brynjolf motioned to each of them. “Niruin is our archery expert. Vipir is a lookout for the Guild and he can train your pickpocketing skills. Sapphire and Thrynn are two of our lookouts.”

“Hey,” Vipir smiled. “We got ourselves a new footpad.”

“I’ve seen you before,” Sapphire said. “You were running out of The Bee and Barb. Almost bowled me over.”

Eonwe suddenly recognized her cool complexion and the armour she wore. “Oh, right. Sorry about that.”

“Got into a bit of trouble?” Vipir asked. “Running away from the scene of the crime?”

“I…”

“She was trying to get away from me,” Brynjolf intervened. “This is the lass that saved Etienne from the embassy.”

All of them looked surprised. Niruin stepped forward. “Mercer told us that you were working for the Thalmor. Set on Etienne like a dog after a fox.”

“Well, I guess you can’t believe everything you hear,” Eonwe muttered.

“What happened to your neck?” Sapphire cut in, peering at the subtle bruises. They still hadn’t healed over all the way. Eonwe flushed and glanced at Brynjolf, remembering how he’d asked Vex to keep quiet about it.

“You don’t have to worry about the lass’ loyalties,” he spoke for her. “She had a run-in with some Thalmor earlier, in the Vaults.”

“Those monsters are down here?” Vipir exclaimed.

“I’ve dealt with them,” Brynjolf assured. “Delvin and Vex will keep an eye out for anymore.”

While they continued their discussion, Eonwe noticed that Thrynn hadn’t spoken yet. She managed to catch his eye and offered a friendly smile, intending to keep things on the lighter side of neutral. Thrynn was as tall as Brynjolf and just as broad, built more like a warrior than anything. She could see several raised lines of skin along his muscular arms, and the way his hands curled seemed better suited to wielding a battle-axe than a tiny dagger. He wore a few streaks of reddish-hued war paint across his cheeks. So far, he’d hardly looked at her.

Vipir noticed Eonwe eyeing Thrynn, and slung an arm around the bigger Nord’s shoulders. “Oh, don’t worry about this big ol’ softie here. He’s just the quiet type, right Thrynn?” Thrynn glared at his fellow thief and snorted, shaking off his arm and turning on his heel to head to where a couple others were conversing quietly. Vipir frowned but winked at Eonwe. “He’ll come ‘round sooner or later. He always does.”

“Not everyone is as friendly as you, Vipir,” Sapphire said coolly before turning to Eonwe. “It’s better to keep to yourself down here. Your personal business is your own, and it doesn’t need to be made known to everyone.” She purposefully looked at Vipir before brushing by. To Eonwe, she reminded her a little of Vex’s cold exterior.

“Haughty bitch,” Vipir muttered under his breath. “Well, it was good to meet you, Eonwe. Hope to see you around here.”

“Likewise,” Eonwe muttered as he left. She looked up at Brynjolf and said, “Not a very warm bunch, are they?”

“As I said,” he shrugged. “A business is a business. We get along most of the time.”

“Is that because you’re in a bad way down here, or because of him?” she cocked her head towards Mercer. Brynjolf smirked.

“I’ll leave that for you to decide, but for now, you’re off to meet Delvin. He’ll get you started on your training.”

Chapter Text

“Glad to see Mercer let you join,” the short and balding Breton said with a warm smile, and he offered his hand in welcome. “We haven’t been properly introduced: Delvin Mallory, at your service.”

“Enough with the formal introductions. We don’t even know how long she’ll last,” Eonwe recognized Vex’s cold, smooth voice before she even melted out of the shadows to join them. She looked down at Eonwe with gleaming eyes. “Hello again, footpad. Ready for some training?”

While Delvin made Eonwe feel oddly at ease, Vex made her hackles rise. The ice queen was as unapproachable as ever, her towering willowy figure adorned in stark black and silver buckles. Even her smile, which Eonwe thought was her best attempt at being friendly, was threatening in a distant yet prominent way. It’ll take a long time to get used to you.

“Well, you’re in safe hands,” Brynjolf assured calmly, but his eyes were twinkling with mischief. “They won’t bite – at least I know Delvin won’t.”

“Very funny,” Eonwe muttered as the red-haired thief left her to Delvin and Vex’s company. Delvin gestured for her to sit and although she did, she would have rather remained standing. Vex rested a palm on the back of her chair, lurking like a hungry sabre cat, close enough for Eonwe to feel the shiver of her presence. Or maybe that was because she was trembling.

“So, Eonwe,” Delvin began. “He just plucked you off the street and dropped you into the thick of things without tellin’ you which way is up, am I right?”

“Well, I know you’ve been having a hard time down here…” Eonwe trailed off. “But I can take care of myself. I have so far.”

“Is that so?” the Breton narrowed his eyes. “Let me get somethin’ straight. Lyin’ to my face won’t win you any favors with me or with anyone around here, I can promise you that.”

“Just like I told you that a meaningless “thank you” won’t fill my pockets,” Vex added.

“Right. On the other hand,” Delvin continued. “The Guild is different than out there. There’s a system that has to be followed, otherwise you could endanger yourself, and especially the Guild. You’re new around here and we won’t have your back if you’re destined for the choppin’ block. Got that?”

“Okay,” Eonwe nodded. Delvin looked satisfied with that and he pulled a book from beneath the open one, handing it to her. The faded title read “Clients”.

“That’s our client book. Everyone we do dealings with, and the details of each job we’re required to do, goes in there.” Eonwe flipped open the book about halfway and was presented with endless lines of elegant black scrawl. She worked her way towards the back and the print changed abruptly to blunt, square letters. “Our former Guild Master, Gallus Desidenius, kept that book closer to him than his coin purse. Most of that writing in there is his, you’ll see. The rest is mine.”

“What happened to Gallus?” Eonwe asked. “Did he step down or…?”

“He died. Almost twenty-five years ago now,” Vex answered for her. “I knew him for only a short time. I was young too, but he knew how to run this place. It was better back then.”

“Yeah. You’re lucky that you don’t trip over a skeever nowadays,” Delvin added sourly.

“Was it after Gallus died that the Guild started headed south?” Eonwe asked.

“Uh huh. There was a lot of trouble for a few months, and we lost a few clients and contacts right at the beginnin’. So many of our infiltrators and lookouts left that we couldn’t keep up with the jobs comin’ in, so they turned elsewhere. Don’t get me wrong – Mercer Frey is a decent leader. He’s held us together for this long and if he hadn’t taken up leadership when he did, this place wouldn’t exist now.”

Eonwe closed the client book and asked, “How long have you been here?”

“I was here while Gallus was leadin’. Most of them in the cistern arrived in the last year – Bryn and Cynric are two of the only ones that stayed. Niruin joined through me andddd….” He leaned back in his chair, thinking. “And that’s it, if memory serves me right.”

“Huh,” Vex snorted. “This is the first time I can’t actually say you’re wrong. Lucky you. Now let’s get to the important stuff before I have to head out.”

“Goldenglow?” Delvin asked. Eonwe remained silent – she didn’t know what that meant.

“Yep. Mercer wants me to have a chit-chat with Aringoth. There shouldn’t be any problems whatsoever,” she added sweetly.

“Who’s Aringoth?” Eonwe asked.

“A contact of ours… or well, more appropriately, someone the Guild’s been keeping an eye on for an important client,” Vex told her. “There are some people that need to be supervised. If you’re with us long enough, you might learn a thing or two about that.”

“Well, when do I start training?” Eonwe dared to glance behind herself. Vex was looking down at her with narrowed eyes, her dark lashes making her gaze look like black slits.

“The first thing you need to know is that Delvin and I hand out the jobs around here,” she explained. “Clients will get our attention through contacts, or be ballsy enough to ask us themselves, and the Guild does them in exchange for gold and reputation. In this place, there are two kinds of members: Infiltrators and lookouts. The infiltrators go in and change the ledgers, plant the necklace, pickpocket the mark… that sort of thing. The lookouts watch their backs. I myself am an infiltrator, and I’m the best one down here so if you think you’re here to replace me, you’re dead wrong.”

“I’m not here to-”

“Vex,” Delvin warned. “No one’s gonna knock you off your little pedestal anytime soon, so take it easy on her.”

“I haven’t even gotten to the important part yet. Now, I told you there are two kinds of members down here, right?”

“Right…?”

“There are also two kinds of people. That’s the good ones, like most of the folks down here. Then there are the bad ones, and that’s where you are sitting right now, footpad.” Vex smirked icily as she spoke and Eonwe was offended. She didn’t like Vex before but now, now she despised her. The woman was a bitch, she knew full well about it, and wanted others to know it too. The worst part was that she basked in it.

Eonwe realized that in order to be taken seriously, she would have to step up her game. I have a feeling I’ll be doing that a lot. She turned around in the chair so she faced Vex a bit better, swallowed the tickle of her Thu’um, and said, “Is there anything of importance that I should know?”

It worked. Vex acknowledged Eonwe’s rise to the challenge without even batting an eye, but she felt it. The stark dominance drew back and she, along with Delvin, began explaining the details of the jobs they did. Eonwe listened intently, making sure she asked the right questions, and gleaned as much information as she could in one sitting. Partway through Delvin’s lengthy description of the numbers job, where infiltrators were sent to change the numbers in business ledgers, Vex slipped away to make for the place called “Goldenglow”.

“Who are the infiltrators and lookouts around here?” Eonwe cut in when she had a chance. She was still curious about that. Delvin gestured for her to stand and led her out to the suspended deck, where a Redguard woman was sitting alone. Eonwe remembered her from before, watching quietly from before when she’d gotten into the argument with Brynjolf.

“Eonwe, this is Tonilia. Tonilia, meet Eonwe. Mercer’s lettin’ her have a shot at things around here,” Delvin introduced them. Tonilia looked up at Eonwe in interest and stood. They were nearly the same height.

“Welcome to the cozy little family,” she greeted. “I’m one of the lookouts for the Guild – I watch old Delvin’s back. I see he’s been telling you about that. Why not sit down here with me and I’ll give you a rundown on what lookouts do?” she offered, glancing at Delvin for permission. Delvin shrugged and left the two to chat.

“Well, now that he’s out of the way, we can get to know each other better.” Tonilia’s friendly smile dropped immediately and Eonwe felt her heart sink into her stomach. “You don’t impress me, so don’t even try.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Eonwe quipped. “You don’t impress me much, either.”

“Ha, that’s a first,” she Redguard admitted. “Maybe I was wrong, but we’ll see. Time naturally strips a person down and reveals the bare bones.”

“It also tends to drain likeable personalities, or so I’ve heard.” Tonilia’s eyebrows flew up to meet her hairline.

“Well, well. Where on Nirn did Brynjolf find a fiery one like you? You’re quite the... catch. And a pretty one, too. I wonder if that’s what did it for-”

Alright, that’s enough.

“It must be hard,” Eonwe cut in. Her voice was as smooth as silk but inside, a dragon was beginning to puff smoke.

“What is?”

“Being such a contemptuous woman must make it hard to have men crawl into your bed. Or maybe you’re just that desperate?” Eonwe suggested bitterly. “I’ve seen what happens to women like you. It never ends well for whores-”

Eonwe recoiled as Tonilia slapped her across the face. Her hand instinctively dropped to the pommel of her elven sword as Vekel the barkeep and Delvin joined them. Vekel pulled Tonilia into his arms and Eonwe could hear him murmuring to her, asking her if she was alright. Delvin seized Eonwe’s arm and gently pulled her over to the counter.

“What happened?”

Eonwe shook her head and Delvin reached up pressed a finger to her chin, making her turn her face into the light. Her cheek still stung, and she was sure he could see the bright red splotch. “I got angry, that’s all.”

“What did you say?”

“She started accusing me…wait. That doesn’t matter. I called her a whore,” Eonwe admitted quietly. “I’m sorry.”

Delvin let out a long sigh. “Look, I don’t blame you. And, don’t tell her I said this, but Tonilia isn’t exactly a faithful woman.”

Eonwe glanced over at where Vekel was still clutching Tonilia. The way he held her so suggested he was concerned and asking her questions, but from the way Tonilia was leaning away with her head down…. It looked like she didn’t care for it – didn’t want it.

“What do you mean “not faithful”?” Eonwe whispered.

“There’s a rumour and again, you didn’t hear it from me,” Delvin eyed her seriously. “But there’s word about her and Bryn…”

Eonwe knew both of her cheeks were red. The thought hadn’t crossed her mind, but for some reason Brynjolf fit perfectly into that category. That smooth brogue of a voice, eyes like green fire, his persuasive tongue… Eonwe had no doubt in her mind that Delvin was wrong.

“She and Vekel are together?” Eonwe asked.

“Vekel asked Ton to marry him a few months ago. She keeps comin’ up with reasons she can’t. I know why – we all do. She should just let the poor man go. We can’t even ask her to leave and make things better, to put some separation between them if it heads that way.”

“Why not?”

“Tonilia’s our fence. She buys stolen goods and has her hand in the black market. She’s the best fence I’ve ever met but…” Delvin chuckled. “Well, let’s just say I’d rather have a fight with Vex than with Ton-”

The hidden door in the hallway banged soundly, ricocheting off the wall, and Brynjolf’s familiar shape emerged. As he stepped into the light of the lanterns, Eonwe caught sight of the blood streaking his hands. Delvin brushed by and was making his way towards Brynjolf before he even had a chance to open his mouth.

“All of you, come with me,” he ordered. “Vex has been injured.”

Chapter Text

“I said I’m fine!” Vex spat through gritted teeth at Vipir. Her jacket and undershirt were on the floor, tattered beyond recognition and leaving bloody smears on the wet stone. Eonwe heard Delvin’s startled gasp behind her. As they drew closer, she realized the reason for Vex’s unusual pinkish hue. She was bloodied from head to toe, her body turned into a battlefield.

“What happened?” Tonilia exclaimed as Rune came rushing over with a small crate filled with linen wraps. She took one and began peeling it apart, and shoved another into Eonwe’s hands. “Try to be useful, huh?”

Eonwe didn’t respond. She began ripping the clean linen apart. She noticed Brynjolf’s brief glance between the two of them but didn’t bother explaining, especially when Vex let out a pained caterwaul. Eonwe, beginning to freeze up at the sight of all the blood, convinced herself to step forward and press a thick wad of linen to the deepest of the wounds below Vex’s ribs. The pale Imperial hissed sharply.

“Sorry,” Eonwe whispered.

Vex ignored her, instead craning her neck to glare at Mercer, who was standing on the opposite side of the desk with an unreadable expression. “Can you believe that fetcher had more than tripled the guard? There must have been eight of them in there, armed to the teeth like nothing I’ve seen before.”

“Eight Riften guards are easy, even for the rest of us,” Vipir said. “There’s no way they’d outmatch you.”

Vex threw him a venomous look. “Unless they’ve traded their uniforms in for full sets of steel armour, then I don’t think they were your ordinary “Riften guards”.”

“Why does Aringoth have mercenaries guarding the bee farm?” Niruin asked from beside Eonwe. Eonwe jumped, not realizing the wood elf had joined them. “Was it Lady Black-Briar’s orders?”

“She should have said something, instead of sending poor Vex over there unprepared,” Delvin muttered. Vex cast him a stony look, but her eyelids were drooping from either tire or pain – likely both. Eonwe felt a squeeze of sympathy for the ice queen and checked to see if the flow had been staunched. It hadn’t, but it was beginning to slow at least.

Mercer finally spoke. “Maven mentioned nothing of it."

“The place is fortified,” Vex added quietly. “That wood elf’s wit. He’s a lot smarter than I…” Vex’s eyes rolled into the back of her head and Delvin shot forward, catching her in his arms before she could hit the floor. Mercer cursed and turned away, shaking his head, and she heard him mutter something that sounded like, “Always a delay.”

He spun on his heel and singled out Brynjolf with a pointed finger. “We’ll deal with Aringoth later. I need to speak with Maven. I trust you can deal with this situation?”

“Aye. But Maven’s going to be furious,” Brynjolf stepped forward. “Are you sure you don’t want me to go?”

“No. I can handle her. You’re not the only one who can persuade that bitch.” Mercer glanced at Eonwe. “Care to meet one of our primary clients?”

“Uhhh…” she looked down at the bloody linen in her hands, overwhelmed, but Brynjolf reached out and took it from her. “Go on. I’ve got this,” he muttered in her ear. Eonwe stepped back gratefully and Mercer pointed behind her.

“Get yourself a set of leathers and clean that blood off your hands,” he ordered. “Be quick about it. I’ll be waiting in the graveyard.”

Chapter Text

The Thieves Guild armour fit like a glove, but a very tight and very warm glove. The first thing Eonwe thought as she crossed the cistern with her face behind the hood was whether or not the pants were her size. When she climbed the ladder however, she was worried that the ass of her pants would tear altogether, but they were surprisingly stretchy.

The jacket was another story, and it wasn’t a jacket at all. A thick, sleeved woolen shirt and a thick, leather vest was all there was to it. The vest was done up with around two dozen tiny buttons along an inner strip, and the buckles crisscrossed across the chest. In short, it hadn’t been the easiest garment to put on, but it would be a bugger to get off, Eonwe was sure.

Eonwe reached the top of the ladder and was confronted with a large empty space of stone walls. She ran her fingers over the wall, blinking in the dark, wondering if she’d taken a wrong turn. Someone would have warned her, right? Unless they were still too hopped up about Vex…In the midst of her panic her hand knocked a pull chain and she grasped it, yanking down cautiously.

The sound that followed was absolutely deafening. Eonwe covered her ears and stumbled backwards as stone and metal scraped together with all the force of a canon blasting. Sunlight cut through the dark and she made her way up a set of wide-spaced stairs to find herself standing within a sheltered sarcophagus. So they live here, under a tomb, Eonwe realized. She didn’t know how to feel about it. It seemed… ominous.

“About time,” Mercer said behind her and she jumped, spinning around. The Guild Master stood in the middle of the graveyard of nightshade flowers, his arms crossed. “I haven’t got all day, you realize that?”

“Sorry,” Eonwe muttered. Mercer rolled his eyes and wandered off, taking the dirt path that led behind the row of houses. Eonwe followed, getting used to the hard soles of her new boots and rolling her wrists in the leather gauntlets. The brown leather was scratched and rubbed soft from years of use. Her armour had once belonged to someone else. Eonwe tried to not think of whether or not they’d died in it.

Mercer led her down an alley between two houses and began to kneel, intending to unlock one of the gates, but he paused and glanced at Eonwe. “Unlock this for me,” he told her, standing and leaning against the wall. Eonwe sought out a lockpick from her pocket and Mercer suddenly reached out, delving his hand into her pocket swiftly and removing her cache. He took one of her hands, twisted it palm upwards, and carefully slipped the picks into the narrow space between leather and liner. “Instead of wasting time digging around, this is easier.”

Eonwe murmured a low thank you and knelt to unlock the gate. Surprisingly, it turned out to be a fairly easy one and she had it open within a few seconds. Mercer grunted as it swung open, the only approval Eonwe was guaranteed to receive.

A bit of casual searching led them to Maven, who was enjoying a drink in the Bee and Barb with her daughter, Ingun. She was a carbon copy of her mother – raven-haired and pale-eyed with the same pursed mouth and proud nose. She was far prettier than the cantankerous-looking woman across from her, currently in the middle of a book while her daughter ate alone. Ingun was the first to look up, and she tapped the rim of her mother’s book to alert her of Eonwe and Mercer’s presence.

Eonwe didn’t like Maven from the moment she looked at them, or rather, glared at Mercer. She never spared Eonwe a glance. “Fancy seeing you here, Frey,” she greeted with her condescending, critical voice. “Have you fixed up that little problem with my honey yet?”

“It so happens to be the reason why I’m here,” he replied. Ingun excused herself and got up, offering Eonwe the faintest of smiles before departing from the inn. Eonwe could smell the potency of flowers as the younger Black-Briar exited. Definitely nightshade, and is that deathbell? Funny that she be working with such toxic flowers.

“I need only a few moments of your time. Care to speak in private?” Mercer added, unusually polite for a man that came across so insolent.

Maven snapped her book shut, snatched up a slice of apple from Ingun’s abandoned plate, and motioned to the stairwell. “We’ll have peace upstairs away from these nosy little prudes. Come, and bring your… well, whoever she is,” she looked at Eonwe at last, her amber stare acute in its disapproving antipathy. Eonwe found it difficult to hold it, but she did.

________

“So Aringoth wants to play king of the castle, hmm?” Maven took a slow sip of brandy and clicked her tongue. “Well, he’s about to learn there’s a queen cometh to seize his kingdom.”

Eonwe leaned against the wall, listening to Mercer and Maven’s increasingly serious conversation, so serious that they’d dropped their voices to whispers from time to time. It was hard to hear over the clattering of plates and silverware below, and Eonwe was charged with keeping guests away from the private corner, though there’d only been one – not to mention the growing curiosity of Argonian innkeeper Talen-Jai.

“A few more moments,” she’d told him the last time. “It’s very important.”

So far, Eonwe didn’t know what to think of the Thieves Guild. She wasn’t happy with joining them, and she was especially unhappy with the waistband of her pants biting into her hips. A huge part of her wanted to slip back downstairs, leave the inn and put damp old Riften behind her for good, but why couldn’t she? There were no friendly faces in the Guild, she’d already made an enemy out of the fence, and no one else was very welcoming. There was nothing anyone could say to keep her there either, so why was Eonwe still leaning against the wall rubbing the insides of her boots together?

I don’t have anything else. That was the truth. Other than hunting every deer in Skyrim and jumping from city to city, picking up little jobs here and there, that was all her father’s homeland offered her. She wasn’t a blacksmith and didn’t want to make armour for a living; she couldn’t do magic so she couldn’t go to the College of Winterhold up north; despite her mother’s skills in alchemy, Eonwe didn’t understand a lick of that either.

I could run with bandits, she thought glumly. Beat them for gold and be branded a criminal for the rest of my life. Oh, but wait. That’s the same as this mess I’ve landed myself in!

“I need you to deal with this,” Maven snapped, her chair creaking as she leaned forward. “I don’t care what it takes or how many you lose, you will make that wood elf smarten up and get back on track, or he’ll regret every breath he takes between now and the time I have the Dark Brotherhood deal with him. Do you understand?”

The Dark Brotherhood. There’s always that... Eonwe sighed and pushed off of the wall, sensing the conversation was finally coming to a close. She glanced around the corner to see them standing up and shaking hands. Very professional – businesslike. Eonwe moved forward within Mercer’s line of sight, showing him that she was still there, but he didn’t acknowledge her. He strode by her, as though expecting her to follow, and Eonwe began to until Maven said:

“I didn’t realize you were recruiting new members.”

“She owes us quite a bit, or so I’ve heard from my second in command,” Mercer responded. “Until then, she’s proving her worth to the Guild and that she’d be more than what meets the eye.”

And what’s that? A “child playing warrior”, as you put it?

Maven must have seen the distain in her eyes because she stepped forward. “It must have been Brynjolf who let you in. He does have an eye for the pretty ones,” she looked Eonwe over, neither satisfied or discontented. “There’s a certain… fire about you, and you don’t look that dumb. Perhaps there is something worth finding in you.”

“Perhaps,” Eonwe echoed softly. The corners of Maven’s lips turned up ever so slightly that Eonwe thought she could have been imagining it, but the woman was already striding by with a contemptuous grace. Maven Black-Briar was a woman who knew who she was and who others were too, and from the odd look Mercer gave Eonwe, she knew something very unusual had just occurred.

Either way, Eonwe just wanted to get out of the inn. Something about being there with Mercer brought back a revolting sense of apprehension and fretfulness that was as painful as the blunt end of a knife cutting through the skin, but Eonwe didn’t know why.

Chapter Text

“Well, here’s Windhelm. I hope you’re familiar with the city because if anythin’ goes wrong, ya gotta know which alley leads where. You read that book I gave you, right?”

Eonwe nodded, rubbing her palms together as she and Delvin walked the long bridge to the wintery city of Windhelm. A couple of days ago, he’d lent her a book he’d written called “Shadowmarks” and Eonwe had struggled to memorize all of the hand-drawn symbols and remember their meanings. The easiest one was the Guild’s mark – the diamond with the circle in the middle.

“Of course that’s the easiest one!” Delvin had laughed. “It’s the only one you know!”

After that, he’d taken her around Riften and showed her a couple of the different marks hidden in places “normal people don’t go lookin’,”, then sent her on a merry chase to discover all of the hidden shadowmarks, record where she found them, and steal ten gold’s worth of trinkets from each place, “Unless they are associated with the Guild”.

It didn’t go very well. Eonwe got caught twice and managed to hide long enough, using the first couple of tricks Delvin had taught her. Eonwe was a hunter, so sneaking around was no problem. It was the lockpicking that kept messing with her, and she couldn’t imagine trying to pickpocket a person. Eonwe couldn’t get her head wrapped around how to touch a person without them feeling it, in what city other than Riften, where people were on high alert for thieves nearly all the time.

“Vipir can help you with that,” Delvin had suggested. “When Vex is feelin’ better, go ask her about lockpickin’ and have her sit in the trainin’ room with ya.”

“So, do ya remember what you’re doin’?” Delvin asked her just a few paces away from the main gates, out of range of the posted guards.

“I have to plant a ruby in House Shatter-Shield, in Nilsine’s bedroom...” Eonwe paused to think. “And I have to change the ledger at Sadri’s Used Wares in the Gray Quarter.”

“Well, on you go. Keep an eye out for any more of them shadowmarks, eh?” Delvin patted her arm briskly and climbed the steps into the city and Eonwe followed, shivering at a blast of cold air straight off the water.

Eonwe headed for the Gray Quarter first, breathing slowly to keep herself calm. She didn’t want to mess up and have the city guard chasing her up the walls, but she wasn’t up to thievery either. Red flags were waving the closer and closer she got to her destination, and she barely noticed the little girl with the flower basket until she was bumping into her and sending a cascade of mountain flowers to the ground.

“Oh no! My flowers!” the little girl cried, kneeling at once and gathering up the delicate plants. Eonwe knelt and gently plucked the curling petals of a bright yellow dragon’s tongue from a patch of melting ice and handed it to the child. She met a pair of wide blue eyes, floating like luminous sapphires in the middle of her pink apple cheeks and pouting lips. The little girl was filthy; her face was mottled with an arrangement of pale freckles and darker dirt, and her thick brown hair was greasy. She was shivering too – not a surprise, since she was wearing no more than a simple child’s dress.

“I’m sorry about your flowers,” Eonwe apologized.

“You weren’t paying attention to where you were going,” the little girl accused sourly. “Be careful next time, okay?”

Eonwe couldn’t help but smile at the child’s fire, but it was a sad smile. The harsh bleakness of the city was reflected in her eyes with immeasurable pain. It was like gazing into a mirror. “How old are you?’ Eonwe suddenly blurted. She had to be no older than ten…

“Nine. Why do you care?” she frowned.

Nine. Too young… too young…

“Where are your parents?” Eonwe snapped. “Don’t you have a cloak to wear? It’s freezing out here, kiddo!”

All at once, the girl’s face fell and Eonwe mentally berated herself. She should have known. She looked at the basket clutched in the girl’s frostbitten fingers and sighed, reaching down to pat her head kindly. The girl leaned away, fixing Eonwe with a biting glare. There must have been some kind of look on Eonwe’s face because the girl softened and held up the dragon’s tongue Eonwe had given back to her. “Want it?”

“Flowers won’t earn you much,” Eonwe told her, digging through her pockets for some coin. She drew out five coins and handed them over, and the girl’s eyes lit up. “That’s all I have on me anyways.”

“Thank you,” she smiled up at Eonwe and closed her palm tightly around the coins. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Eonwe grinned. “My friends call me Eonwe.”

“And my friends call me Sofie,” she said slyly, then giggled. It was an impossibly wonderful sound in the dull sorrow of the gray stone walls looming around them. Eonwe reached out and ruffled Sofie’s hair, wincing at how bad it was. “Take care of yourself, okay? It’s not safe on the streets.”

“I know. I’ll try,” Sofie promised. “Bye!”

Eonwe waved goodbye and as she wandered down into the Gray Quarter, her heart nearly broke in half at the idea of leaving an innocent child to suffer in the cold. There was nothing she could do though. She had no home and no time, and she wasn’t old enough to look after a kid. She wasn’t even a good role model, considering that she’d just hooked up with a gang of thieves.

Maybe if the dragons came down in burned this city, it would be a blessing, she thought wretchedly. She closed her eyes, shoving away the prick of guilt, and pushed open the door to Sadri’s Used Wares.

________

“If you keep your face like that, you’ll look like that for the rest of your years,” Delvin pointed out. Eonwe heaved a heavy sigh as the heavy city gates swung shut behind them.

“Did you finish your jobs, or was your lower lip draggin’ on the ground the whole time and knockin’ things over?” he teased.

“There was a little girl,” she uttered. “Sofie.”

Delvin’s eyebrows raised, making a bunch of lines in his high forehead. “Is that why you’re poutin’? Over a kid?”

“She doesn’t have a home, Delvin. She sells flowers for coin.”

“I hope you didn’t give any of yours away-”

“I did actually,” Eonwe snapped. “How can you be so heartless? She’s just a child, sleeping in the cold and eating who knows what for breakfast. It’s wrong. It’s horrible!” Tears prickled her eyes. “No child should have to be hungry or feel alone.”

Eonwe couldn’t see Delvin’s look until she rubbed the tears out of her eyes. He placed a hand on her shoulder and pointed to the gates behind them. “Listen to me. There are a lot of kids out there without families, without food, and without hope. I was one of them once and I’d willingly bet my purse of septims that you were one, too. You wouldn’t be so hopped up about it if you weren’t,” he added with a gentle smile. “But feelin’ sad won’t help her any. Your “Sofie” will just have to make do. One day, things will start lookin’ up!”

“How can you be sure?” Eonwe mumbled.

“Because she’s smart and she’s tryin’,” Delvin reasoned. “The best thing we can do is not think about it. You can’t be distracted by things you can’t help.”

“Like the Guild?” Eonwe met the Breton’s eyes and he exhaled loudly.

“Yeah… yeah. Like the Guild,” he ran a hand over his head in exasperation. “Look, it might recover or it might not. That’s what life is about: Tryin’. If you don’t, then what’s the sense in doin’ anythin’? Look,” he paused, grounding himself before continuing. “I know the others think I’m a bit daft for sayin’ stuff like this, but I’m gonna give it to you straight. Somethin’ out there is piss-drunk mad at us, and I don’t know who or what it is, but it’s somethin’ big. Something beyond you and me, and Mercer and Bryn and the whole lot of us. We’ve been cursed.”

Eonwe smirked. “That’s a bit much, don’t you think?”

Delvin made a face. “Maybe, maybe not. But I’ll tell you what we’ll do, you hear? We’ll spit in that curse’s face and change the way things are headed. Put things back the way they were, and you’ll help us do that. As I said, it’s about tryin’, and if you don’t…”

“…Then what’s the sense in doing anything?” Eonwe finished. “Alright, I think I get it.”

“Yeah? I hope so. Now, don’t worry about your Sofie and don’t worry about anythin’ else. Just worry about helpin’ us bring back the Guild and rebuildin' the respect we had, and then we can worry about everythin’ else. Hey,” he added with a genuine smile. “I’ll even make that a promise. Remind me to sign the papers when we get home.”

Chapter Text

“Alright, footpad. This should be fun.”

Vex sank down slowly into one of the chairs, supporting her side with a groan. Less than a week had crawled by since her accident at Goldenglow Estate and it showed. Her torso was padded and wrapped, and every night she had to apply a slave to ward off infection. It was a tedious job, and what made it worse for her was that she couldn’t wear her Guild apparel; she strutted around in an oversized miner’s shirt that had all the guys looking – Vipir especially.

If Vex had retained anything, it was her outstandingly supercilious personality.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Vex began. “You’re going to open each chest within a certain matter of time. I’ve got Thrynn helping us out, and if you happen to hear him in the hall, you move your ass and hide before he sees you. Imagine he’s a guard patrolling the area.”

Eonwe nodded. She was rather dubious about doing this right, and Vex knew it. If it wasn’t hard enough picking locks with Vex screeching in her ear all day…

“Good. First chest. You’ve got a minute.”

“A minute?” Eonwe echoed.

Vex snorted. “That’s what I said. Do you think the world is going to make it easy for you? No. You have to learn to do this quickly and efficiently. You won’t get anywhere unless you listen to me, so I suggest you start.”

It took Eonwe a minute and a half, considering that Thrynn started up the hall just as she almost clicked the latch. Vex was disappointed but merely pointed to the next one and said: “Two minutes. Go.”

Eonwe was hunched over the master-locked chest when Vex muttered something under her breath and got to her feet, staggering towards Eonwe and kneeling, not without some difficultly. She snatched the lockpicks out of Eonwe’s hands, ordered her to watch, and demonstrated the fastest way to find the sweet spot. Vex made it look like child’s play.

“You feel around until you find the little lever,” she explained. “When you’ve found it, you push on it and use this pick to twist. That’ll line up the little parts inside and voila!” The chest clicked open and Vex raised the lid, smirking. “Easy as pie.”

“Maybe for you,” Eonwe muttered.

“It takes years of practice to get it right and for a lucky few, just a few months of grueling determination. You can’t be expected to do it properly right away,” Vex admitted. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to make it easy for you. Open the Dwemer chest next. You’ve got three minutes.”

________

Training carried on in a similar fashion for the rest of the week, and after several anxiety-stirring pickpocket missions coordinated between Vipir and Delvin, Eonwe was deemed “good enough”. Vex still thought her lockpicking skills needed work and would frequently mention it, even after a full day of sitting alone in the training room in front of the chests. “Your fingers aren’t bleeding yet,” Vex had once told her with a smirk, and sent her right back. They’d found her the next morning, having fallen asleep propped up against the master-locked chest with several broken lockpicks around her – every other chest but the master chest had been unlocked. For once, Vex didn’t call her “footpad”, so she guessed she was on the right track.

Today was combat training. Eonwe was pleased to have something familiar to look forward to, but she didn’t know who she’d be fighting. While buckling the straps on her boots, she looked around the Guild and noticed Sapphire and Rune were missing from the cluster around the cooking pot. As usual, Mercer was leaning over his desk, but he was looking out across the cistern in vague disinterest. Eonwe wondered if the man ever slept – she hardly saw him budge from his spot.

When Eonwe entered the training room, she found Sapphire and Rune practicing on the dummies lined up on the wall. She was worrying about how she and Sapphire would get along with weapons clashing between them when she spotted Brynjolf leaning against the far wall. His head lifted as he noticed her shifting from foot to foot in the hall, and Sapphire and Rune sheathed their weapons.

“Good morning,” Rune greeted cheerfully.

“Hey,” Sapphire said.

“Morning,” Eonwe responded.

It was getting easier to talk to the members of the Guild, even though her heart wasn’t in it. She couldn’t complain about a bit of free training in skills she’d let slide before, and planting a few baubles here and there around Riften and Windhelm’s streets didn’t make her feel awkward. As much as she hated to admit it, she’d begun to very slightly at home with the familiar faces that were growing kinder with every passing day as she built up respect among the thieves, and sneaking around took her right back to who she was.

“Good morning, lass,” Brynjolf pushed away from the wall and came to join them. “Ready for some combat lessons?” Eonwe nodded and he grinned. “Alright, show us what you got.”

Without warning, Sapphire and Rune lunged at her, weapons drawn in the blink of an eye. Eonwe dodged, bounced off the wall, and spun to face them, her fingers wrapping around the hilts of her twin elven daggers. She caught Rune’s strike just in time, and used her foot to shove an incoming Sapphire back a few paces. Suddenly, the tip of a dagger was pressing into her spine, and she froze.

“Not bad,” Sapphire admitted, brushing back a stray lock of hair from her eyes. “But what about your third opponent?”

“I didn’t think he-” she began but it was Brynjolf who cut her off. “If you see two, always expect a third to show up and join the fight. You have to be aware of your surroundings at all times.”

“It wasn’t fair though!” Eonwe understood what he was getting at but he’d never drawn his blade at the beginning. You can’t assume, Eonwe told herself, and she shook her head. “Okay, let’s give it another go.”

“There wouldn’t be “another go” if this were real,” Rune said. “You’d be dead.”

Eonwe smirked. “But I’m not, am I?” she leaped forward and met Rune’s sword, shoving him backwards and launching a side blow at Sapphire. The Nord ducked low and kicked one foot out, trying to trip Eonwe, but she evaded the kick and flung out her own leg, unbalancing Sapphire. She glimpsed Rune swinging at her on her left and ducked her head, then rammed herself sideways into him, effectively startling him and knocking the sword from his grip. Eonwe whirled in time to cross her daggers and caught Brynjolf’s attack mere inches from her face. The red-haired Nord gave her a cheeky grin.

“You forgot something,” he told her and Eonwe’s brows furrowed. The flat edge of Rune’s sword gently slapped her behind and she sighed in irritation.

“I don’t think she’s trying,” Rune taunted. “I’ve seen skeevers hold their own better.”

“What does that make you, then?” Sapphire jeered. “A wilting little flower?”

Eonwe ground her teeth. She knew they were goading her on purpose, but wasn’t this just supposed to be training? She wasn’t going to fight them for real… although they were making her want to. The three of them started to circle her, rolling their shoulders or twirling their blades as they mocked her.

“Milk-drinker!” Sapphire teased.

“Weakling!’ Rune crowed.

The playfulness was clear in their eyes as they anticipated whom Eonwe would strike first. Brynjolf stopped in front of her and met her gaze, but he lacked the humour the others clearly had. He regarded her with narrowed eyes, daggers held loose in his hands at his sides, and quietly uttered a single word:

“Coward.”

The blood drained from Eonwe’s face and pure rage engulfed her like no force she’d ever known, and she released it in an enraged battle cry bearing all the ferocity of Skyrim’s most fearsome Nords as she lunged at Brynjolf.

Chapter Text

Eonwe’s daggers slashed the open space between herself and Brynjolf and he staggered back, avoiding a lethal strike. He glimpsed Rune and Sapphire staring in open-mouthed shock, but returned his attention to Eonwe in time to fend off a forceful blow. She wasn’t holding back now, but he was afraid the lass really was trying to kill him. He glimpsed Rune run from the room.

Brynjolf could hear Eonwe mumbling something under her breath but he couldn’t spare a moment to concentrate. Knowing he had to do something before someone got hurt, he waited until she made to stab at him again. He dropped one of his precious daggers and caught her wrist, twisting her arm behind her back and propelling her around to shove her up against the wall. Eonwe let out an angry screech. He could see firelight glowing in her slit eyes.

“What’s going on here?” Mercer yelled, coming into the training room with Rune and Delvin on his heels. His eyes locked on Brynjolf pinning Eonwe to the wall and his expression turned thunderous. “I knew she would be trouble,” he snapped.

“Mercer, it was my fault-”

“Damn right it was your fault!” Eonwe snarled. “You rotten bastard. Just let me loose and I’ll rip your tongue out!”

“Silence!” Mercer hissed. He strode across the room, grasped Eonwe’s shoulder and spun her around to face him. She fixed her hot glare on him. He stuck a finger in her face and growled, “If I have one more problem with you, you’re out of here.”

Eonwe smirked. “That could be arranged,” she said coolly. Mercer clenched his teeth and drew back his hand, smacking her across the face. The sound echoed in the still silence of the training room. Brynjolf winced, glimpsing the tears shimmering in her eyes. Still, she held her ground, though her mouth trembled. She was brave – and no doubt had a death wish.

“You didn’t let me finish,” Mercer said. “Depending on the severity of the problem, and if it should disturb me personally, I will make you wish you’d never been born. You won’t have the audacity to even beg for your life.” As he spoke, his hand inched from her shoulder to the base of her throat, and the tendons in his hand shook as his fingers formed claws. Brynjolf felt a slight start of alarm. “It will be the worst day of your petty, miserable little life, and it will also be your last day in this world. Is that understood?”

Eonwe nodded, all traces of dignity gone and replaced with stark, white fear. Brynjolf remembered how Mercer had treated other individuals in the past. He remembered seeing the boldest of men and women run from the cistern in tears, and the reek of piss was always present for days after wherever Mercer had cornered them. He was a man with a heart of stone, but even the hardest and coarsest of stones had to bleed at some point.

Knowing Eonwe had had enough, Brynjolf stepped forward and placed a light hand on Mercer’s arm. “Mercer, that’s enough.” Eonwe’s gaze turned cold at Brynjolf’s words. He could clearly hear her unspoken words: Enough? Suddenly you can judge what is enough? “Let the lass go.”

Mercer dropped his arm, cast a blank glance around the room, and left wordlessly. A hushed quietness followed. Eonwe remained where Mercer had threatened her, and as much as Brynjolf wanted to say something, he was a little bit afraid to. Not because she would undoubtedly go at him again, but because he’d taken words she’d once confided to him and twisted them to hurt her – struck a chord deep within the darkest reserves of her soul. It was like hitting an innocent, traumatized child, what he’d done, but pride stopped him from admitting his regret.

“Well, we don’t see that every day,” Vipir said ignorantly and everyone felt each other’s animosity ripple through the air. Eonwe raised her head, her tears frozen on her cheeks and her expression eerie and quiet. She looked at Vipir for a moment, considering what to do or say, but instead took a breath and strode out of the room.

Brynjolf didn’t follow. He instead retrieved his dagger and stared at it wordlessly.

“Bad idea, mate,” Delvin said softly. “Don’t go leavin’ things this way.”

Brynjolf rubbed his eyes. It was a daunting task, a bit like standing at the edge of a cliff with shallow water and sharp rocks below. “It’d probably be best if I said nothing.”

“She ain’t that kind of girl,” Delvin urged. “Go after her. Say something’.”

“Like what?” Brynjolf was lost. “Tell her how sorry I am for calling her a “coward”?”

Delvin flinched. “Oh, you didn’t go and say that, did you?”

Brynjolf nodded. “Aye. I said that,” he admitted quietly.

Delvin whistled. “Do you got a death wish, Bryn? She ain’t one to tolerate that sort of thing! You could have called her anythin’ – wait, why’d you even call her a coward?”

“Ah well…” Brynjolf fumbled in his shame. “The rest of them were joking around so I thought-”

“That you’d one-up them all, is that right?” Delvin finished, shaking his head. “Bryn, you can be a real bloody fool sometimes, you know that?”

“Aye. I know,” Brynjolf sighed. “I’ll give it a few days. She’ll come round.”

Delvin snorted. “I’ll start the bettin’ round the Guild. See who else would be dumb enough to believe a thing like that. I’d wish you luck, Bryn but…” he paused and wrung his hands together nervously. “I don’t think Lady Luck is on your side.”

________

Delvin was right.

Brynjolf swallowed the last of his mead and set the bottle down, looking at the dark rings in the wood of the table. They glared at him like eyes, like her eyes. It was better when she glared though. Too often, she’d push by or keep her head down, a shell of the defiant little vixen that had come in blazing like all of Oblivion’s fires.

That old codger is always right.

Eonwe was sitting at the bar, shoulders hunched up as she picked at a boiled crème treat. Dirge was beside her, talking loudly with Vekel and laughing over a few old jokes or a strange looking fellow that gave him the wrong eye the other day. Eonwe seemed unbothered by it. Brynjolf knew her posture was stiff because he was sitting in the same space as her. That didn’t mean he was going to get up and leave, just so she’d be happier.

She’s sulking now, looking for attention. That’s what this is.

Eonwe slid off the barstool and went to Delvin’s table, talking to him too quietly for Brynjolf to hear. He watched from the corner of his eye, fighting the urge to sweep loose strands out of the way and make it obvious, and glimpsed Delvin writing something down on a paper for her. He glanced at Brynjolf as he passed the folded strip to her and, casually, Eonwe strode by and followed the edge of the pool to the door leading into the Ratways.

The moment she left, Brynjolf pushed back his chair and joined Delvin, gesturing to Vekel to bring a few more meads, and fixed his stare on the Breton. Delvin didn’t look up until he was done filling in something in the contact book. “How can I help ya today?” he asked cheerfully.

Brynjolf snorted. “Cut that out. What was that all about?”

Delvin feigned confusion. “I don’t know what-”

“That suspicious piece of paper you gave her.”

“Oh, that?” Delvin shrugged. “Just an address, that’s all.”

“Where to?”

“Brynjolf.” It was pretty rare when Delvin used his full name anymore. “Leave the girl alone. She doesn’t want to talk to ya. I’m not gonna give her reason to be mad with me, too, so lay off.”

Brynjolf fisted his hands. “That wasn’t just “an address” as you say. You might be a good sneak thief, but you’re a horrible liar.”

Delvin held up a hand as he flipped open his job book. “Bryn, I’m busy here, okay? I got a lot of stuff to write down right now, so you’re goin’ to have to wait.”

“Del-”

Delvin spared him a steely look for a brief moment. “Think of the Guild, mate.”

Brynjolf ran a hand through his hair and got up from the table, taking the two meads from Vekel as he brought them over. He uncorked one and took a long drink, then handed the other to Delvin. The Breton shook his head, already absorbed in his work.

“I’m putting it on your tab, Delvin.”

“Yeah, yeah. You do that.”

Chapter Text

Eonwe needed to get away.

She’d lain awake all night, staring at the ceiling, listening to the splashes of water and the other sounds within the cistern. She was aware of the candle lit over where Brynjolf slept; he was up reading most of the night, but Eonwe wondered if he knew what she was thinking. That she was going to leave the Thieves Guild and never come back.

When the rest of the thieves rolled out of bed to prepare for the day, Eonwe followed suite, taking the time to make her bed and pull her hair up into a ponytail so it wouldn’t be in the way. She stripped off the Guild’s armour and donned her old scaled gear, pleased with the familiar feel. She checked her pockets and felt Madesi’s ring, still tucked away. She drew it out and stared at it. She’d forgotten to wing it at Brynjolf. Eonwe opened the drawer to the little end table next to the bed and placed it within, figuring someone would find it and take it, or just leave it there. She didn’t need it where she was going.

She sheathed her collection of weapons in their respectful places, slung her quiver and knapsack over her shoulder, and started straight for the ladder. There was no doubt, no regret. She wasn’t leaving anything important behind; anything of value was either carried on hand or waiting for her elsewhere. She adjusted her knapsack and started up the ladder.

“Leaving so soon?” a familiar voice said behind her. Eonwe looked over his shoulder and saw Etienne standing there, having come to grab something for breakfast. Eonwe decided there was only one thing to do.

“I’m going on a job,” she lied.

“Without your armour?”

“Yeah… it’s an infiltration mission, and they recognize you guys’ armour,” she smiled. “Better safe than sorry, right?”

“Right,” Etienne echoed, puzzled. “Well, uh… good luck out there.”

Eonwe nodded and started up the ladder, hoping that Etienne wouldn’t mention her leaving until she was well out of Riften and on the road.

________

Eonwe stopped at the market stalls before heading out, hoping to pick up a few things of use. She bought a new bushel of orcish arrows from Grelka and took her weapons to be sharpened at the local blacksmith. Balimund was a cheerful sort, but he was worried about his forge. Eonwe offered to gather some fire salts for him, and figured that a visit to the court wizard might be quickest.

Mistveil Keep was a huge fortification of stone and wood where Jarl Laila Law-Giver and her subjects resided. She found her way to the court mage’s – Wylandriah – workshop. “Fire salts?” the erratic wood elf repeated. “I should have some around here somewhere…”

It took longer than necessary to find them, but Eonwe sympathized with the poor, forgetful woman. Wylandriah seemed delighted to have someone to explain her many theories to, and even though Eonwe had no idea what she was talking about, she pretended to understand and made a couple of suggestions that somehow made sense. It worked out well in the end, and soon Eonwe was handing over some coin in exchange for the small sack of spicy-scented salts. “You’re so helpful,” Wylandriah sighed. “You should talk to the Jarl and see if there’s anything you can help out with.”

While Eonwe wanted to leave, the familiar old urge to assist drove her to kneel before the Jarl and her steward, and she asked if there was anything needing clearing up in the city. She briefly thought of the thieves and that Jarl Laila might mention them, but she had something else in mind.

“I’m not sure if you’ve heard of our local skooma dealer, Sarthis Idren, out in the warehouse behind the fishery?” Jarl Laila asked. “We’ve been trying to catch him for months but he slips out of our grasp each time. Perhaps you, a stranger, could handle this problem once and for all. There would be an excellent reward for such a feat.”

Bribery always wins, Eonwe thought as Jarl Laila handed over the key to the warehouse and left Anuriel, the steward, to give her directions. She stopped at Balimund’s to hand over the fire salts, getting a surprising kiss on the cheek and quite a bit of coin, before heading out to the docks.

The wood was old and rotted, creaking under every step. Eonwe followed the boardwalk to the warehouse Anuriel had explained and fit the key in the lock. She twisted it quietly and pushed open the door, not knowing what to expect.

The huge hulking guard charging at the door, warhammer in hand, was her least expectation of all.

Eonwe slammed the door shut and drew her sword, backing away. The guard burst through and came at her, swinging. She ducked and, seeing her chance, got behind him and shoved him away with her boot. He lost his balance and fell, smacking his head on the edge of the ramp below and rolling into the lake. With a humoured smirk, Eonwe entered the warehouse and looked around. It was oddly silent.

She then heard it, a light scratching sound. She snuck around, peering around all the corners until she was left with nowhere to go but down. She climbed down the stairs, placing her feet gently and almost thanking Delvin for the training, when one of the boards let out a pitiful creak. The scratching sound stopped and someone got up.

“Orini?” a gruff voice called out. “That you?”

When Sarthis Idren came around the corner, he wasn’t expecting an arrow to snap through the air and pierce his chest. He let out a startled yell, unsheathing his sword and searching for his attacker. His eyes fell on the figure in the shadows as a second arrow let fly and caught him in the middle of the forehead, killing him instantly. Eonwe approached his dead body and kicked him gently, then stepped over him and into the little room…

That was full of skooma bottles and sacks of nauseatingly sweet moon sugar.

Eonwe didn’t know what to look for until she saw the letter on Sarthis’ desk. She snatched it up and gave it a quick read, noting the source of the dealing coming from Cragslane Cavern, as well as a second location she hadn’t given him time to write. For all she knew, the skooma could have been coming from a dozen different sources, but at least she’d uncovered one, and now the Jarl was able to begin dealing with it. The other places would surely be recorded elsewhere.

Eonwe tore open one of the bags of moon sugar. It had been ground down into a fine white powder. She moistened a fingertip and stuck it into the sugar, then tasted it. It was sweeter than honey and had a satisfying, though bitter, edge. It was definitely addictive. She could see why skooma was so hard to stop using; she didn’t dare pop open a bottle of it and give that a try. She had enough problems.

Eonwe tucked the letter into her pocket, snatched up a couple of bags of moon sugar and slipped them into her knapsack. She added a few bottles of skooma before heading out to take her findings to the Jarl.

Jarl Laila was delighted to see Eonwe return with evidence and the letter. Anuriel hoisted one of the bags and her eyebrows flew up. “How many did you say there were?” she asked Eonwe.

“The shelves were full, and there were crates full of skooma,” she responded. “Enough to supply Riften with for a few months, I’d guess.”

“Well, this is the first good news we’ve had in a long time,” Jarl Laila praised. “I’d like to thank you for your efforts, but until the Cragslane operation is stopped, I won’t be raising a cup yet. Could you do me one more favour and head over there? Put an end to this dealing of poison once and for all, and I can promise a reward greater than gold.”

Eonwe couldn’t exactly say no so bluntly before a Jarl, so she simply bowed her head and said, “It will be done.”

Chapter Text

A wolf howled, and two more took up its lonely call. Once proud animals, turned into fighting dogs, they still sung in the dreams of freedom once more. It was a sad, hollow melody.

Eonwe quietly dispatched the bandit posted on guard duty and crept into the cavern, following the steep tunnel down into the heart of the operation. The wolves howled again, and Eonwe could hear human voices.

Cragslane Cavern was not just a skooma dealing hub but it was home to an illegal dog-fighting ring. Lying in the middle of said ring was a lone white wolf, its fur parted by patches of pink skin where it had been bitten by its own pack members. Two men leaned against the enclosure, their backs to Eonwe, and a few others were at the bar counter on the far side, drinking and playing a game of cards with the barkeep.

None of them survived the arrows shooting from Eonwe’s bow as she dealt them quiet, quick deaths.

She walked past the ring, hearing the wolf growl low in its throat but it never bothered to stand. It just watched her with deep yellow eyes as she made her way by. She had no ideas on how to let the pit wolves free, lest they try to attack her in the process. Eonwe wasn’t in the mood to kill them though, even if it was on the side of mercy.

A second chamber was attached to the first, leading away from the fighting ring. Eonwe walked down the tunnel, an arrow notched in her bow. She could hear someone moving about, grunting about their life problems and how the shipments were always late. She glimpsed a single figure, twice her size and wearing monstrous ebony-black armour. Their head was uncovered, so she would have to land a headshot. She knelt, aiming precisely, and prepared to fire.

There was a low growl behind her and Eonwe felt a huff on warm breath on her neck, and in the same moment, the dealer turned his head and spotted her there. “Damnit,” Eonwe whispered, and she shrank to one side as the wolf sprang and leaped past her, heading straight at the dealer.

“Arrgh!” the dealer bellowed, swinging a greatsword of malachite glass and cutting the wolf down mid-leap. Eonwe staggered to her feet and lifted her bow, firing the arrow. The dealer smacked it out of thin air with his greatsword and sneered. “Not fast enough!”

Eonwe dropped her bow and drew her sword, bringing it up to stop the dealer’s strike with an odd-sounded clang. She scurried by, rushing into the room, and glimpsed huge crates packed full of moon sugar. A table was covered with tools and equipment she’d never seen before, which was used to turn the grainy sugar into liquid skooma.

The dealer had caught up to her and was behind her when she spun around. He sent her crashing to the floor, and the impact sent her sword clattering away. Eonwe scrambled backwards, but he followed and kicked her in the stomach, driving the breath out of Eonwe. He kicked her again, sending her sprawling into the cages holding the pit wolves. They barked and snarled, attacking the cage in their excitement. Eonwe got to her hands and knees, head spinning as she spat blood.

“Hah!” the dealer exclaimed. “I think you’re bleeding!”

Indeed she was. When Eonwe collided with the cage, her head had knocked hard and opened a wound in her forehead. She used the cage to climb to her feet, shaking the buzz out of her ears, and faced the dealer. He was a brute and a tough one. Eonwe eyed her sword, figured it was too far, and unsheathed her daggers. The dealer laughed.

“You can’t beat me,” he told her.

Eonwe sighed. “I can try,” she said. The dealer narrowed his eyes and swung his sword in an arc around his head, and Eonwe charged forward. She felt the edge of the greatsword brush the top of her head as she found an opening in the ebony armour and drove her dagger up into it. The dealer gasped in pain and, gritting her teeth, Eonwe twisted the dagger and wrenched it upwards.

She’d missed his heart.

“Nice try, bitch,” he wheezed. Eonwe felt something small spike into her side and she gasped as pain lanced through her.

Eonwe brought her left hand up, blocking out the stinging pain in her side as she wrenched the dagger across the dealer’s face. He cried out and staggered away from her, clutching his eyes as he howled with the excited wolves, and Eonwe deftly brought her the blunt end of her dagger down on the back of his neck. He crashed to the floor, unconscious.

“Didn’t see that one, huh?” Eonwe muttered. She wrapped her fingers around the tiny dagger in her side and groaned as she pulled it free. She tossed it aside and knelt, rolling the dealer onto his back. He blinked up at her and glared.

“Just who d’ya think you are, coming in here and messing with business that isn’t yours?” he spat.

“I’m here to stop business,” Eonwe told him. She pressed her dagger to the underside of his throat. “There’s more than one production facility, isn’t there? Where is it?”

“I ain’t telling you nuthin’!”

Eonwe shrugged. “Have it your way.” She twirled the dagger between her fingers and slammed it down into his thigh. The dealer screamed.

“Are you going to tell me now?” she threatened. She twisted the blade slightly, making him spasm in agony.

“Arrgh – stop! Okay, okay I’ll tell you!” he wailed. Eonwe stopped twisting the dagger. “It… it’s a little den south of here, down in the Rift.”

“We are in the Rift, idiot.”

“I know. I ahhhhh!” the dealer squealed and tried to squirm away. “It’s an abandoned little hut. Bunch of bandits out front, even more below. They got a dog. S’all I know, I swear on my mama’s grave!”

“What. Is. It. Called?” Eonwe asked through gritted teeth.

“I dunno. Red-something,” he’d begun to sweat and his face was whiter than a sheet. He looked close to passing out again. “Are… are you gonna kill me?”

Eonwe sighed. “No.” She got to her feet and looked at the huge amounts of moon sugar, the waiting skooma bottles, the pot of it boiling on the table over a tiny stove. She couldn’t leave this there. Someone else could easily come along and start it up again.

“Are you gonna leave your dagger in my leg or what?” the dealer asked shrilly.

“Why the pit wolves?” Eonwe asked him. He gave her a blank look, so she repeated her question.

“It’s just for fun,” he said. “Everyone’d come down for some skooma and we’d all bet on the dogs. It wasn’t hurtin’ anyone, I swear-”

“On your mother’s grave, I get it,” Eonwe said. She crossed the room to the two levers on the wall. She guessed that they controlled the cages holding the pit wolves. “Abusing an animal is fun to you, then?”

“It’s just some stupid wolves,” the dealer scoffed. “The world would be better without ‘em.”

“Hm,” Eonwe nodded slowly and looked at the pit wolves. They stood watching her, salivating, pelts matted and eyes burning with hunger. She turned back to the dealer, who was watching her in confusion. “Just so you know, I killed a wolf not long ago. It tried to make me its next meal, so I had to protect myself. I didn’t think it was fun,” she said. “I buried it because – just like me – it was doing its best to survive. Now you, you and your little friends down here, thought it was fun to make them suffer.”

“So?”

“So,” Eonwe reached up and closed a hand around one of the levers. “You can tell your “mama” how fun it was when the wolves tore you apart, piece by piece.” She pulled down on both levers and vaulted up onto one of the cages. The chains reeled in, pulling the doors up, and the pit wolves shot out. The dealer screamed and tried to get to his feet, but the pit wolves were on him, snarling and ripping into him with jagged yellowed teeth. There was a spray of blood an incoherent shriek ending in a thick gurgle. The sound of flesh shredding from bone or nails scraping armour aside was all Eonwe could hear.

She didn’t bother to retrieve her daggers when the pit wolves were finished, but she did pick up her bow. The pit wolves scurried off, tails between their legs, howling towards the entrance. Finding a container of oil, she poured it on the sacks of moon sugar, being careful to not get any on herself, and took down one of the torches. Eonwe threw it on top of the crates and they caught ablaze. The stench of burning sugar made her stomach curl.

Eonwe went along with a second torch, setting anything else flammable afire as she made her way to the exit, and tossed the torch behind the bar counter. She picked up a bottle of Nord mead and climbed up the ramp, the sound of crackling flames and the smell of sweet smoke beginning to fill her senses. She reached the exit and popped the cork on the mead, taking a swig to wash out the combination of nasty tastes in her mouth.

Suddenly, the warm sunlight blazing down on her face was blotted out and she reached for her sword, which she’d forgotten to retrieve, like most of her weapons. She blinked, ready to throw the bottle at them and make a run for it, but there was no need. She recognized who it was, and groaned in irritation. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Brynjolf asked, regarding her suspiciously. “We heard you left. Mercer wants to speak with you, so I suggest you come with me.”

Chapter Text

“I’m going nowhere with you,” Eonwe snapped, marching past Brynjolf and starting down the path to the main road. It was a bit of a walk back to Riften, and she wasn’t looking forward to walking it with him. She could hear the crunch of his boots as he followed a few feet behind, keeping pace with her.

“Leave me alone,” she said.

“Not until you tell me why you left,” he responded.

“Oh, we are not playing that game again.”

“What game?”

“The one where you hold something over my head and expect me to go along with it,” Eonwe snorted. “Now leave me alone.”

Eonwe picked up her pace, intending to put distance between herself and the thief. She didn’t want him bombarding her with questions that she didn’t have to answer. By the time she reached Shor’s Watchtower, she was panting hard from the climb up the steep road, and Brynjolf was nowhere in sight. Relieved, she continued up the road to Shor’s Stone.

Something solid walloped her over the back of the head and she slumped to her knees, her hand reaching up to feel the back of her head. Someone was murmuring gently in her ear, and she could feel herself being lifted, floating up into the air like a cloud. Her head pillowed against a broad, warm chest; a leather strap pressed into her cheek and she glimpsed tangled coppery hair and dark leather. Eonwe breathed in a distinctively masculine scent before darkness swallowed her.

________

The dragon swooped out of the air, jaws parting and gushing a stream of liquid fire.

Eonwe sat up with a gasp, her face damp with cold sweat, fingers sinking into a blanket. The sound of water falling from the overhead storm drain grounded her and she realized she was lying on her bed in the cistern, still fully clothed, staring up at Mercer and Brynjolf at the foot of her bed. While Brynjolf looked slightly concerned, Mercer retained his usual scowl. Eonwe glowered up at Brynjolf. “You knocked me out!” she accused.

“No, I didn’t,” Brynjolf corrected. “There was a bandit on the road.”

Eonwe made a sound of disgust. “You’re really going to pull the old “the hero saved the girl” story, when we both know that isn’t true? You came up behind me, hit me over the head, and dragged me here-”

“I carried you.”

“If the two of you are done,” Mercer raised his voice before Eonwe could fit in another word. “Then I’d like to discuss a few important matters.” When neither of them spoke, he ordered them to follow him to his desk. Eonwe swung her legs over the side of the bed and as she stood, her head throbbed and she swayed, trying to retain her balance. She glimpsed Brynjolf near her but she fended him off with a raised hand and snapped, “Don’t touch me!”

Mercer was waiting for them, arms crossed and his foot audibly tapping. His sea-green gaze locked onto Eonwe’s as she approached. “I believe you and I got off on the wrong foot,” he began. “I’m going to give you a second chance to prove yourself to me, so I suggest that you listen carefully.

“Now that we’re aware of this situation over at Goldenglow Estate, we have an advantage we didn’t have before. I want you to head over there and succeed where Vex failed. Return when you’ve completed the task or not at all.”

“Mercer,” Brynjolf sounded concerned and a quick glance at his face confirmed it. “Vex barely made it off the island alive and she’s our best infiltrator. Why send Eonwe when you know full well that this is-”

“Are you questioning my authority, Brynjolf?” Mercer blazed. “Aringoth won’t be expecting another fool to go traipsing onto his island, which is exactly why I’m sending her. You’ve assured me on several occasions that Eonwe is fully capable of looking after herself, haven’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I deem she’s perfectly suited to go.” Mercer turned his attention back to Eonwe. “Get into your Guild armour. Brynjolf will answer any questions you might have. I would wish you luck, but Delvin seems convinced that our luck has run out, so I won’t bother.” He waved his hand in dismissal and returned to paging through an account log.

“Is there anything you need to know?” Brynjolf asked her as she headed for where she’d stored her Guild armour in her bedside chest.

“Yeah, there is,” Eonwe said, spinning on her heel and poking a finger into the middle of his chest. She could feel his heart thumping. “Why can’t you understand when someone is clearly asking you to fuck off?”

“I’m talking about the job, lass,” he clarified. Eonwe could tell he was starting to lose his patience, and as much as knowing that made her gleeful, she knew it was better to play it safe and not anger him. He’d probably drag her right to Mercer.

“What am I supposed to do when I get there?” she asked.

“You’re going to do nothing more than teach Aringoth the ways of his error. I want you to set no more than three,” he held up three fingers, “of his beehives on fire and clear out his safe of any gold or other items of value.”

“What about Aringoth?”

Brynjolf let out a long sigh. “That’s up to you. I’m leaving his fate in your hands.”

“As I said,” Eonwe muttered. “You people are famed for harassing others, including your own fellow colleagues.”

“Then why are you still standing there, listening to me?” Brynjolf raised an eyebrow. Eonwe didn’t know how to answer, so she just shrugged. “It’s not my place to say this after everything that’s happened, but I think you’re here because you’re lost.”

“In your dreams, Bryn,” Eonwe scoffed, turning her back. She didn’t want to hear it. No one wanted to hear the truth, did they?

“No, I’m serious. You’d have given us more trouble or run off again if you didn’t want to stay,” he said. “Until you find you place in the world, you need something else first, and this is all that came up. You could have joined the Dark Brotherhood. With a temper like that, I’m not surprised.”

Eonwe glared at Brynjolf over her shoulder. “Surprised about what? That I didn’t join a bunch of murderers? I should have. I’d be so kind as to put people out of their misery than rob them blind or… or talk them to death as you do!”

Brynjolf pressed a hand over his eyes for a moment then, when he looked at her, he was strangely calm. “There’s something we never told you about this organization,” there was a quiet menace in his tone. “Our little system is close-knit. Everyone you see in here – Vipir, Rune, Sapphire, Vex, Delvin – all of us. Do you ever wonder why we aren’t bigger? Why there aren’t more thieves?”

Eonwe shook her head. No, and she didn’t really care to.

“Well, there’s this little protocol that we have to follow. We don’t have strays running all over the place causing trouble. Each of us are accounted for and all of us are here because, like you, we have nothing else.”

“Get to the point,” Eonwe said.

“Lass,” he met her eyes and Eonwe felt a thrill run up her spine. It wasn’t a nice look he gave her. She was suddenly transported back to when they first met and he had her cornered. How did I describe him – oh right. I thought he was terrifying. “What I’m trying to say is that you can leave the Thieves Guild. You can run off and do whatever you want, but don’t expect that you can get away from us. If you go rogue, then you’re going to have to pay the consequences. You’re in this for life, or until you cause us trouble.”

Chapter Text

Goldenglow Estate looked as harmless as a bumblebee from afar, but as Eonwe got closer, she realized how difficult it was really going to be.

The island was actually three connected by wood and rope bridges, and it was crawling with mercenaries. One was posted at every corner, staring out over the lake, and every path was being patrolled by a constantly moving guard. They were all head-to-toe in steel plate armour, carrying steel finery on their backs or sides. Eonwe knew that one or two at a time would prove a challenge, but more – a whole swarm? She’d be better off drowning herself in the lake.

Instead of allowing herself to chicken out, she took several deep breaths and approached the island, following the stone bridge and slipping over the edge into the shallow water beneath, keeping her head down as she made her way through the soft, spongy mud to the beehives. She couldn’t see them from below, but she knew she was close when the audible noise of buzzing grew increasingly louder.

Clambering up onto the rocks, Eonwe peeked out between the gaps in a wooden wall raised to protect the hives from the worst of the wind that came off the lake. She had nothing flammable on hand, and she had never spent any time practicing her destruction magic – she’d probably burn the entire estate down if she tried. The only other option was equipping herself with a torch and, lucky for her, she could see one sitting in a holder not too far in front of the hives.

Keeping low in the long grass, Eonwe crawled on hand and knee towards the torch. She heard the crunch of boots and flopped to the round, pressing down as hard as possible to keep herself hidden. The boots paused. Eonwe could feel her heart slamming in her throat. The boots crunched again and faded away. She didn’t raise her head for a long time.

Snatching the torch, Eonwe returned to the hives and studied them. She couldn’t burn stone, but the roofs were made of straw and rope. She lit the first one and smiled as it caught ablaze, then lit the two on either side. She tossed the torch over the wooden wall and into the lake, and followed its arc down the rocks before she could be seen.

Now she had to find the boarded storm drain Vex had mentioned before Eonwe left. It took some time, and a few minutes of lurking beneath an overhang out of sight of a female mercenary, but nevertheless she found it and pried the rusted nails free, slipping in and bringing the cover back down over her head. She breathed a sigh of relief, glad to stretch her stiff knees.

The sewer tunnels stank of mold and other unmentionables, and Eonwe was quick to follow them to their nearest opening. She came across a few skeevers scurrying around looking for food and nabbed them all with a shot of her bow. She followed an oily tunnel floor a short ways then happened upon another ladder.

The ladder took her outside once again, but she was just outside an unguarded door. Lucky day, she thought as she bent to pick the lock. The sun had just set and the sky was a startling shade of raspberry and plum.

Inside was packed full of mercenaries.

It all became a precise game of hide and seek – more aptly named “Hide or you Die”. The floorboards creaked under Eonwe’s weight and it took too far too long to place each foot carefully when a mercenary could come around the corner at any given time. Eonwe soon resorted to slipping from corner to corner, making use of the many end tables and cabinets spread out, crawling under tables if she absolutely had to. It wasn’t long before she started hearing creaks that weren’t really there.

The estate was a maze. The hallways crisscrossed several times and Eonwe found herself back where she began. Frustrated and anxious to leave, it must have been hours before she finally located the locked gate and the stairs leading up to the second level. Peering down the hallway, she could see three mercenaries playing cards at a little table, and a fourth was wandering up and down the hall, more interested in holding a conversation. She waited until his back was turned before rushing to the gate and unlocking it ahead of time, then drifted upstairs.

There was one guard in Eonwe’s way that she knew she couldn’t get around. The Gods must have favoured her because he wore no helmet, making the task of creeping up behind him and elbowing him in the face to knock him out so much easier. Letting him slide to the floor, Eonwe tip-toed down the hallway, passed even more doors, and finally reached Aringoth’s master bedroom. She figured he was hiding inside, and she wouldn’t have bothered coming all this way if she didn’t need the key to his safe.

Eonwe broke into the wood elf’s room and quietly shut the door. She straightened and gazed around from where she stood. A large bed, several coin purses on a table, a bee-shaped statue… there was a low scuffle and she was instantly alerted, her bow drawn as she crept towards the source of the sound.

Aringoth.

“Worthless mercenaries,” he hissed as Eonwe approached. “I knew Maven or Mercer wouldn’t let me get away with this, but I had little choice.”

“We always have a choice,” Eonwe replied.

Aringoth shook his head. “No, not this time. I know why you’re here but I cannot…I must ask that you leave. I will guide you out if I must. Forget this ever happened.”

“Aringoth,” Eonwe began but the wood elf shook his head again, straightening from his cower. “I’m sorry. My ties to the Black-Briar Meadery have been severed. Take this knowledge back to your higher-ups.” The wood elf looked drawn and resigned in his choice.

I’m leaving his fate in your hands. “I just need the key to your safe. That’s why they sent me.”

“And to discover why I’ve replaced the guard with mercenaries, no doubt?” Aringoth smiled grimly. “I had no choice. If she hadn’t been so adamant about this whole affair-”

““She”?” Eonwe echoed. “Who?”

Aringoth suddenly looked afraid. “I-I’ve said too much. Be gone or I will call for help,” he warned. “I mean it, thief. Leave!”

Eonwe stumbled back and as she did, her eyes fell on the gold chain around Aringoth’s neck. At the end of it hung a single bronze key. She needed that key… and more answers.

“Tell me who you’re working with and I’ll go,” Eonwe promised, her voice gentle, trying to imitate how her mother used to speak to her.

Aringoth opened his mouth, beginning to set his wariness aside, but his eyes suddenly hardened and he shouted, “Intruder! There’s an intruder in my chambers! Help!”

Eonwe had no choice. She dove forward, an arrow clenched between her fingers, and plunged the steel end into Aringoth’s neck. The wood elf gasped in shock, crimson leaking down his neck. Eonwe supported him in her arms as he slumped, not heartless enough to simply let him fall, and watched the light fade from his eyes as his soul departed.

“I’m sorry, son of Valenwood,” she whispered, lifting the chain from his neck and slipping it around her own. She snagged the coin purses from the table, pocketed the bee statue, and burst out the doors and straight into the arms of a waiting mercenary. He startled and, in his surprise, Eonwe wriggled out of his hold and took off like a rabbit.

There was no time to be quiet. Eonwe pounded down the hallway and flew for the stairs, hearing the thud of half a dozen feet on her tail. She almost crashed face first down the steps in her haste, and pelted to the gated door, thankful that she unlocked it beforehand. She slammed it shut behind her and dragged a little end table in front of it to block it, clattered down the stairs, and disappeared with the slam of a door into the basement.

Eonwe dragged in great gulps of air, trying to calm her electrified nerves. She pressed against the door, resting her hands on her knees as she gasped, listening to the dark around her. She could hear the end table being shoved aside behind her and straightened, navigated blindly through the narrow corridors.

There were a few mercenaries downstairs but Eonwe didn’t need more added to the bunch currently after her. She took a few moments with each to bring them out with a single headshot, leaving them where they fell. She tried not to think of the fact that they were once somebody’s sons.

Eonwe found the safe amidst a pile of coin purses that had never been stashed away. Kneeling to unlock the safe, she pried open the heavy little iron door and found a bag of coin, a bag of gems, and a slip of paper tucked inside. She pocketed everything of value then opened the slip of paper. It was the bill of sale for Goldenglow Estate, addressed to Aringoth, written in elegant cursive:

Aringoth;

This document acknowledges the sale of Goldenglow Estate and all property, assets and materials contained within. Payment of the property had been made in full by Gajul-Lei as an agent on behalf of the buyer. All dealings with the Thieves Guild in Riften is to cease immediately. To deter any possible retribution for the act, you are to take immediate steps to protect our assets in any way you see fit. I think you’ll find that the Thieves Guild is far more bark than bite and will likely avoid Goldenglow Estate rather than thin their already dwindling numbers.

Good luck and may this be the start of a long and lucrative partnership.

The letter was left unsigned, albeit the dagger-shaped stamp at the top of the paper. Eonwe squinted at it, trying to figure out if she recognized it or not, but noises of the mercenaries coming down the hall allowed her no opportunity. She jammed the bill of sale under her woolen shirt so she wouldn’t lose it and hastily made her exit out the escape tunnel.

It was dark when Eonwe finally climbed up the ladder and took several deep breaths of cool night air. The stars were twinkling above her head, peering down at her like chips of ice. Eonwe heard a funny rumbling sound, and figuring it was still the beehives burning, she stepped around the corner…

A huge scaled head swung around, yellow eyes glowing as Eonwe came face to face with a mighty dragon perched on the roof.

The dragon curled back his lip and huffed, his furnace-hot breath wafting over Eonwe as he drank in her fear scent, and he emitted a low growl. Eonwe wanted to hide around the corner but she was locked in place, staring right into the dragon’s eye as he studied her intensely. I know what you are, he seemed to taunt.

Eonwe couldn’t stop her terrified whimper and the dragon suddenly drew back his lips and sneered at her, baring teeth like daggers, and spread his wings as he lifted himself into the air. The dragon let out a challenging roar and Eonwe pressed up against the wall of the estate as he parted his jaws and streamed a blaze of fire down upon the island, setting the parched grass ablaze.

The mercenaries were shouting, gathering their archers and making feeble attempts to bring the dragon down. Eonwe watched as the dragon swooped down and snatched one of the mercenaries in his claws, lifting him into the sky and dropping him out into the lake. Another stream of fire set the rest of the hives on fire and he flew off across the lake.

Eonwe didn’t know if he was gone. She knew she needed to move, but where? The yard was full blaze, orange in the firelight. She wasn’t taking her chances in the water and damaging the bill of sale; swimming in full leathers was suicidal anyways. Eonwe decided that she would make a run for the gate and had only taken a few paces when the boom of a furious roar had her heart pounding in her throat.

The dragon melted out of the dark and soared over the island, his wingbeats stirring the flames and smoke. His scales gleamed golden like a forge and the black disappeared in the darkness. Eonwe watched him wheel in midair and land on the roof of the estate, surveying the ignited island. He craned his head to glare down at Eonwe and the world turned red.

Eonwe dodged and ran, narrowly avoiding the flames. The dragon left his perch, rising into the sky, then dove at her. His claws stretched out, aiming for her, wings swooping dust and smoke into her eyes.

Lifting…

…her screams were unheard…

…the moons above… wing beats…

…the ground spiraling below…

…dropping out of the sky…

The lake crashing up to meet her was the last thing she saw before she struck shallows, rolling in the mud to shore, a deep laceration in her side bleeding her life essence into the earth. Eonwe turned her head and stared at the estate as timber burned and wood turned to charred ash, the flames reaching for the stars. Her sight blurred, warm in the cold mud, and she lost consciousness.

Chapter Text

Eonwe knew the difference between wake and sleep; even as a child, she’d never been fooled into believing her dreams or nightmares were real. This, however, was something beyond all she knew of fantasy and reality.

She was standing on a smooth gray rock in the middle of a never-ending lake, as flat and smooth as glass, reflecting the above. Nothing broke the surface for what seemed like forever. There was no wind brushing Eonwe’s skin; no sounds or smells stirred her senses. The sky was pink and silver; Masser and Secunda were luminous white pearls high above. Other spheres, swirling in their storms or shivering like skin, drifted higher above. When Eonwe looked down, she could see her naked flesh and her toes clutching the edge of the rock. She could see her own face on the lake’s surface, expressionless and pale. Between her breasts hung a coppery brown amulet, shaped like a leaf on a braided leather cord. It felt hot on her skin.

Eonwe heard wingbeats. There was a stirring in the air around her. A shadow draped over her and she looked up at…

“Mercer?”

The lake and pink sky fell away and became the cistern as Eonwe’s eyes adjusted to see the Guild Master sitting beside her in a chair. He looked tired and grumpy – nothing new – but his intelligent gaze was trained on her. He leaned forward, squinting at Eonwe. She wanted to sit up but something held her flat. Something clutched her wrists. Her hands were bound to the posts, as were her ankles. Mercer smirked and drew something from the interior of his jacket, but Eonwe couldn’t see what it was. It was an object, enwrapped by shadow, something she wanted to see but couldn’t.

Eonwe looked at Mercer’s face again as he began to speak but it wasn’t Mercer. It was Delphine. Delphine jumped up, enraged. “You can’t hide from your destiny!” she yelled. “You are the Last Dragonborn! You have to stop Alduin!”

Eonwe shook her head desperately, flinching away, and her eyes went as big as moons when she saw who was on the other side of the bed. It was Vesuvius, the innkeeper from Bruma, glowering down at her, the knife protruding from his belly. “Go serve those soldiers, girl!” he shouted. “Quit your sniveling and get to work!” As he barked orders at her, Eonwe watched blood blossom across his linen shirt. No, no! Not again!

Eonwe closed her eyes, trying to block it all out – her past, her future. The binds on her wrist only bit deeper the more she tried to ignore the voices, and she began to cry, horrified. The voices grew louder, ringing in her head until her ears were bleeding, and Eonwe began to scream. Then, there was a gentle touch on her hand. She opened her eyes unwillingly.

A little girl stood there. She wore a ragged, patchy dress and held a flower basket in her other hand. Her hair was matted and her fingers on Eonwe’s hand were frostbitten. Eonwe remembered her. Sofie.

“No one bought any flowers again today,” she complained softly. “What am I going to do?” Eonwe sat up and wrapped her arms around the little Nord child, ignoring the smell of her unwashed skin and clothes. Sofie hugged her back and Eonwe broke down, crying into her shoulder. They parted and Sofie held out a flower to her: It was small and red with a black center.

Eonwe wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and accepted it; she had never seen one like it before. Sofie urged her to eat it and Eonwe did, but not without caution. She felt drowsy at once. Sofie took her hand as she fell back onto the pillows, a few familiar faces appeared just behind the child. Eonwe’s eyes fixated on two of the faces in particular, achingly familiar.

“Sleep, my little fawn,” one of the faces urged her.

“We’ll go hunting tomorrow,” the other promised tenderly.

“Ma… Da…” Eonwe’s voice tremored in sorrow. She fought to stay awake but it made them disappear that much faster. “No… don’t go.”

“Sleep, sweetheart. You’re safe,” Eonwe’s mother whispered. She felt a light touch on her forehead, and the nothingness that followed brought her solace.

________

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Vex’s voice drawled.

Eonwe found the pale blonde Imperial sitting cross-legged beside her, picking at her nails with the tip of her dagger. She smiled like a cat. Eonwe noticed that she was back to wearing her dark leathers and she tried to sit up.

“Whoa there, footpad,” Vex warned. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“How long have I been asleep?” Eonwe asked. She felt dizzy. Vex didn’t answer at first; the Imperial leaned forward on her chair to prop the pillows up behind Eonwe. It was a strangely kind gesture – strange, because this was Vex. “It’s been four days now. You missed a good argument.”

“Between who?”

“Maven came down to give the, and I quote, “Brat who sent a dragon to burn my honey supply a lesson”,” Vex chuckled. “She and Mercer went at it for a good hour, then Brynjolf got into it.”

“I guess I’m lucky then?” Eonwe remembered how Maven had looked at her during their first meeting. She wasn’t so keen to repeat it again so soon, especially when she’d given the woman more reason to hate her guts.

Vex nodded and smirked. “You’re her new favourite. I think she wants to string you up for target practice.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Eonwe snorted.

“You owe Bryn a lot, you know,” Vex added. “He’s furious, but he stood up for you, and he doesn’t do that for everyone that comes stumbling in here causing trouble. I think you’re an idiot, pissing Mercer off like you do. But you’re one brave cat, I’ll give you that.”

Eonwe nodded. “It’s appreciated,” she mumbled. Vex leaned forward and patted her leg. “Get some sleep, footpad. You look like you’ve been through Oblivion and back.”

Eonwe closed her eyes, listening to the water in the storm drain, and thought about her strange dream. It had already muddled together but she couldn’t help but feel that Vex was much closer to the truth than she realized.

________

It was very dark when Eonwe woke again.

Her sleep had been thankfully dreamless, though she felt claustrophobic and tense when sleep departed. There were candles lit on her bedside table and a lantern had been set on the top of the chest. Eonwe recognized Brynjolf’s red hair, even in the dark, head resting back against the chair with a book tipping out of his fingers. She patted the blanket, causing the thief to stir and look up with bleary eyes.

“Glad to see you’re finally awake,” he whispered.

“How long’s it been since Vex sat with me?” she asked softly, mindful of the sleeping thieves around her.

“A day. You needed the rest,” he remarked. “I told everyone to not bother you until you woke up on your own.”

“Well, here I am.” The two Nords gazed at each other thoughtfully before Eonwe broke the quiet and said, “I’m sorry about all the trouble I’ve caused, with the estate and Maven…”

“Bah, don’t worry about it,” Brynjolf waved his hand, but Eonwe could hear the spark of irritation in his tone. “I’ve handled her for now. But speaking of that – do you mind telling me what happened at Goldenglow Estate?”

“I did everything like you told me, but when I got outside, the dragon was there,” Eonwe told him. “I had to kill Aringoth…”

“You did what you had to,” Brynjolf cut in.

“No, I didn’t!” Eonwe objected. “He told me to leave and called for help. I just… I stabbed him. You told me his life was in my hands and I just… I took it! He was so scared.”

“Of what?” his brow furrowed in puzzlement.

“Of the Guild finding out about his partnership with someone,” Eonwe reached up to slip her hand under her jacket but found that it had been replaced with a light cotton tunic. “Where’s the letter?”

Brynjolf got up and went to her end table, and plucked out a slip of paper. “I didn’t know if it was private, so I left it here.” He handed it to her to read and upon opening it, found the ink smeared only slightly. Slipping it under her shirt had somehow protected it. She returned it to Brynjolf and told him to read it.

“Aringoth sold Goldenglow?” Brynjolf exclaimed. “What’s that idiot thinking?”

“I don’t know,” Eonwe admitted. “It doesn’t matter for him anymore.”

“No, I suppose it doesn’t, but that doesn’t mean we are excluded from the extent of Maven’s fury,” he pointed out dimly. “It’s a shame we don’t have the buyer’s name. What is this odd little symbol?”

“Never seen it before,” Eonwe mumbled, her words slurring. What did it matter? She couldn’t make the name magically appear on the bill, and she wasn’t about to even if she could. She was exhausted, her concentration drained. She blinked sleepily up at Brynjolf, noting the glimmer of frustration sharping his already-tense features. He really is mad at me, she thought meekly.

“I’ll check my contacts and discuss this with Mercer,” Brynjolf was saying, but his words fell on deaf ears. Eonwe had already curled onto her uninjured side, fast asleep. She didn’t have the strength to argue.

Chapter Text

The alchemy shop was silent. Moonlight shone on dirty windowpanes, casting shadows like long fingers across the boarded floor. A guard holding a torch walked by outside the front door and the sound of a pestle scraping within a mortar stopped briefly. Violet eyes flashed in the shadows, slender eyebrows drawn tight in concentration. She wasn’t supposed to be there, but she was. No one would know of her presence – very few did.

The silver moonlight shone upon a hooded cloak draped over a small knapsack, bearing all she would need. She didn’t carry more than what was necessary, what was important. Years of running had taught her that. Years of chilling, lonely torment turned into the whisper of darkness, the shadow of the night, the hand in the dark. The moonlight reflected off a black bow adorned with silver, turning the metal as white as snow; the small bird clutching a disc in its wings seemed to shiver.

Gathering the finely crushed ingredients, she combined them carefully, creating the concoction of poison. The mixture hissed and spluttered and she held her breath in wait. It must work, she thought determinedly. The poison tainted, curling sickeningly upon itself, and what was pale yellow turned murky green. Triumph made her lips turn up into a subtle smile.

There was a skittering upstairs, a bout of coughing. There were only precious moments left. She drew a small vial from her pocket and poured the poison into it, turned off the alembic with a flick of her small fingers, and she was sweeping out the front door of the shop. The shopkeeper came down the stairs, a candleholder in hand, looking around bleary-eyed. Seeing nothing, he snorted and clomped back up the stairs. Outside, pressed to the wall with an arrow notched in her bow, she held her breath as she listened. She let out her sigh, unseen once again, and glanced around before dashing off into the night.

Chapter Text

“Where’s my quill?” Mercer’s angry yowl could have been heard halfway across Tamriel. Eonwe looked up from where she was sitting cross-legged on her bed, a book opened across her lap. No one in the cistern moved; the thieves all just looked at each other with slightly troubled expressions, wondering which of their Guild mates would get the brunt of his fury today. No one seemed brave enough to admit it to the Guild Master, and for good reason.

With the coin they made from Goldenglow wiped out of the picture, the Guild’s main source of coin was lost. Not only that, but Maven Black-Briar’s unending support seemed to have fallen out of the picture as well. Simply walking around Riften in Guild leathers was a crime of its own, so everyone had to resort to ordinary clothes or whatever old armour they had hidden in the depths of their trunks. Eonwe didn’t have much of a problem with this; her scaled gear was as familiar as the back of her hand, and it made it easier to wander around the marketplace without having all the city guard running after her screaming, “Thief!”

It was impossible to stay outside all night. Everyone had heard about the increase in vampire attacks in smaller towns; just recently, Karthwasten in The Reach had been swarmed by the bloodsucking fiends and several miners had been slaughtered. Not only that, but a little girl from the mining village had gone missing. No one knew if the vampires had stolen her away or if it had been local Forsworn natives, who’d been reportedly attacking Karthwasten for weeks on end.

Either way, being trapped down in the cistern was horrendous.

Tucking a strip of paper to mark her spot, Eonwe closed her faded copy of Thief of Virtue and sank her face into her hands. The last two weeks had offered absolutely nothing to the thieves; no jobs had come in, and everyone was tired of seeing each other’s same faces every morning. It was twice as bad for Eonwe, as she wasn’t exactly the “Thief of the Month” within the Guild.

Supposedly, everyone seemed to think that the dragon could have been avoided. Eonwe thought they were ridiculous. Who in their right mind could bend the will of a dragon when it wanted to rain fire? Maybe if Eonwe had lit the beehives on fire afterwards… no, she wasn’t going to plan out every single advance in her life so it would work around dragons. They came and went when they pleased! The dragon had not been her fault, and no one could convince her otherwise.

I need some fresh air, Eonwe told herself. She slid off the bed and followed the edge of the pool, glimpsing her fluttering reflection on the surface, and made for the ladder. Brynjolf was standing there talking to Vipir; Eonwe slipped past them, ignoring the red-haired scoundrel, and made sure she stomped her feet on each rung.

Who cares if he’s disappointed in me? Eonwe thought as she yanked on the chain and waited for the secret exit to open up. It’s not my fault I turned out to be a burden, and it’s really not my fault his pride got bruised. He put his neck on the chopping block when he said he wouldn’t. He can hate me all he wants because I hate him.

Nothing but chilly glares and equally frigid comments had been flung between them. “A waste of time”; “A spoiled brat” (that one had been Mercer’s); “Good for nothing…” The list went on. Eonwe festered over each one she could remember, kicking at loose stones in the dirt path, stomping on tiny flowers. It was childish and she knew it. She had to vent somehow.

Eonwe stopped outside Mistveil Keep, looking up at the towering stone fortress. She could always leave the Thieves Guild and become Thane. Jarl Laila was probably waiting to grab her the moment she got close and bestow the title upon her. For a brief moment, Eonwe considered it – she really considered it.

Fine clothes, a house of her own, servants to do her bidding… she’d never had such a thing. She never thought she’d ever have the opportunity to take it. It had always been a constant “keep going”. Eonwe didn’t think she deserved a rest before, and that belief hadn’t ever faded. She somehow figured her parents would be disappointed that she gave up and took the easy way out.

Or maybe that was just her, her own morals speaking to her. Eonwe would have given so much and more for her parents to drop out of the clouds and tell her the truth. Eonwe turned her back on the keep and leaned against the railing, looking out across the marketplace on the other side. What is the truth anymore?

She hadn’t once thought about herself – not in the way of what she was going to do each day, but in the sense that if what she was doing was actually right. Was she thinking in a healthy light? Was she making decisions that would benefit her or destroy her? What kind of decisions was a person like her, with as much or little she had, supposed to make anyways? Eonwe didn’t know. Was there anyone out there who could give her a handbook and say all the answers were within? She could only hope so but it seemed unlikely. It didn’t feel right, that the answers could just be found, but it was so cruel. A cold breeze suddenly whipped down out of the sky and gathered the loose strands of her ponytail, making them dance like little spirits around her face.

It occurred to her somehow that her hair represented her and that the wind was the push of the world. The world is pushing back and I’m dancing on it. Is that how things were meant to be? That nothing could be decided by ones’ own self, but by the force of destiny?

Destiny. Eonwe had evaded that one altogether. Maybe once, she’d believed that it had been her destiny to lose her family and lose everything else in turn. But to lose herself? Here she was, written in prophecy, her fate determined by people long ago before she’d even existed, and she was pushing it away. The thought came to Eonwe in the shape of a swing – the harder she pushed, the faster it would come rushing back at her.

Groaning in frustration, she hung her head, looking down at the canal below, watching the dark water part around submerged posts and join with itself as it flowed onwards. Even as the water pulled away into its own current, it met with the rest of its body eventually. Perhaps being Dragonborn was like the ebb and flow of the tide; it would sweep out into the sea, shrinking away from the different land on shore – just as Eonwe was shrinking away from what it meant to be the so-called “hero” – then it would come surging back with a newfound force.

That’s because the tide found something out in the sea, she pondered. Before, it was too small and afraid to touch the shore. It came back because something gave it the push it needed. A sense of hopelessness sank into her, tightening her throat and making her chest hurt. Who will give me the push I need? Her eyes watered and she felt a cold trickle on her cheek. She hastily wiped it away.

“Crying won’t make it better,” she mumbled to herself. “Just stop it and find something to do.”

The market seemed like a good place to start.

________

“May I ask…?” Madesi peered up from under his lashes as he tucked Shadr’s coin into the purse at his hip. “Who is the lucky woman this necklace is for?”

Shadr’s deep maple cheeks seemed to turn redder, and he shuffled his feet as he murmured, just loud enough for Eonwe’s well-trained ears to pick up, “Ah well... I-it’s for Marise. Please, um… don’t say a word to her!”

Madesi laughed. “Your secret is safe with me. She’ll look startling wearing your request. Dunmer do indeed look fabulous in amethysts. Something about the purple with their skin tones…”

“She’s rather fetching, isn’t she?” Shadr confided shyly before noticing Eonwe nearby, as though waiting to make a purchase. “Oh! Do let me get out of your way, miss!” he exclaimed, stepping aside. Eonwe couldn’t help but smile as the Redguard boy spared Marise, the Dunmer merchant in question, the briefest glance in the history of infatuated glances.

“I haven’t seen anyone so head-over-heels in years,” Madesi said to Eonwe, the scales around his eyes bunching and crinkling good-naturedly. “Why, it seems love is just blooming in Riften these days!”

“Err… I guess,” Eonwe couldn’t quite say the same for herself. “Does jewelry really make all that big a difference?”

Madesi shrugged. “Well, it depends. Jewelry can be symbolic, a representation of love or devotion. As a traditional Saxhleel jeweler, that’s what I’ve noticed in most of my sales. Most of my customers like to purchase a token for a lover or family member – counting Nivenor out of the picture, you must realize. That wood elf wife of Bolli’s may be a beauty to behold, but she only cares for two things: Her looks and her wealth.”

“It’s a shame that so many women are heartless.” Tonilia, Vex, Maven…

“On the bright side,” Madesi continued. “Just the other day, Talen-Jai came to me with a rather surprising request. He wanted me to craft a traditional wedding band for Keerava.”

Eonwe could swear opportunity had just knocked. “Is that so?”

“Yes. Talen already owns the gold band, but he lacks three flawless amethysts. I unfortunately lack the amethysts as well; in fact, I lack several supplies with all the cart raids recently. I’ll be run out of business if this keeps up.” The Argonian sighed in disappointment.

Opportunity was definitely knocking. “Actually,” Eonwe began. “I think I have three amethysts. I’ll have to run and grab them of course…”

Madesi’s eyes brightened. “You would do this? Why, that is so kind! Thank you, land-strider.” he pulled a notebook out of his pocket and scribbled himself a note. “I’ll have my stall open until eight, so if you can bring them today, that would be marvelous. Talen-Jai and Keerava will be pleased, and they’ll have you to thank!”

Eonwe felt giddy inside as she hurried back down to the Guild. She hadn’t felt so happy in months; she could finally do something worthwhile. A wedding ring for Keerava, she thought as she tugged open the drawer to her end table. What a perfect gift.

Eonwe felt around within the drawer. Excepting Madesi’s silver ring, still tucked away forgotten in the back corner, the space was strangely empty. Eonwe hoped she hadn’t been mistaken. She closed the drawer and looked around the table, trying to see if they’d fallen loose. She was in the middle of checking her bedsheets when the thought struck her: Did I sell them to Tonilia?

“The last thing you sold me was…” Tonilia ran a finger down the page of her trade book. “The full collection of Barenziah books, still packaged in its shipping paper. Before that was an ebony dagger, an iron gauntlet in decent shape, and a set of twelve dinner plates. No amethysts.”

“Are you sure?” Eonwe asked. “I thought I had three…”

“Wait,” Tonilia held up her hand and turned to a different page. “You said “Three amethysts”?”

“Three, yeah.”

Tonilia’s face seemed to pale at least three shades lighter. “I was sold three amethysts last week, regular cut. One had a little chip in the face.” The description was spot-on. “I bought them for one hundred gold. But it wasn’t you.”

Eonwe’s brows formed a little crease in the middle of her forehead. “Who?”

Tonilia closed the book and looked up slowly. “You won’t like it, especially now,” she warned.

Eonwe clenched her fingers into fists, holding back an irritable scream. Tonilia fidgeted once and licked her lips, reluctant to say.

The name was hardly past her lips and Eonwe was storming out of the Ragged Flagon, a red mist blinding her. There was no excuses, no forgiveness. If I hear one more “lass” out of him, there won’t be enough of him to bury in a box!

Chapter Text

The door creaked open quietly and Eonwe peered out, moving nothing but her eyes. Like a sabre cat, hunting an elk. Where is he?

There, sitting at the edge of the cistern in front of Mercer’s desk, paddling his feet in the water like a four year old. Eonwe shut the door behind her and made her way towards him, her walk relaxed and steady, fury chiming in her ears like a bell. Mercer spared her a quick glance as she passed the desk and came to a stop behind Brynjolf.

“Can I ask you something?” she interrupted whatever train of thought he was going over. He hummed at her, not bothering to glance over his shoulder.

Eonwe decided to not waste time and just be forward with it. “Did you sell my amethysts?”

Brynjolf stilled momentarily. He was grateful to not see the expression on Eonwe’s face. After a brief moment, he let out a chuckle and said, “Aye, that I did.”

Eonwe lifted her boot and shoved him between the shoulder blades, pushing him face-first into the pool. There were several yelps of surprise around her and the Guild was drawn by her actions, and she planted her hands on her waist as Brynjolf came up spluttering, soaked from head to toe. He gaped at her, openly shocked, forgetting his usual collected “charm”.

“You had no right!” Eonwe yelled. “Those were mine, you bloody thief!”

Brynjolf wiped his face, stroking his hair out of his eyes. He didn’t answer, so Eonwe went on.

“You’ve done nothing but cause me trouble since I came to Riften. I needed your help and what did you do? You chucked me in jail! You kept me down here like a caged animal, and I’m sick of it! You’re a heartless bastard and you don’t even care…” she broke off, her pent-up anger bringing furious tears into her eyes.

Brynjolf’s expression turned thunderous and he splashed out of the pool to tower over Eonwe. He was so close that Eonwe could feel his breath on her forehead and see the tiny droplets of water in his beard. In that moment, he was the most menacing man she’d ever laid eyes on, but more than anything, she wanted to beat him black and blue until she’d either died from exhaustion or he did of pain. Brynjolf seemed to read this, but he still wouldn’t speak.

“I-I hate you. I hate this place, I hate everyone, and I hate what you people do. You’re criminals – monsters!” she shrieked. “I don’t want to be a monster anymore! You can’t make me be a bad person –!”

Brynjolf suddenly grasped her shoulders, shaking her lightly. “Stop it,” he rasped, nervously eyeing Mercer over her shoulder. “You need to understand-”

“Oh, no-no, no-no no.” Eonwe pulled away from him and jabbed her finger into the middle of his chest so hard that her nail cracked. “No. You don’t understand. You will never understand. The one chance I had at starting to fix things and you went and fucked it up! You have a habit of doing that, right? Fucking with people’s lives? “Oh, I’m Brynjolf and I can read people”!” She made a purposefully poor imitation of him. “Damn wrong, Bryn! You can’t see shit. You don’t know me or anyone else here. You’ve got the blinders on and you’re so wrapped up in yourself that you stopped caring long ago. You don’t know me at all! And you are so lucky you don’t. Keep out of my life or you’ll be sorry,” she finished, turning on heel and marching to the ladder to leave.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Mercer shouted after her. Eonwe ignored him. She just needed to feel the wind on her face and hear something more than the dangerous pulse of her enraged heartbeat.

Brynjolf’s glare was hotter than a forge on her back, but Eonwe was too cold to even notice it.

________

He was going to get back at her; there was no doubt about that.

It took two days for Brynjolf to stop stewing and start thinking. No amount of mead or pacing smothered his anger; no amount of meeting with some of the lasses around town for a night between the sheets could make the rage in his head clear and let him sleep unburdened. He knew it had started to go too far when Vekel found him whipping bottles of Black-Briar Mead at the wall across the Flagon, leaving a sticky mess of amber to drip into the pool.

Eonwe had ruined his reputation. She was a waste of his efforts and the Guild’s resources, just as Mercer had predicted. He shouldn’t have tried so hard to get her into the Guild. She wasn’t cut out for it – the lass was some wild, untamable beast that kept biting his hand, and no matter how hard he pulled on her collar, she just kept running headlong into another problem for the Guild to fix.

But could Eonwe be fixed? She had all the build and grace of a thief – the perfect huntress of pockets. Those slender fingers, those long legs, her earthy eyes that flashed so often like molten gold. She was flawless, amazing in her abilities, but no matter how much praise he could give her Brynjolf knew that in her heart, she was no thief. She was nothing like him – there was no glory in that extra pile of gold, no kinship between her and the others, no peace in robbing or finding the greatest heists.

Eonwe fit in just as well as a boot fit a hand.

There were at least a dozen ways Brynjolf could have taught her a lesson that would shake her into obedience. Slipping something into her drink or rigging her bed to fall apart were pranks once played on him by the footpads back when he was younger. It could have been anything, but Brynjolf didn’t want it to just be simply “anything”.

The goal was to hurt her pride – have her walk right into it. Brynjolf didn’t know much about Eonwe, but he wasn’t going to lock her into a house and set it on fire or have everyone dress up as Thalmor to give her a scare. He wasn’t as cruel as some of the other jokesters within the Guild, but he was willing to play as rough as she’d been.

The idea came to him when most of the Guild was celebrating Vekel’s birthday in the Flagon. Everyone was good and drunk and in fairly good spirits; Eonwe was sitting with Etienne and Rune at Delvin’s table, and from what Brynjolf could hear, they were going over a few jobs the old codger had managed to scrounge up for them. Vipir had been making bawdy jokes all night long to Vex, none of which Delvin could hear, thank the gods, and Dirge and Vekel were in the middle of a question-and-drinking challenge Tonilia was holding.

After Vekel painfully swallowed down the last shot and everyone’s cheers had quieted, Brynjolf raised his voice and said, harnessing the calmest of tones he could muster with all the drink in him: “Eonwe, could you grab me a file from Mercer’s desk? It’ll be in the bottom drawer. It has everything you recovered from Goldenglow Estate.”

The entire bar went silent. Brynjolf thought that she wouldn’t do it at first but after a moment, she stood up and headed off down the hall. The moment she was gone, Delvin hissed, “Are you bloody mad, Bryn? You know that no one’s allowed in the boss’ desk!”

“Mercer will kill her if he catches her,” Vipir added nervously. Everyone looked at Brynjolf in concern, worried that their second in command had indeed fallen off his nut, but the red-haired thief simply leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head, a cat-got-cream grin on his face.

Just wait, he thought, his head pleasantly buzzing with triumphant drunkenness. It’ll be well worth it after all the trouble she’s caused.

________

Mercer wasn’t standing at his desk.

It was the first time Eonwe had ever seen the space behind it vacant, and it seemed awfully strange, bereft of its constant companion. She stood there for a few moments, staring at the scarred wood, the closed ledger, the neat stacks of papers and books. Mercer’s quill was sitting in an inkpot, ready for the next time he needed it.

If Mercer had been there, Eonwe would have asked for the file. He probably would have looked at her for a long time, puzzled or perhaps upset that he’d been disturbed, would have likely asked why Brynjolf couldn’t do it himself, and would have then handed it to her with some final quip about her armour needing to be cleaned or something wrong with her face. Eonwe had known Mercer long enough to know what kind of man he was, and it was a man she didn’t like but found easy to tolerate – when they didn’t have to be in the same space that is.

Eonwe stepped around behind the desk and opened the top drawer. Inside was an assortment of different items and old notes, some of which she quickly leafed through just in case the Guild Master had moved it. Most were letters from contacts or Maven. Eonwe knelt to open the left side drawer, in which a huge collection of folders and books had been stashed.

Eonwe pulled out the first one: It read East Empire Trading Company – Windhelm Headquarters Documents. That wasn’t the one. She went through them one by one, starting to become increasingly concerned when she couldn’t find the one that said “Goldenglow Estate”.

Little did she know that there was no folder for it, and that the bill of sale was tucked in Brynjolf’s jacket pocket.

Eonwe reached towards the back and her fingers brushed over the worn leather cover of a journal. Maybe it’s stashed inside that, she thought, pulling it forward. The cover was scratched and, rubbed over and almost faded out from years of use, looked a bit like a bird. She couldn’t be sure. Eonwe loosened the clasp and opened to the middle, finding rushed handwriting and a list of jot notes that had been scratched out several times to the point that they weren’t legible.

Someone cleared their throat behind her and Eonwe’s hand paused in the middle of turning the page. She looked over her shoulder and found Mercer towering over her. The journal fell facedown to the wet stone floor. She barely had a chance to see his face because he was yanking her to her feet and bending her backwards over the desk to the point that it hurt. Eonwe squirmed but Mercer pinned her right in place with his legs, his teeth clenched together. There was so much menace in his eyes that it was hard to look. One hand tangled with her hair, yanking her head back, and she yelped painfully.

“Scream all you want, brat,” he snarled. “I’ve had enough of your foolish antics around here.”

Mercer flung her to the ground and Eonwe scrambled aside, trying to find her breath to explain. She turned in time to see Mercer’s boot swinging her way and it clouted her in the jaw. She tasted blood.

A grating scream escaped her as Mercer grasped a handful of her hair in his fist and began to drag her, still half-sitting on the floor, to the middle of the cistern. She thought she pleaded him to stop several times. If he heard her, he never listened. She didn’t know.

What Eonwe did know was that she was very afraid, and, as the rest of the Thieves Guild rushed into the cistern to see what was happening, that Brynjolf may as well have just signed the contract to have her executed.

Chapter Text

Eonwe could see them all, staring at her like some “thing” put up on display. The tamed dragon, one might joke if they knew the truth. In all honesty, she was far from tamed – only simmering. She could hardly burn because every time she began to smolder, another waterfall was poured onto her and all hope of her finding the courage to stand up and fight back.

It was feeling their eyes as Mercer strode around her in a circle that made her feel worse. She sat there on the floor, unable to even raise onto her knees, her limbs trembling. She was scared, waiting for a dagger to the back of the neck or another kick to the face. He wouldn’t shy from it, she knew. She wanted to push her hair out of her face but her scalp ached too much – even the skin clinging to her tangled locks hurt. It shielded her face though; cast it in shadow, the only blanket of concealment to hide the stark white pallor of her skin.

Eonwe couldn’t even cry. She instead stared straight ahead, unseeing, but somehow her eyes were locked on the single figure standing within range of her glassy stare. She knew Brynjolf was there, but she couldn’t tell if he was smiling or frowning. She dug for the strength to blink and try to focus just as Mercer then blocked her view, and she tilted her chin to look up at him.

“Have you been staring off into space this whole time, or did you actually listen to a single word I’ve said?” he growled. “I’m not talking for my own enjoyment, Eonwe.”

Eonwe merely nodded. She couldn’t have spoken anyways.

“I’ll take it that you were listening, although I severely doubt that,” he said. “You haven’t seemed to care about how things go on around here. Your lack of respect is highly annoying and makes me question what higher power convinced me to let you stay here for as long as you have.” He paused here and prodded her shoulder, making her flinch. “Get to your feet. I won’t have you kneeling there like some pathetic kid.”

Eonwe stood slowly, wincing as her legs straightened out and accepted her weight, having been curled beneath her for as long as they’d been. She still didn’t look at the Guild Master; she probably would have been slapped and called arrogant if she tried.

“I’ll be honest with you. I didn’t see a lot of potential in you when Brynjolf first brought you down here,” Mercer admitted. “And you’ve still never proven yourself. No one else is falling over the promise I was assured would make itself realized.”

“I’m sorry that you’re disappointed,” Eonwe mumbled. Mercer made her repeat it louder so everyone could hear.

“I am disappointed, but not just in you. I’m disappointed in him,” Eonwe didn’t have to look up to know he was pointing at Brynjolf, “And I hope he’s just as embarrassed as I am. You have caused us more trouble in the past month than the twenty five years it took to ruin the Thieves Guild! Unless that’s the only “ability” you can offer me, then I’m afraid you’re no use to us.”

“Maven Black-Briar, our only hold here in Riften could throw us to the dogs any day now!” he went on. “Clients and contacts are leaving as we speak. Soon more members will be walking out of here, but you’ll be the one leading them. I hope that your sniveling, childish attitude is rejoicing right now because if it was your plan to walk in here and meddle with our affairs, then you’ve succeeded!” Mercer’s voice rose to the point that it was ringing off the walls in his anger. “Do you even understand what this means? Years of hard work, not just on my part, washed away like it was nothing. Nothing! It will take even longer to rebuild what you’ve damaged and for that, there is no mercy.”

You frigid bastard, Eonwe thought as she met his narrowed gaze. They held each other’s gaze for a long moment before he sighed. “Get out,” he ordered. “I’m done talking to you.”

“Mercer,” Eonwe heard Brynjolf utter as Delvin said, “Boss, just wait a sec-”

“I said to get out!” Mercer shouted. “Brynjolf, I’d like a word with you. Vex, escort her out. My tolerance is wearing thin.”

________

Vex took Eonwe as far as the bridge in the Ratways. “Well footpad, it looks like this is it.”

“Yeah,” Eonwe nodded in agreement. “I um… I know it never really meant anything to you, but thanks for the lockpick training.”

Vex smirked and held her gaze for a moment. “Look, I didn’t want everyone hearing this but you’re not that bad. I mean, I did after all tell you to tests the waters a bit, but I didn’t think that Mercer would… explode. Something must be on his mind and it finally got to him. Know what I mean?”

Eonwe shrugged and twisted her hands together. “I just don’t think this was what I was meant to do. I mean… I wasn’t wanted here in the first place. Maybe I’ll find something better out there.”

“Well,” Vex reached up and pulled the lever on the wall, lowering the bridge. “Good luck.”

________

The canal lapped quietly. It smelled like must, dampness, and foulness. Those smells had become familiar, too familiar. Eonwe never believed that she would feel a sense of loss when the time finally came that she could walk away from the Thieves Guild.

She tried to ask herself what she would honestly miss. Nothing immediate came to mind. She was grateful that she would never see most of their faces again. I didn’t belong with them, she told herself. It still didn’t occur to her why she felt so miserable and lost.

Perhaps it was because the road ahead was so dark. There was nothing but running and looking for purpose when, carved into stone, there was a purpose Eonwe couldn’t bear to acknowledge and accept. Her thoughts strayed over that several times. She thought about what Mercer had said to her, how the Guild just looked at her the way they did. It made her lip tremble but she refused to cry.

Eonwe’s angry thoughts finally settled on Brynjolf. It was his fault that this had happened! He was the one who dragged her into the mess she was now in, and now he would have to pick up the pieces. Good, she thought venomously. As much as she’d never wish Mercer’s wrath on anyone, she hoped Brynjolf’s ears were bleeding. The rat could stay in his Ratway and get fat on mead and his ego as far as she cared.

Eonwe got up and clambered to her feet, stomping up the stairs to the upper level of the city. Mistveil Keep stood erect to her left; the marketplace to her right. Ahead, Lake Honrich lapped in its basin, and the charred remains of Goldenglow Estate still seemed to burn in the center of it all, a harsh reminder of not only Eonwe’s failure, but the force in the world that she was fervently trying to ignore.

The wind blew off the lake and caught the strands of her hair, dancing them before her eyes again, and she felt herself being tugged towards the keep. For the first time in many days, Eonwe closed her eyes, and let the will of the world push her towards the next chapter in her life.

Just like the tide, rolling back in with a hand to guide it.

Chapter Text

“By the order of Riften, and by my position as Jarl, I name you – Eonwe Jorgiis – Thane of Riften. May you honour your title with dignity and serve our city with utmost pride.”

Eonwe knelt, respectfully, bowing her head to Jarl Laila. When she straightened, a young Breton servant came forth, holding a beautiful bow for her to accept. It was black as ebony, made of the petrified blood of the gods. Eonwe took the construct in a slightly clammy palm, admiring the comfortable weight.

“I present you with this bow to serve as your badge of office, and these arrows to clear a path in these corrupt times,” Jarl Laila said. “And I present you with the key to Honeyside, a place for you to rest your head and call home after a long day of service,” the steward, Anuriel, stepped down to hand Eonwe the key.

Jarl Laila beamed happily. “We are proud to have you as a member of the court, Thane Eonwe. We welcome you.”

“We welcome you,” the court echoed behind her, then they dissipated, returning to their duties.

Jarl Laila seated herself and fixed a keen eye on Eonwe. “We have not had a new Thane in many seasons. I would wish to honour this event with a feast tonight. Would you so oblige to this?”

“Oh, no you couldn’t,” Eonwe disagreed quickly. “That would be too much, My Jarl. I’d rather keep a low profile…”

Jarl Laila waved her hand in dismissal. “Nonsense. It will only be the court, as well as a few select members of the city who have the privilege of dining with us. You would not be overwhelmed, I assure you.”

Well, that didn’t sound too bad. Eonwe nodded after a moment of hesitation, and Jarl Laila clapped her hands together. “Ah, wonderful! I have but one request of you – formal attire is permitted. You’ll find everything you need within your new home.” She paused. “I should notify you that a housecarl, a servant, and a maid are all equally available to you.”

Eonwe’s eyes bugged and Jarl Laila laughed. “I suppose you are new to this sort of life. It will be difficult, but let me remind you – as Thane, you have many privileges and abilities that the average citizen does not. Your voice will be heard above others. Should you wish to speak for the people, then that is your choice. I would hope that you learn to use your position in a way that it benefits you, and that it is not used by others. Too many wonderful Thanes have forgotten the responsibilities that come with their position.”

““Responsibilities”?” she echoed.

“As Thane, you are required to be in attendance with the court for any meetings I may call. You will be present for any formal meetings, debates, law reinstatements, and most celebrations. Your servant, much like my Anuriel, is something of a steward. She will arrange and handle all of your duties, should you simply ask of her to do so. Every Thane of mine is dedicated to a particular service; I suppose that you could choose any particular service. You are a hunter, correct?”

“That I am.”

“I often hand out bounties for anyone within the hold to accomplish, for a sum of gold as a reward. Many of these bounties involve dealing with bandits occupying a fort or clearing out a troublesome animal from someone’s property. Unfortunately, many men and women meet their end trying to be the heroes they, clearly, are not.” Jarl Laila then suggested, “I recall once offering to make suitable… adjustments to your Thaneship. I still expect you to be present for events you are expected to be present at, but if you wish to continue to travel, I can have arrangements made.”

“Umm, My Jarl?” Eonwe asked. “I have a question.”

“Ask away.”

“Where do they sleep? I mean… where would my housecarl and servant stay? I’m not sure if I want to be living with complete strangers.”

“Your housecarl’s name is Iona, and it is her duty to protect you and all you may own. You may have no fear of her, I promise. She has a bedroom available for her use downstairs, in the basement,” Jarl Laila enlightened. “Your servant and maid sleep here, but you may send for them at any time. They’ll be waiting at Honeyside to help you become accustomed to the available features in your new home. Is there is nothing else, then may I wish you well in your endeavours.”

________

Honeyside was small but simple, and it was hard for Eonwe to not like it. Constructed of maple wood and smooth gray stone, it was a true charm in the middle of the city, overlooking Lake Honrich from a back deck that doubled as a private entrance. It would make coming home far easier than passing through the gate every time. Not only that, but on sunny days, Eonwe could imagine herself leaving the door open for the sunshine to come in.

The shelves were already stocked with food, and every cabinet was full of useful house things; there were enough dishes, pots, and clothing irons for the use of an entire Legion. Eonwe couldn’t stop the urge to open every unit to see what she had. She was in the middle of digging through a chest stocked with interesting scrolls when there was a knock at the door upstairs.

Upon opening the door, Eonwe found herself staring at three very different women. The first one she took notice of was undoubtedly her housecarl: Broad-shouldered and incredibly tall, Iona was a Nord with short red hair, looking down at her in either contempt or scrutiny. A steel greatsword was slapped across her back and she wore steel finery like she was born to wear it. She saluted Eonwe with a fist across her chest and said, “Greetings, honoured Thane. I am Iona, your housecarl.”

“May we come in?” a quieter, less commanding voice said. In front of Iona, shadowed by her magnificence, were a pretty Breton girl and a blue-skinned dark elf whose eyes shimmered like obsidian. It was the elf who had spoken. Eonwe nodded and stepped aside.

The dark elf was light on her feet and moved gracefully; she wore gray breeches and a black poncho. In her hands, she clutched a few books and a small bag that clinked like glass every time it shifted. Her dark hair was pulled back tightly, allowing her angular features and apple cheeks to take the spotlight, and her teeth gleamed like radiant pearls.

The Breton was curved where the dark elf was slender. Her light brown hair was chopped bluntly at the jaw, flipped over from one side of her head, and her heart-shaped face was pleasant. Her eyes were luminous, a lighter shade of hazel-green than Eonwe’s, and her pouty mouth was like a red blossom. She seemed to have trouble meeting Eonwe’s stare directly.

The dark elf stuck out her hand, the other fumbling to support the books she held. “I am your servant, Orynn. This is Aeilee, your personal maid.” Eonwe accepted her hand; the skin was rougher than she’d imagined it would be, but it was cool to the touch. Aeilee merely curtsied and muttered, “It’s an honour to serve you, my Thane.”

Eonwe cringed. “Oh, please don’t call me that,” she said. They all looked confused, so Eonwe decided to offer an explanation. “I’m not any different than you, and I don’t want to be reminded all the time. I hardly know you at all, but can we just try to be friends or something… and work from there?”

At first, Eonwe thought they would say no from the way they looked at each other. Then, Iona shrugged and said, “As long as you provide the drinks, I don’t mind.” Despite her unbreakable brisk seriousness, there was some subtle warmth to her tone. Orynn followed suite and nodded slowly.

“Well, I can’t say I was ever “friends” with anyone I served in this job, but I suppose it’s something to look forward to!” She abandoned her books on the table. “We’ll get to that later. I hear that you have an engagement to celebrate your Thaneship tonight. That should be fun, but you ought to look the part. Until you become Jarl or something of the like, there aren’t many other opportunities to get fancied up here in Skyrim.”

““Fancied up”?” Eonwe echoed as the dark elf steered her to the bedroom and made her sit on the bed. She flung open the wardrobe and let out a long hum. While she dug through the elegant dresses and warmer, Skyrim-suited garments, Aeilee cautiously seated herself beside Eonwe and murmured under her breath, “Can I ask you something, miss?”

“Yeah? What’s wrong?” Eonwe only asked this because she looked ready to jump out of her skin at the slightest thing. And she did too, when Iona’s sword clanked to the ground after she removed it from her back to seat herself at the table with an ale. Aeilee smiled apologetically.

“I’m really new at all this, you know? Maid stuff – I’m not used to it. I think the rest of the maids were glad to see me leave. I always messed up somehow,” she confessed. “I was only good when I was tending the gardens. My mother was a farmer, you see? I used to help her plant vegetables throughout the seasons… that is until she got sick and father thought it would be better to send me north to Riften.”

“Is your mother alright?” Eonwe asked gently. Aeilee brightened.

“Oh, yes. Father says she’s feeling much better now that she’s had a break from all the heavy work. He sent word last month that he’d hired a small workforce to help plough and seed just after I left them. It’s good to know he’s not doing it alone. Otherwise, I’d just run right back and take over, although he’d probably tell me I’m too green.”

She paused here for a breath and Eonwe felt herself smiling. It was nice seeing someone begin to bloom. She wondered if anyone had given the poor girl a chance before, though she doubted it. She also felt the less optimistic side wondering if Aeilee’s father had only sent the letters to keep Aeilee in false reassurance, not wanting to burden her with the real, horrifying truth.

“The Jarl was grateful enough to give you a garden. With your permission, would I… would you-?”

“Allow you to look after it?” Eonwe filled in. “If it’ll make you happy, go for it.”

Aeilee’s eyes widened, and she looked just about ready to hug Eonwe in delight. “I’ll look after the rest of the house, of course, but oh! Oh, this is a dream come true! Thank you so much!”

Orynn cleared her throat and the two girls looked up. She was holding up a not-particularly-elaborate blue gown trimmed with a fox pelt – the traditional robes a Thane or perhaps even a Jarl might wear. “I’ve found it,” she announced. “Ready for dinner?”

Chapter Text

As the sun was sinking into the far western mountains and the sky turned shades of plum and periwinkle, Orynn finished the last curls of Eonwe’s hair, swept partly into a low tail while the rest hung down the back of the fox fur cape. “Your hair could do with a cut,” she remarked. “You’d think the lower half belonged to a skeever’s rump!”

Eonwe snorted. “That’s more than I needed to know, but I haven’t exactly had the time to care about my looks.”

“You should still look after your hair, my Thane,” she retorted. “It would be like not washing your face in the morning, or never changing your undergarments.”

Eonwe bit her tongue; she was glad she was facing away from the dark elf so Orynn wouldn’t see her blushing cheeks. There were some things living alone in the wild didn’t allow, but she’d figured it was best to spare them the gruesome details for another day.

“You worry about your hair and I’ll worry about mine,” Eonwe murmured as Orynn finished fiddling with her locks and made her stand up. The dark elf went as far as telling Eonwe to hold her arms out or turn around a few times, all the while eyeing her with scrutiny. “The robe is a bit loose, but it’ll do for tonight. I can take it to be properly sized tomorrow.”

“So this is your job?” Eonwe smirked. “Making sure my shirt’s on the right way and that there’s nothing in my teeth when I go out?”

Orynn shrugged, coming forward to lick a finger and fix a curl framing Eonwe’s face. “Someone’s got to do it,” she mumbled. “What else would a seamstress daughter do for a living, anyways?”

Eonwe didn’t have an answer for that. She had to admit that when she looked down, it seemed like she was in someone else's body. She’d never worn such finery; not even her mother’s dresses had reached this amount of detail or care. Orynn handed her a pair of pleated boots and fine armguards, strung a necklace of dripping emeralds around her neck, and at last offered her a ring.

It was big and clunky, dominant and masculine, deep burnished gold with a chunk of unusual blue stone in the middle. Eonwe stared at it. Within the depths of the stone, it seemed to ebb and flow, like liquid. Like the tide, coming and going, stronger each time. She must have begun to fall into a trance because she was jarring back to reality at Iona’s sudden voice: “Time to go.”

Eonwe must have been warm, because the evening air was cool on her cheeks. Iona, Orynn, and Aeilee followed. Between dressing her, the elf had swapped her poncho and breeches for a simple black gown and black fur shawl, and Aeilee was draped in a plain burgundy dress. Iona still wore her customary steel and while she might have looked stunning in a dress, Eonwe was already used to her sworn guard’s armoured look.

“I should probably inform you of a few things before we enter the keep,” Orynn began as they walked through the city in a small cluster. Eonwe fervently tried to ignore the many eyes passing over her as she walked; to her, it was like the Emperor himself was walking through the streets as everyone got their first look at their new Thane. “There won’t be a lot of people, but it will seem like it. Only a small percentage are actual figures of importance. Like you, they will have their most favoured servants or housecarls alongside them tonight.”

“You mean people have more than one servant?” Eonwe asked, befuddled.

“The more power you have, the more people you have. You must obviously be rich to pay them all,” Orynn explained. “A woman like the Jarl will have all her guards and housecarls present, of course. A person who has been Thane for several years might have as many as two servants, their best housecarl, and their steward – should they happen to own a prestigious property outside the city walls, such as a manor or estate. Speaking of estates, do you have any idea what happened to Goldenglow Estate? Some say it was really a dragon, but other accounts suggest it was the Black-Briars out for revenge, or the Thieves Guild.”

“No,” Eonwe lied. “I haven’t heard a thing.”

Their boots thumped over the bridge as they approached Mistveil Keep. Eonwe had seen it several times at night, a dark fortification with warm lights glowing from within. It reminded her of Dragonsreach in Whiterun, though it was smaller and less imposing. Either way, climbing the steps towards the grand double doors on that particular night had Eonwe’s heart thumping in her throat.

The guards were courteous enough to open the doors for the four ladies, and as Eonwe was about to step over the threshold onto the belly of the beast once again, someone cleared their throat behind her and poked her shoulder. Everyone turned to look, but before Eonwe even saw who it was, she feared it would be the one face she never wanted to see again.

Instead, it was a stout little Breton man wearing dirty farm clothes. He had a portly, sad face framed by thick brown hair, but the top of his head was bald and shiny. He swallowed nervously and stuttered, “E-excuse me, ma’am. If I could have a word with you a moment?”

Eonwe opened her mouth to talk, but Orynn beat her to it, stepping forward between the stranger and her Thane. “I’m afraid my mistress is unavailable at this occasion. I would request that you send word for her tomorrow at a more opportune time. Thank you and-”

“No, Orynn,” Eonwe placed a hand on the dark elf’s shoulder, sliding past her. “Let me. I need a few minutes before I go in there.” Orynn’s black eyes could have been glaring for all she knew, but the servant bowed her head and murmured an apology. “I will be waiting for you inside, my Thane. Do not be long.”

“Shall I keep guard?” Iona asked.

Eonwe shook her head. “I don’t think he’ll bite. Go on in.” Iona looked reluctant but she obeyed, stepping within the warm embrace of the keep. The guards nodded to Eonwe and shut the door, allowing her to follow the stranger to speak privately at the bottom of the steps.

“I meant to ask you earlier, when I saw you in the market, but you took off before I could reach you,” he began. “My name is Louis. Louis Letrush. I need someone to take an important message to Sibbi Black-Briar.”

“Why me?” she asked.

“Well… I don’t know. You look capable of getting past guards,” he fidgeted nervously. “It’s about his prized breeding stallion, Frost. I struck up a deal with Sibbi to purchase the horse and paid half up front. But the little rascal was thrown in jail by Lady Black-Briar before I could get the horse, his lineage papers, and hand over the second half of the payment. I need the horse.”

“Couldn’t you just wait until Sibbi is out of jail?”

“No! I’m not waiting any longer. It’s been two months. I don’t know what he went and did to make Lady Black-Briar so angry, so I have no idea how long the jail sentence is.” His eyes grew round and pleading. “Please, ma’am. It won’t take long, I promise. He’s just over there, in the jail. You’re a Thane, right? You can obviously go in a talk to him for me.”

Eonwe crossed her arms, suspicious. “Why won’t you talk to Sibbi yourself?”

Louis let out a sigh, rubbing the top of his head. It wasn’t just shiny – it was shiny with sweat. “I don’t exactly feel comfortable around jails. I hope you can understand that. Look, just talk to Sibbi and meet me back out here if he says yes. Then we can arrange the delivery.”

It felt risky. Eonwe didn’t want to start meddling in affairs that dealt with the name “Maven Black-Briar”. This was obviously a deal made under the table, and she wasn’t a thief. She didn’t have them at her back – probably never would have either. Louis was still fidgeting, waiting eagerly for her answer, and Eonwe felt the urge to throw caution to the wind and offer her help. Stupid me and my stupid hero complex, she thought furiously. “Alright,” she said. “But understand this. I can’t make any promises that Sibbi will say yes, got that? I’m just going to talk to him, then I’ll think it over.”

Louis was overjoyed. “Oh, thank you! You don’t know how much this means to me. I’ll be right here, waiting for you to get back.”

________

Orynn was undoubtedly going to be wondering where Eonwe was. The least of all expectations was within jail, chatting with the black sheep of the Black-Briar family, in a fancy robe, when she was supposed to be eating with some of the most important folk in Riften.

Getting by the guard was simple, especially when she said who she was. He seemed mighty confused that she wasn’t at the party, but Eonwe simply passed it off as “I had some business to attend to first”. He seemed to buy it, at least.

“Well, well!” Sibbi Black-Briar crooned as she approached his cell. “What a pleasant surprise. I do love the ladies, and you are quite the sight for sore eyes.” He stared at her with a lewd hunger that made her stomach curdle. “What can I do for you, my dear?”

“I have a message from Louis Letrush.”

“Ha! He wants his horse, does he?” he clapped his hands, draping himself against the bars. Eonwe stole a glance around his cell; it was not only carpeted but bore fancy banners, an exceptionally comfortable bed, and fine dining wear. “I’m afraid that while I’m stuck in here, that’s going to be impossible.”

“You’re a Black-Briar,” Eonwe pointed out. “You can make anything possible, if I know your mother well enough.”

“Oh, you’ve met the old crone? Then you should know what a bitch she is!” he bared his teeth childishly. “Threw me in here for trying to preserve our legacy – minus a little slice of white Nord ass on the side. Can’t forget that I’m a man with several particular tastes, now. Well, the important thing is that Frost isn’t actually my horse, and that I was selling him because that Breton thought he could win me over with the promise of gold.”

Sibbi cocked a finger, requesting Eonwe to come closer. She refused and he openly pouted. “Awe, come now. I haven’t felt the touch of a woman, smelled the scent of a woman… in ages.”

“I’m here to talk about the horse, not…” she made a face and the Black-Briar chuckled.

“Haven’t ridden a man before, have you? I can tell,” he spoke softly, his voice deepening. “The virgins, so ripe and tender, always make those faces or blush as red as apples. I can promise you that the first time you have a taste of the world I do enjoy so dearly, you won’t get enough of it. All those sensations and that heat, the steady push…” Eonwe watched Sibbi roll his hips slightly to accentuate his words, and her face turned crimson.

“As I said, I’m here about the horse,” she repeated firmly. Sibbi looked bored.

“Fine, you boring twit. I’ll give Louis the stud.” He rubbed his ear as he crossed the carpeted floor and retrieved something from a little strongbox. He brought it to her, handing it out through the bars. It was a key.

“You’ll need this to get into Black-Briar Lodge. Maven keeps the place heavily guarded, so I have every doubt in the world that you’ll be getting in,” he smirked. “The lineage papers are downstairs in the cellar, kept in an old end table. They prove the horse’s worth. Frost is stabled outside.”

Eonwe took the key, but Sibbi grabbed her wrist in his clammy palm. He yanked her close to the bars, his face closer to hers than she’d have liked. The Black-Briar studied her apprehensive face in curiousity.

“I’d sure love to have a round between the sheets with you,” he murmured. “But as long as I’m locked up in here and you’re out there, I guess that’ll never happen.” His other hand rose to play with the tendril of hair at her cheek, and he locked his gaze with hers. His expression seemed to shift to something… guarded. “Although…you have the look of a dragon about you. I’m afraid you might bite.”

Eonwe ripped her wrist free and stepped back, and Sibbi smiled, his caution having vapourized in the blink of an eye. “Until we meet again, my dear. Say hello to mother for me, will you?”

Chapter Text

At least Louis was happy about the whole Sibbi affair. “Great!” he exclaimed as Eonwe showed him the key and told him that Sibbi had agreed to sell Frost. “I’ll meet you in the forest just outside of Riften tomorrow at noon. Don’t forget the horse, and if you don’t mind,” he added hesitantly. “It’d be best if you didn’t tell Maven about this.”

The Breton scurried off into the night, likely to cause more trouble, and Eonwe climbed up the steps. The guards opened the doors for her and she stepped within, her eyes widening as she took in the large number of people.

There had to be fifty, at least. And most of these are stewards or housecarls? Eonwe stayed where she was, looking at the blur of fabric and colour. Along the edges of the dining hall were men and women adorned in different tastes of armour, but mostly steel. In the center was a wide array of silk, satin, velvet, cotton, linen, wool, and fur in every colour possible – though most were muted, earthy hues. The clinking of glasses and muted conversations rose to a steady flow of noise that brought Eonwe right back to the Thalmor Embassy.

Eonwe craned her neck as she went, looking for Orynn and Aeilee, but instead spotted a very different figure in the corner of her eye, just behind her.

Maven Black-Briar.

She had traded her day-to-day fine clothes for a woolen dress the colour of wine. She wore a heavy fur cloak that pooled behind her, made of an ice wolf pelt. She wore gold on her fingers and a ruby-encrusted choker around her slender, pale throat. Eonwe would have recognized the witch’s face anywhere and she tried to turn away quickly, but Maven’s sharp eyes locked on her.

“So is this Mercer Frey’s new way of earning spoils for his little Guild?” she said in her nasally, potent accent. “To have one of his footpads become Thane? I’d never have believed him to make such a risky decision, considering our little falling out over Goldenglow Estate. And I believe you’re the one that stopped my supply of honey – you should be shaking in my presence.” She looked at Eonwe in a way that she should begin shaking, but Eonwe didn’t. She instead met Maven’s gaze evenly.

“Actually, I’m no longer with the Guild. I’ve gone my own way now,” she informed her, trying to keep the same level of unobvious but plain snootiness in her tone. Maven seemed to find this funny, for her eyes crinkled a bit, but she never smiled.

“If you’re seeking wealth and power, a Thaneship offers very little of that, I’m afraid,” Maven sighed. “You’re hardly moved up the ranks in this city. You’d have been better off serving me as a personal mercenary or courier. I have little respect for my enemies unless they have the one thing I’m interested in: Power. And you are far from it, my dear.”

“Then we’re on the same page.”

“Well!” Her thin eyebrows arched up on her forehead. “Mercer was wrong to get rid of you. You sure know how to pick your enemies. If I recall, wasn’t that you I saw at the Thalmor Embassy? Ruffled their ornate feathers a bit, I hear.”

Eonwe played nonchalant. “It was business,” she muttered.

“Ah, isn’t it always business?” Maven’s lips turned up briefly, as though Eonwe had said some kind of joke. “At least you know how to speak to a woman like me. It’s a good skill, understanding how to discuss fellow political matters with your enemies while pouring poison into their wine glass. Learning to undermine them, however… that is a different story altogether.”

There was the clinking of a fork against glass and everyone turned to see Anuriel holding said glass in the air. “May I have everyone’s attention, please?” she called. “Our Thane has arrived. Please take your seats and we may begin the feast.”

Eonwe could swear she heard someone grumble, “Finally!” nearby. Maven inclined her head to her and said, “We shall speak again soon, Thane Eonwe.” The Black-Briar swept away with a flutter of her wolf cloak to join an equally haughty-looking group near the head of the large U-shaped table. Eonwe realized that the table had been extended by quite a bit, something she hadn’t seen through the mass of bodies.

A hand suddenly seized her bicep and Eonwe watched someone propel her forward to the left side of the table. She plunked down in a chair close to the middle and saw Orynn seat herself swiftly, smiling tightly at the surveying watchers. Orynn then fixed her midnight stare on Eonwe and hissed, “Where have you been?”

Eonwe went to reply but was interrupted by another clinking of a glass. “We’ll do this later,” Orynn muttered as they looked to where Jarl Laila was standing.

“Hello, Eonwe,” she greeted with a smile. “I’m glad to see you could make it.” There was a series of low chuckles around the table and Eonwe felt her cheeks flush slightly. Jarl Laila then turned her attention to the whole table.

“For many seasons we have gone without the sure expertise of our previous Thane, Greython, who was lost in the unfortunate attack helmed by the bandits at Treva’s Watch almost eleven months ago. It is a misfortune we will never forget, and while his soul will never be replaced in these halls, his mantle will be taken up by an exceptional young woman I have deemed appropriate for Thaneship.”

“Many of you know of the skooma production that took hold within Cragslane Cavern. That skooma was being sold, here in the city, by Sarthis Idren within the warehouse out on the docks. It is yet another misfortune that this carried on for as long as it did, and the lives of young soldiers that were lost in a futile attempt to drive out the pests and regain some control over this city, damned so by the gods many may say.”

“Luckily, hope arrived.” Jarl Laila gestured with a wide sweep of her hand to Eonwe. “Eonwe came to Riften and helped us rid of Sarthis Idren, and end the skooma production in The Rift once and for all. I have scouts seeking out other habours of this terrible drug, but we are that much closer to bringing peace and protection to our city – and it is all thanks to her valiant efforts. For this, Eonwe Jorgiis has taken the title of Thane on this very day, as a protector of Riften and an enforcer of the law.”

There was a round of applause. Eonwe could do no more than bow her head and plaster on a smile. She felt ridiculous. What am I? Some war legend come home?

“Tonight we feast, in honour of what we have lost, and for what we have gained in return. We thank Eonwe for her selfless efforts to help in defending our city, and we hope that her path is lit by prosperity and joy. If you would drink with-”

Jarl Laila was abruptly interrupted by a slam on the table, and everyone turned their heads to look at who had made such a rude gesture. In the corner on Eonwe’s side at the end, a man stood up and looked around with a fevered glare. He pointed a stubby finger at Jarl Laila and growled, “And wut’s been done about ‘em damned thieves in my city? ‘Ave ye done anythin’ to get rid of ‘em ‘fore they ‘cause anymore t-trouble?” his words were slurred, and it occurred to Eonwe that he was probably very drunk. The man’s housecarl leaned forward to whisper in his ear but he waved him away, staggering slightly on his feet.

“This is my city! ‘em thieves…if they want it, they can come and f-fight me for it! Where are they, huh? Bring them, I say! Bring ‘em ‘ere and I’ll teach them a thing or two about who’s boss!” he began to sluggishly punch the air. Those seated around him ducked, wearing startled expressions, but the man was not done. He fixed his beady gaze on Maven and began to laugh; it was a sound deep from within, rippling and spilling out of him like a hole gouged into a casket of ale.

“And you! You stuffy, huffy whore you are! This city is ruined because of ye! Ruined!” he bellowed, trying to get around the table to attack Maven. Two Riften guards dove forward and restrained him, and he kicked and screeched like a wild animal. “Maven’s workin’ wit’ ‘em thieves, I’m tellin’ ya! She’s got ‘em thieves in her pockets an’ it’ll be too late before Mara can save ye! They’ll take your homes, your food, your godsdamned fancy candleholders! All your money – gone! Even your lives!” He was still screaming as they guards hauled him out the door, but everyone could still hear his pitiful wails.

Jarl Laila had a hand pressed to her forehead, facing Anuriel, who was looking at her Jarl with a hand pressed over her mouth. They seemed to converse between themselves for a moment, then Anuriel stood up, speaking over the talking that had begun to bubble in the stretching silence.

“If it is true about those thieves,” she said. “Something will be done.”

“When?” a voice cried out. Others took up their call.

Anuriel looked slightly flustered. “These matters will be handled, I assure you.”

“Who’s to say when they decide to stop?” a woman called out. “At which limits are they willing to go to make themselves known? You have to do something now, before thing get out of hand.”

A man leaped to his feet. “Will they begin holding some of us hostages for ransom?” he cried. “Will they start killing us in broad daylight?” Several voices rose in complaint and fear to the point that Eonwe felt herself shrinking in her chair. She glimpsed Orynn gesture behind her, and Eonwe heard steel shift as Iona came to stand behind her in defense. Many other housecarls seemed to follow suite, or join the argument themselves.

“Enough!” Jarl Laila ordered above the outcry. Silence fell and everyone gaped at their Jarl. Her face was swollen with disappointment and she glared at every single person who had spoken. She skipped over Eonwe and, noticeably, she avoided Maven’s little clique altogether.

“What have we become? Children?” she demanded. “Riften is protected and will always be protected, no matter the day, no matter the menace. Dragons have returned to Skyrim, but have I seen any of you come to my keep over that? No. Danger is everywhere – the roads are hustling with wildlife just waiting to make a meal of you! Bandits occupy every fort between here and Windhelm!”

“But here you sit and cry of a darkness long ago forgotten,” Jarl Laila said. “The Thieves Guild will not have us cowering in our homes. They have no power over us anymore!”

“What about Goldenglow Estate?” Eonwe heard Aeilee ask. Jarl Laila shook her head. “Dragons have been seen in the area. Several guardsmen and farmers reported seeing the dragon storm the island. It had nothing to do with the Guild.”

“And the raids?” a housecarl spoke up. “Crops and merchandise have been stolen day and night.”

“Bandits, highwaymen… there are reasonable explanations,” Jarl Laila urged. “Yes, there are criminals living beneath our streets but they are petty, unable to wield a blade against a force of guards… let alone strike fear into the hearts of powerful men and women like ourselves!” she chuckled. “They are rats, feeding off the decay of what once was. The Thieves Guild in Riften will never rise to the power it once had because there is no one. They are not down there plotting to take the cities back or… or to take anybody down – they will hardly have enough stragglers with the smarts or skills to fight a single officer.”

“And which side is that officer on, My Jarl, if I may ask?” a white-haired man challenged.

Jarl Laila fixed him with a steely eye. “You know what side my loyalties lie on, Vulwulf. But he has a point – the war and these dragons are worth more of our energy than a whisper meant to frighten children. Please, let us enjoy this feast together as friends. Leave your troubles with the gods to handle.” She sat down and raised her glass silently, and many others copied her before digging into their now-warm meals.

The venison stuck in Eonwe’s throat.

Chapter Text

Black-Briar Lodge, from afar, reminded Eonwe very much of its owner. Tall and prestigious, it was the lone figure of power at the top of the hill, standing rigid with a prevailing menace. It was dark and could have easily been described as malignant, even in the warm morning sunshine. Eonwe gazed at it from the bottom of the path leading up to it, wondering how she’d been so easily convinced to come here. What she was about to do was the work of a thief, but she wasn’t with them anymore. This is called “going rogue”.

Even if she were a member of the Thieves Guild, this would be against their rules. Maven was more than just a client – she was an associate of theirs. It would mean that, if Maven caught wind of Eonwe having stolen Frost, the entire Thieves Guild would be coming after her. Something about that made Eonwe feel very uneasy, and she knew to be.

Jarl Laila’s little speech around the table might have stifled the worries of the rich-blooded Nords and Bretons in their fancy jackets, but it didn’t fool Eonwe. She knew what the Guild was capable of; they were planning on taking back what they’d lost, but whether they would go as far as murder or ransom, Eonwe couldn’t say.

Brynjolf had told her something, in varying ways, many times over: We aren’t murderers. What would that mean if the city guard or hired mercenaries were sent down to clear out the “rats”? What would that mean when their backs were to the wall and only the weapons in their hands were all they could wield? Words could be broken, and blood would be spilled.

Eonwe wanted to feel immense relief at the fact that she wasn’t one of them anymore, but she couldn’t. Some of their faces came to mind – Delvin, Rune, Etienne… the ones that gave her no reason to feel judged. She pushed it away and concentrated on the lodge instead. They aren’t important, they never were, she told herself. The here and now – that’s where she needed to put her mind.

Eonwe obviously wasn’t going to walk up to the front door, knock, and politely ask the guards to hand over the lineage papers and Frost. She wanted to avoid a fight, but trespassing called for weapons being drawn. She would have to stay out of sight, break in, then break back out and run with the horse. There was no plan B.

Getting across the front yard would be simple: Stay low and take her time. Using the bushes and natural rises to her advantage, Eonwe skirted the eastern edge of the property, making a beeline for the back of the stable. She stopped once when she spotted a guard in steel-plate moving unquietly down the path, then raced low to the ground the last few yards.

She could hear a horse whicker as it picked up her nearby scent. Eonwe straightened onto her toes to glimpse a large white head swing her way and blow through his nostrils. Frost was big, even for a stallion of his breed. His neck was thick and slender, reminding her of the curve of the Gildergreen in Whiterun’s Wind District. His coat was the colour of fresh-fallen snow, dappled with the lightest gray possible, so faint it was hardly there. His thick mane was more of a burnished silver; his muzzle and the skin around his eyes like soft, ground charcoal. He was a handsome animal, and Eonwe could see why Louis Letrush wanted such a prized beast in his possession. His tack and harnesses were in the second stall, polished black leather trimmed with glistening silver buckles, sheep’s wool, and rich blue velvet.

I need the lineage papers first, Eonwe reminded herself. She made a quiet kissy noise with her lips to Frost, who blew back at her gently, and she slipped away from the stable, making a run for the side of the house before the guard sitting on the front steps drinking an ale saw her.

Eonwe climbed the over the rocks bordering the side of the house and crept towards the back. She was forced to climb a vertical slope; the lodge had been built into a hill. Eonwe reached the top and spotted a watchtower, positioned to look over the roof of the lodge and out into The Rift. The guard up there must have had a spectacular view, considering that his back was turned to Eonwe.

The backdoor was locked, and Eonwe wasn’t carrying picks. Cursing under her breath, she pressed against the wall and peeked around the side. There were no guards at the side door – only a few chickens pecking in the gravel. There was also a bit of a drop, and jumping to the ground would likely startle the chickens into making noise. Just another obstacle, Eonwe thought as she rolled her eyes with a sigh.

Eonwe got to her knees and swung her lower half over the drop, lowering herself slowly until she was but a few feet above the ground. She let go and sank, absorbing her weight and trying to keep from making excessive noise. The chickens only gave her a wary glance, and no guards came running. Eonwe tried the door and to her relief, the knob turned open. She slipped within, shutting it with a soft click behind her.

Two bedrooms across the way greeted her. There was a door to her right, probably leading further into the cellar. Pushing this door open, Eonwe glimpsed a collection of cleaning supplies, a large chest and… there. The end table Sibbi had mentioned. She went to it quickly, yanked open the drawer, and found an envelope and a purse of gold within. “Easy as pie,” Eonwe mumbled, pocketing the coin and tucking the lineage papers away safely. “Now the horse.”

Eonwe went back the way in whence she’d come. The guard sitting on the steps had rotated his position elsewhere, so Eonwe had the choice to either saddle Frost or ride him bareback. In truth, she wasn’t much of a rider. She remembered riding a pony when she was a little girl, and whilst travelling through the latter part of Cyrodiil, she’d found a horse to travel to Bruma with. It had been a frightening thing –having a living, breathing creature with the natural tendency to shy or flee at any given moment – between her legs. And going bareback? There’d be nothing to hold onto if Frost decided to bolt.

But the clank of metal and the sound of boots coming up the drive made Eonwe’s decision for her. She slipped into Frost’s stall, stroked a hand through his thick winter fur, and took a handful of his mane. Taking a deep breath, she vaulted up onto his back and kicked her heels to his sides, sending him springing forward and barreling right into the guard.

Frost neighed in uncertainty but wheeled away, taking off at full pelt down the path, the guards screaming bloody murder behind her. Eonwe could do nothing but hold on, blinking his whipping mane out of her eyes. She could feel his hooves hammering into the ground right up into her thighs, and her teeth clacked together as her head jerked as he switched gaits. An arrow whizzed past her ear and she ducked, waiting for the dreadful moment that one of those arrows would bring the stallion down.

But none did. She steered Frost onto the cobblestones of the road and turned him towards Riften, her heart pounding in her ears, the insides of her legs throbbing at never having a chance to become accustomed to the friction of hard solid flesh against delicate leg. Scooping up handfuls of silver mane between her fingers, Eonwe wrapped her legs more firmly around his trunk-like barrel, looking ahead between his ears. Frost slowed to a smooth, rolling lope, his hooves eating the ground beneath him as he carried her between the golden trees in search of Louis Letrush… wherever he was waiting.

________

By the time Eonwe found Louis, it was a bit past noon. Halfway through the forest, a pack of wolves had scented them and gave chase, forcing them to crash headlong through the trees. They’d lost them, but the horse had shied at every noise since, making Eonwe very uncomfortable to be his rider.

Frost was breathing hard, his flanks dark from sweat; she didn’t think he got to be ridden much, and felt sympathy for the creature. A horse like this wasn’t meant to be cooped up inside a stall like a trophy. He was meant to feel the wind in his face, the earth pounding beneath his hooves. He could have been leading troops into battle, a war horse, charging fearlessly into the clash of steel on steel.

Louis heard Frost coming long before Eonwe saw him and he came running, his face bright with excitement. “Well, you did it!’ Louis exclaimed. “Can I have the lineage papers please?” Eonwe pulled the envelope out of her pocket and handed it down to him.

“You ran the poor beast hard, I see,” Louis commented as he broke the wax seal. “Haven’t you ever cared for something other than yourself before?”

Eonwe stroked Frost’s neck as she replied. “Unless you wanted a horse half-chewed by wolves, then I suggest you be grateful. I had to outrun a whole pack trying to find you.”

“Humph!” Louis snorted. He unfolded the lineage paper and suddenly made a shocked noise. “What is this! Some kind of trick?” he cried, looking up at Eonwe. Eonwe had no idea what he was talking about until her eyes fell on the lineage papers. They were blank.

“Wha-?” the question was barely out of Eonwe’s mouth when a dozen Riften guards sprang from the bushes, weapons drawn, surrounding them in a large circle. Frost reared, whinnying in fright, and Eonwe fell off. She landed on her back, the breath knocked out of her. One of the guards threw a loop of rope around Frost’s neck, securing the panicked stallion. “Got him!”

Louis was glaring down at Eonwe as a guardswoman came forth to clap him in irons. “Was this some kind of trick?” he spat. “You and Maven planned this against me, didn’t you? That old hag and her stupid offspring – I should have known better than to trust a Black-Briar!”

“Yes, you should have,” the guard agreed behind him. “But you are both under arrest.”

“Oh whose order?” Eonwe asked, gaining the guardswoman’s attention.

“Lady Black-Briar heard of the conspiracy to steal Frost. She brought this news to Jarl Laila Law-Giver to have you both sentenced to three months in jail,” she explained. “Perhaps you can take this up with Sibbi Black-Briar while you’re serving your time?”

“Sibbi told you?” Eonwe gasped as she was shifted onto her knees. She felt one of the guards lock the irons around her wrists. “Why?”

“Amusement? Boredom?” the guard shrugged. “Who knows what goes through that man’s head? He’s a rotter.”

The guard lifted Eonwe to her feet, nudging her forward. The guardswoman held up a hand. “Hold on a moment. You are the Jarl’s Thane,” she said. “Thanes have privileges, or so I’ve heard.”

“Forget it,” Eonwe snapped. “I have a meeting with a certain Black-Briar that I don’t intend to miss.”

Chapter Text

Eonwe knew that this time, there would be no Vex to bail her out. She was already dreading her jail sentence, but three months? She was reminded of Lokir, the horse thief she’d shared a cart with on the way to Helgen, but his punishment was execution. Maybe three months wasn’t so bad… in comparison, at least. Eonwe didn’t think any dragons would come to free her either.

The guards stopped her in a small side room to strip her of her armour and weapons. They threw them into a collection trunk pressed up against a wall with a flood grate beside it. She could hear the echoes of skeevers squeaking, and the smell of fungi and stale water was overpowering alongside mead. Eonwe was given a simple tunic and pants to wear, then was led out of the room and into jail block.

“Sibbi wanted to speak to you once you’d arrived,” the guard informed her, steering her to towards the Black-Briar’s cell. He was waiting patiently, a cruel smirk on his face.

“Ah, you’ve brought her, just as I requested!” he said. “Good. Could we have a moment, you know… in private?” The guard nodded and stepped away a few paces, crossing his arms and pretending to be interested in the marks on the wall. Sibbi drank in Eonwe with his ice-blue stare.

“You betrayed me,” Eonwe stated. “Tell me why.”

“Oh! Is it took much to ask, for a beautiful Nord like yourself, to keep a lonely man like me happy?” he pouted. “I didn’t realize you were so far above me. And thanks to you, I now have another three months tacked onto my own sentence. That’s eleven months in jail, girl! Almost a full year!”

“Yeah?” Eonwe snapped. “Well, that was your own doing, wasn’t it? If you hadn’t ratted us out for “fun”, then you wouldn’t have something to cry about. You set yourself up for this, Sibbi.” She leaned forward, just enough to not alert the guard. “What’s your real motive for getting me flung into jail, huh? Thought that because I did Louis’ dirty work that I’d turn around and run errands for you?”

Sibbi wore something like admiration. “Well, aren’t you a smart one? It’s not easy to get something past you, is it? My mother should consider hiring you for one of her endless reasons,” he said. “But let’s see if you can play fetch as well as you play watchdog, eh?”

Eonwe crossed her arms. “Fat chance. I’m helping you with nothing.” She went to call the guard to take her to her cell, but Sibbi held up his hand. “Now, are you really going to turn down a job from a Black-Briar?”

“You have nothing that impresses me,” Eonwe spat.

“Well,” Sibbi smiled “You impress me. So what do you say?”

“Alright, time’s up.” The guard came to Eonwe’s side and looked at Sibbi. “You may be Lady Maven’s son, but you’re still in jail. You and her can finish this little chat later.”

The guard led Eonwe to her cell, the same one from last time, and locked the gate as she settled in. She looked around, staring at the walls and the floor for something, anything that might help her escape, but she couldn’t find a Shadowmark. She sat down on the edge of the bed, staring through the bars across at Sibbi, who was staring right back at her with a look of pure triumph.

Never trust a Black-Briar.

________

Two days later, Sibbi told her why he ratted her and Louis out – who was occupying the empty cell next to Sibbi’s. Eonwe was leaning against the bars, watching a dribble of water flowing between the cracks outside her cell, vaguely interested in where it would go. She had nothing else to look at but her cell or the rest of her jail mates, and the floor as much nicer, as grimy as it was.

“As I said,” Sibbi began. “I want you to play fetch for me. Since you follow orders to a T, it shouldn’t give you any trouble.”

Eonwe was too bored to listen to her gut and ignore him. “Well, what is it?”

“I was once engaged to the most beautiful woman – a true Nord she was, let me tell you. Buxom, with flowing black hair. She liked to sing while we were courting, that one – had a voice that rivalled a nightingale’s.” He sounded longing in his description.

“What’s so important about “fetching” her?” Eonwe queried.

“Her name was Svidi,” Sibbi said. “During our engagement, I recall mentioning I had a little something on the side. Or was it that she was snooping around in my belongings and found some poetry? Well, so it went that Svidi’s bother Wulfur found out and attacked me the next time I came by. I… I couldn’t just stand there and let him at me, could I? I did the only thing I could in the heat of the moment.”

Eonwe’s face paled. “You murdered her brother.”

“Murdered? No. I just put the oaf in his place – the ground!” he broke out into laughter and Eonwe rolled her head away with a grimace. What an asshole. When Sibbi finally stopped laughing, he wiped his eyes and said, “Svidi ran off gods know where and I was flung in here. Mother wouldn’t give me a chance. It’s not like she hasn’t played the same game – who hasn’t?”

“So….” Eonwe paused. “You want me to find Svidi?”

“Exactly. Find her…” Sibbi’s voice dropped to a menacing sneer. “And tell me where she is so I can cut off her pretty little head. Even if you don’t find her, I will eventually, and that bitch will be the centerpiece of my mantle!”

Eonwe had trouble sleeping that night.

________

The rest of the week dragged out slower than a mudcrab.

Eonwe felt in desperate need for a wash, and she was terrified that she had lice. She couldn’t help but give her pillow a funny look every time she went to lie down between staring off into space or reading the single book provided to her by one of the friendlier guards.

It was late morning when Eonwe received a visitor she hadn’t expected to see, and the conversation at followed was even more unexpected.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner!” Orynn apologized, rushing over to the cell. “We have little time to talk, but I need you to listen to me.”

“Why? I’m stuck here for three months-”

“Yes, I know,” the dark elf interrupted. “Look behind you at the wall. See how those stones are darker than the others?” she pointed to the back wall. Eonwe stared at it for a moment then noticed the subtle difference. She could’ve sworn the stones all looked the exact same just yesterday. She’d stared at them enough. Eonwe just nodded. “What is it?”

“Rumour has it that there’s an old escape tunnel behind that cell. It leads underneath the city. There’s a storm drain dumping into Lake Honrich at the end of it. I’ve only ever seen the drain from the outside, but as far as I know, the water outside is shallow.”

“Wait…” Eonwe gaped at Orynn “Are you suggesting that I break out of prison?”

Orynn nodded. “I’ll be waiting for you with a small boat along the shore. I’ve already spoken to the guards and I’ve reclaimed your possessions. Just follow the edge of the lake until you see me near one of the small islands. We can’t let the guards at the gate see you, so we’ll have to cut across the lake and dock at Honeyside.”

Eonwe was confused. “Orynn, why are you even doing this? You’re a… a servant of the law. You worked for the Jarl!”

“And now I work for you,” Orynn said, giving her a small smile. “Here, take this.” She pressed a couple of lockpicks and a small dagger into Eonwe’s hands. “I don’t have any more time, but you need to do this and do it now. I’ll wait for one hour, but if you aren’t there, then I can’t help you.” Eonwe must have had some kind of look on her face because Orynn grasped her hand gently and nodded in encouragement. “Breathe. You can do this. I’ll distract the guards to give you time to get out.”

Eonwe watched Orynn run off, completely exasperated and befuddled. What in Oblivion is going on?

There was a small crash and a very theatrical-sounding squeal. Eonwe heard the distinct sound of guards rushing to see what was the matter. Who cares what’s going on? Hurry up! Eonwe rushed to the wall and looked at it, and for the first time, noticed that the cement between the stones was crumbling.

Using her dagger, she gave it an experimental poke and felt the stones shift in response. I’ll have to be quick.

It took several minutes to scrape most of the cement away and pry each block aside with some element of stealth. Eventually, she’d dug a narrow hole in which she was able to slip out of sideways. Sand trickled down her neck as she did, making her shiver in excitement. The moment she was clear, her feet fell into a run.

The passage was fairly linear, pointing only one way. She followed it, finding a skeever that she easily dispatched with the dagger, and crept into a fair-sized miniature cistern. Water poured from two storm drains into a pool that didn’t look too deep. At the far end was a pocket with a storm drain at the end of it.

Climbing down, Eonwe found herself in a winding tunnel. She followed it, her feet splashing through the shallow running water, her excitement building as the smell of the jail gave way to the lake. She rounded a corner and a gasp of joy escaped her. The storm drain Orynn had mentioned, its boards partially broken where water hungrily surged out, was there.

Shoving the boards away was easy, since they were mostly rotted. Eonwe peered out, blinking in the bright sunlight, taking in the view of Lake Honrich and the golden-leafed birches. The Rift is beautiful, when you take the time to appreciate it, she thought briefly, climbing down the side of the wall and dropping into the shallows with a quiet splash. She sloshed along the shoreline, her eyes stretched open for the boat Orynn had promised.

The boat was waiting, but Orynn was not. Eonwe went to it regardless, finding only a pair of oars and a small bag inside. She stepped into the boat, wobbling when it lurched, and opened the bag. There was a hood and a coin purse inside. A disguise and a bribe? She was tucking the items back into the bag when she heard rapid footsteps behind her. Eonwe leaped up and swung around, her dagger raised in defense.

“Oh!” Orynn exclaimed, holding up her hands. “It’s me! I didn’t mean to not be here…”

“It’s fine,” Eonwe said, lowering the dagger. “I want to know what’s going on.”

“And I’ll explain it to you later, but I must first get us home,” Orynn climbed into the boat and picked up an oar. “Sit down and put on the hood in that bag. They won’t recognize you right away.”

“What’s the coin for?”

Orynn smirked, using the oar to push away from the shore. “I’m not very good at persuading people, but they said gold works wonders.”

Eonwe frowned, slipping on the hood. Orynn was definitely keeping something from her, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t grateful. “Thank you,” she said. Orynn glanced at her and blushed.

“Let’s just not do that again, please? I cannot say I rather enjoy the interiors of jails.”

Chapter Text

Orynn didn’t let Eonwe out of the house for a full week. “If they see you, then all our efforts will have been wasted,” she would say whenever Eonwe asked. Halfway through the week, Eonwe must have hung off the elf’s pointed ears enough because she was permitted to sit in the garden while Aeilee tended the rows of flowers or fed the chickens.

Orynn ran the house like a stern mother hen. She kept order like a commanding officer, ensuring that meals were on the table at certain times or that Aeilee finished her chores properly. If she wasn’t at Honeyside, she was in the market or Mistveil Keep, arranging this and that. Eonwe amused herself by imagining Orynn as the Jarl – how Riften would be different.

They never spoke of the jailbreak, and she never explained why she helped her escape. Eonwe watched Orynn carefully, waiting for a slip-up in her daily routine or for her to glance at her a certain way. The elf never did; it was as though it’d never happened. Eonwe considered going to her several times and demanding answers, but Orynn was either flying out the door on another errand or busying herself with her books. Eonwe grew only more suspicious, and one night, decided to follow Orynn and find out what her secret was.

Eonwe waited until Orynn had packed up her things and bid them goodnight. She counted to twenty once the elf was out the front door, then dove off the bed and stepped out into the moonlight. The evenings were much colder now and the first snows had dusted over Riften’s rooftops. Eonwe glimpsed Orynn’s slender figure stepping into the Bee and Barb, and she followed, drawing her hood up as she entered.

The inn was quiet tonight. Talen-Jai was wiping down the tables, and Keerava was serving a single customer sitting at the counter. Orynn was sitting with her back on Eonwe, one of her books open as she scrawled black ink across the parchment. She was so busy that she didn’t even glance up as Eonwe walked by.

Keerava hissed when she saw Eonwe. “You are not welcome here,” she said.

“I’m sorry about what happened,” Eonwe told her. “I wanted to make it up to you but-”

“I’m not here to listen to your excuses,” the Argonian interrupted. “Either you buy something or you hit the road.”

Eonwe stared at Keerava for a long moment before shaking her head. “Never mind. Sorry I bothered you.”

“As you should be. Now get out of my inn.”

Eonwe turned away, crestfallen, and bumped into a skinny man. He was dark elf, with greasy white hair slicked back from his forehead and a faded green tunic. He took a double-take at Eonwe and said, “You look as though you could use a drink. What d’you say to some cheap mead?”

“You’re selling cheap mead?” Eonwe echoed dully, stepping around him in the intention of leaving.

“No, friend! I’m selling mead for cheap. Black-Briar mead, at a discount, only available through this fellow right here,” he corrected. “Ten gold a bottle. How’s that sound?”

“Huh. Why’s it so cheap?” Eonwe asked. “It’s not the sludge from the bottoms of the vats, is it?”

“Oh course not!” the dark elf looked shocked, as though he’d never imagined hearing such a thing. “It’s sweet, delightful mead, same as the stuff you get over any bar counter across Skyrim. Only costs less.”

Eonwe shook her head. “Sorry, I don’t feel like one.”

“I can’t believe a Nord is turning down a drink. What’s the matter with you?” he shook his head. “Well, would you mind doing me a favour?”

“What?”

“I’ve got a keg to deliver to the Vilemyr Inn in Ivarstead. Know it? Wilhelm will pay you good for it,” he grinned. “Do it for me, and I’ll give you a free case of Black-Briar Mead. Just don’t go around telling everyone, you hear? Especially Indaryn.”

Sounds illegal. But it also sounded like something to do other than sit in Honeyside and stare stupidly at the walls all day. “You’ve got yourself a deal,” she said. “Where’s the keg?”

“I’ll grab it from the meadery and drop it off wherever’s easiest for you to pick it up,” he said. “Oh, and the name’s Romlyn Dreth. Good to be doing business with you…?”

“Eonwe,” she shook the hand he extended. “Can you put it in Honeyside’s garden?”

“Yep. I’ll have it there in a jiffy.” He started to turn, but Eonwe stopped him before he could leave. “Excuse me? Before you go, I was just wondering…”

“What is it, sera?”

“Well, I don’t really know who to ask, since I don’t know where she is,” she admitted. “I’m looking for a woman who went missing. Her name is Svidi. Black-haired and really pretty. And she can sing. Was described to me to have the voice of-”

“Of a nightingale?” someone said behind her. Eonwe turned and found the patron at the counter staring at her. “That would be the one and only Lynly Star-Sung. She showed up in Ivarstead about a year ago. Lovely girl, that one. I once tried to ask her where she was from but she just offered to play me her lute. I’d rather her play with something else…” he broke off to have a swig of ale. “Anyways, she goes by Lynly now and she’d got short golden hair. Must be magic. But there’s no other woman on this world with a voice like hers.”

“Erm… thanks,” Eonwe said. She remembered seeing the lute-player on her way to High Hrothgar; it seemed decades ago, but it was only a few months that had passed. “How do you know her?”

“I’m from Ivarstead. The name’s Bassianus Axius,” he introduced himself. “I’m looking to move to Riften with my lover, but I doubt that we’ll be coming here anytime soon. That stubborn father of hers wants her to stay in that dwindling village. There’s nothing there for her, I say!”

“With all these dragons about, they might have no choice but to leave,” Romlyn pointed out. “Just two days ago, a dragon attacked Snow-Shod Farm. Killed all their livestock, I hear.”

“There’s a dragon perched up at Lost Tongue Overlook,” Bassianus said. “I heard the guards talking about it on my way in. One of these days, it’ll come soaring down here and set the city ablaze.”

“Maybe it’s better that you stay in Ivarstead then,” Eonwe suggested.

“Stay in Ivarstead?!” Bassianus looked appalled. “Are you raving mad? Riften’s ten times better than that miserable little pilgrim hole. At least here, there are plenty of brave guards to fight off the dragon.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Eonwe mumbled. She could see it was time to leave, and so could Romyln.

“I’ll be on my way, then,” he said casually, winking at Eonwe. “Good evening.”

“Good evening,” she said, and glanced across the room. Orynn was still sitting at her table, completely oblivious to her Thane passing by. She didn’t know what the dark elf was up to, but she figured it wasn’t worth worrying over.

________

Eonwe rapped on the door to Vilemyr Inn, clutching the heavy keg in her arms. The moment it opened, she bustled in and waddled to the counter, red-faced and sweating. She was exhausted, and it had taken her almost the whole night to lug the sloshing barrel along the road to Ivarstead.

Wilhelm ushered her to set it behind the counter and Eonwe let out a pained groan as she straightened up, feeling every bone pop in her back “Ohhhh gods,” she complained. “Please don’t make me carry anything more than a coin purse, please!”

Wilhelm chuckled. “I suspect that’s from Romlyn Dreth,” he said under his breath. Eonwe nodded. “Ah, good. I’ve been waiting for it. If I’d known you’d be bringing it, I would have sent someone.”

“Who? Lynly?” Eonwe gasped, rubbing her lower spine. She sank down into a stool Lynly was kind enough to carry over for her, and moaned in relief. “Every rock I saw looked so comfortable, but I knew sitting down would be dumb.”

“Well, I thank you,” Wilhelm smiled, tossing her a fat coin purse. “I hope that’s enough. You’ve done so much for me – first the barrow and now this. You’ve got a heart of gold.”

Gold… golden hair. Eonwe glanced at Lynly, who beamed at her brilliantly. “I agree. I think a free bed wouldn’t hurt, would it, Wilhelm?”

“Not at all.” He waved his hand. “Take the one on the right. It’s yours.”

Eonwe nodded in appreciation and hobbled sorely to the bed, sinking down into the pillow, not even bothering to tug her boots off. She was asleep in moments, the aching in her muscles floating away.

________

“No-no, no,” Eonwe shook her head, trying to wave Lynly away. “A free room was more than enough. I can’t possibly accept this.”

A flagon of warm ale sat beside a platter of breakfast on the end table. Her stomach growled in response and Lynly laughed. Eonwe felt crushed to see her warm smile, but panicked as the barmaid began to walk away. The least you can do is ask.

“Svidi?” Eonwe said the name gently. Lynly’s feet came to a dead halt, frozen in the doorframe, but she didn’t turn. Eonwe got to her feet and went to her side. Lynly’s face was blank, paler than snow.

“Your real name is Svidi, isn’t it?”

“Oh, you must be mistaken!” Lynly spluttered. “I… I don’t know that name. I-I’m sorry. I must get back to work.”

“Svidi… Lynly!” Eonwe grasped her wrist lightly. She could feel the woman’s erratic pulse. “When I found out it was you, I couldn’t…” Lynly looked down at Eonwe in fright.

“Sibbi’s found me, hasn’t he?” her voice trembled. “And now he’s going to kill me, just like poor Wulfur.”

“No. No, I won’t let it happen,” Eonwe urged. “Look, I’ll tell him you fled a long time ago… or nothing at all. I just want to know what happened. Tell me your side of things, okay? That’s all I ask.”

Lynly took several deep breaths then sat down on the bed. Eonwe sat beside her, putting some space between them and not wanting her to feel trapped. Lynly took more calming breaths before speaking: “Sibbi and I were engaged. We were to be wed in the spring. I found the poems, written to him by Svana…”

“Svana?” Eonwe recognized the name.

“Svana Fair-Shield, Haelga’s niece. I-I was upset and I told my brother. Sibbi attacked Wulfur when he asked him about it and… and Sibbi…” Lynly pressed her hands over her mouth. Her eyes were full of tears. “I watched Sibbi cut his throat open. I didn’t know what to do so I ran away, hoping Sibbi wouldn’t find me ever again, but I couldn’t afford to go far. I changed my name and asked Wilhelm to protect me…” she looked at Eonwe. “And then you said my name and I... Oh gods, please don’t tell Sibbi!” She collapsed into her hands, shaking with the force of her sobs.

Eonwe fisted her hands; they trembled with the weight of anger and empathy. Sibbi was a cruel man. She had no doubt in her heart that she wouldn’t betray Lynly, so she told her just that. “Sibbi will spend the rest of his days looking in the wrong direction, Lynly. I won’t ever tell him, I swear.”

Lynly peered up, her eyes rimmed with red as she whispered, “Thank you.”

Chapter Text

The walk back to Riften was much more pleasant without the heavy keg to carry; instead, a feeling of bitter resentment and guilt wallowed within her. She wondered what she would tell Sibbi, and if it would convince him or not of “Svidi’s” disappearance. She guessed that she could only hope whatever she came up with would be convincing enough.

Either way, it had been awfully nice to get out and about, and Eonwe felt daring enough to take a gander though the marketplace. I should talk to Madesi and apologize about those amethysts, she thought as she closed the gate behind her and walked up the street. I wonder if I kept him waiting. It wasn’t my fault, but then again, it was.

Eonwe followed the boardwalk and crossed the bridge leading to the Temple of Mara, glancing at Grelka’s stall of reasonably-priced sets of armour laid out. She was still wearing a miner’s shirt and trousers – not a smart choice when travelling outside the walls of the city. What mattered was that she was alright.

“Greetings,” Madesi said as she approached. “How are those amethysts coming along?”

“I’m afraid I lost them,” Eonwe said apologetically. “I hope I didn’t cause you any trouble…”

“Not at all. When you didn’t bring them by for a couple of days, I simply assumed that you’d either forgotten or never had them. Thank you for letting me know.” Madesi’s eyes suddenly seemed to harden. “I’d watch your back, if I were you.”

“Why?” Eonwe glanced over her shoulder and her heart plummeted into her stomach. Standing at his stall, turning his head away casually, was the one red-headed thief she’d hoped to never see again. “Ugh, ignore him. I don’t have time for him anyways.”

“That Brynjolf is a nuisance, selling those ridiculous miracle cures,” Madesi hissed. “Before this silly “Falmerblood Elixir”, it was “Troll Fat Salve”.”

“Sounds like a waste of coin, if you ask me,” Eonwe made sure to raise her voice slightly. “It must be a waste of coin on his part, too – all those ingredients being made into cheap paste that people will never buy.”

Madesi chuckled quietly. “If you ever happen to collect those amethysts, just bring them to me, and I’ll fashion that ring for Talen-Jai.”

“Sounds good,” Eonwe smiled appreciatively and made her way out of the market. She considered stopping in Bersi’s to offer an apology for their previous encounter when someone cleared their throat behind her. She rolled her eyes, knowing exactly who it was before she even saw him.

“If you want me to buy something, why don’t you wait in your stall like a proper merchant?” she said, a hint of subtle venom on her tongue. She kept walking, her pace increasing with each step. Brynjolf kept pace, his footsteps purposefully audible so she’d know he wasn’t about to turn back. Her patience ran out halfway up the street to the main gates.

“Quit following me!” she snapped, swinging around. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Aye, but you’re going to,” Brynjolf said. “Where have you been, lass? I’ve been looking for you for days.”

“What for?’ Eonwe asked suspiciously.

“For that, you’ll need to come with me.” He started towards the nearest set of stairs, but Eonwe planted her feet and crossed her arms.

“I’m not coming back,” she called after him.

“Why not?” Damn that cocky-ass voice of his.

“You know why. I don’t want to, and I’m not allowed to.”

“Why not?” Brynjolf repeated. He narrowed his eyes, challenging her to give him a better reason. Eonwe didn’t have one. She threw her hands out and nearly shouted, “Because of Mercer, that’s why!”

“One man is going to stop you, lass?” he raised an eyebrow. “That’s not the woman I know.”

“You know nothing about me, Brynjolf.”

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong.” He returned to her, looking down with a lopsided smile on his face. Eonwe felt her face flush in irritation. If he wasn’t so godsdamned patronizing, then maybe she’d understand why women tended to fall over him like the second coming of Talos.

“Don’t tell me…” she hesitated, fumbling for words. She usually had this. “I-I don’t need… you to tell m-me…”

“Tell you what?” he murmured, closing the distance between them. She watched his hand reach out and felt his finger brush under her chin, forcing her to raise her head. All the blood rushed up into her face and she quivered, confused about what Brynjolf was trying to do. Curiousity took the best of her and she raised her head. His green eyes were locked on hers intently. She swallowed hard and glimpsed movement past his head. What…?

The thunderous roar split the sky and they leaped apart, hands falling to their weapons. Well, at least in Brynjolf’s case. Eonwe found herself without so much as a dagger to defend herself with and she cursed aloud. Brynjolf spared her a swift glance, noticing her lack of weaponry, and gave her a little shove. “Get yourself to safety,” he ordered.

“What?” Eonwe blinked. “Have you ever fought a dragon before?”

Brynjolf hesitated for the briefest of moments but none the less drew his daggers. He flashed her a cocky grin. Eonwe, however, wasn’t going anywhere until she knew what this dragon was going to do.

The dragon soared over the rooftops and circled in the sky, coming to land on the far end of the Bee and Barb. It was a magnificent creature, huge wings iridescent in the sunlight, its body a blur of ice and indigo. The dragon opened its jaws and breathed a storm of swirling snow into the market center, hardly flinching as a volley of arrows was fired at its shimmering scales.

Brynjolf, seeing this, looked doubtful. He looked at Eonwe confusedly, wondering why she hadn’t taken off yet, then figured she wasn’t going to leave. Eonwe suddenly found herself being picked up and flung over Brynjolf’s shoulder.

“Hey!” she protested. “Put me down!”

If Brynjolf answered, she didn’t hear it. Eonwe kicked furiously, watching the stairs fall away to rotting wooden boards, and realized he was carrying her straight down to the Ratways. Eonwe tried to wriggle off of him, but he looped an arm up around her waist and growled, “Stop it.”

The dragon lifted into the air again, bellowing in the dragon tongue, “Dovahkiin! Dii in fid ok vonok!” A tremor ran down her spine and her hands automatically clenched in the back of Brynjolf’s overcoat, squeezing her eyes shut and trying to ignore how being carried reminded her of the dragon throwing her into the sky.

He didn’t stop until the gate was swinging shut behind him and they were stepping into the darkness of the Ratways. Brynjolf set her down and blocked the way to the door when Eonwe tried to dart by.

“Let me out!” she cried.

“To get eaten by the dragon? I swear, there’s something wrong with you, lass!” he said, bewildered. “Here you shudder in Mercer’s presence but you don’t even blink when a dragon flies overhead? I think you need to get your priorities straightened out.”

“They are straightened out, and you and Mercer aren’t part of them!” Eonwe tried to shove by again but Brynjolf grasped her shoulders, whirled her around, and started herding her through the tunnels. “I said I’m not going back!” she yelled, her voice ringing loud enough that it echoed.

“You’re coming with me, and that’s final,” Brynjolf’s tone was no-nonsense. “I’m taking you to Delvin.”

“Why?”

Brynjolf huffed angrily. “Enough with the questions, lass! You’ll know when you get there.”

Eonwe rooted herself to the ground as stubbornly as a mule. Brynjolf groaned. “Do I have to pick you back up?”

“I hate you,” she spat, starting forward, mainly to distance herself.

Brynjolf chuckled at this. “Aye, well I don’t like you much either. Now come on, before Mercer finds out I’m going behind his back and kicks me out.”

Chapter Text

“Well, this is a face I’m happy to see!” Delvin was all smiles as Brynjolf led her over to him and deposited her, forcefully, into a chair. Delvin frowned at him. “I hope you treated her gently, Bryn.”

“He carried me,” Eonwe said before anyone could speak. “Then he towed me like a damn horse pulling a cart.”

“At least he didn’t ride you,” Vex guffawed. “But seriously, isn’t this against every rule we’ve got? If Mercer finds out-”

“Mercer won’t find out,” Brynjolf said, giving Vex a look. “I’ll head in there and make sure this doesn’t end poorly. Vex, let me know when Delvin’s done here, like we agreed.”

Vex frowned. “Fine.”

Delvin gestured for Eonwe to follow him out to the quiet little table overlooking the pool at the end of the deck. A couple of candles and empty bottles sat on its surface, but it was otherwise private. Tonilia, nodding at Delvin’s pointed glance, got up and went down to the bar counter.

“So why am I down here?” Eonwe asked as she seated herself across from the Breton. He folded his hands together neatly, looking at her for a moment, then simply said, “Congratulations.”

“On what?”

Delvin chuckled. “Before you go jumpin’ up and runnin’ outta here, I want ya to know two things. One: Maven will always look for a way to drag ya down, so don’t think you can impress her. And two: I arranged your escape from the jail with Orynn. I know you’ve been named Thane so again… congratulations.”

Eonwe gaped at him. “How’d you find out?”

“Well…” he hesitated, rubbing the back of his head nervously. “You know it’s my job to run ‘round the city and put those Shadowmarks where they need to be put, yeah? Well, I took a stop by Honeyside to see what kind of value the things were inside –I didn’t know it was your place yet – and Orynn caught me just as I was turnin’ the lock. Orynn got all angry and told me to leave before “Thane Eonwe” returned home. I was baffled by this, you can imagine, and I asked if it was you.”

Eonwe scratched her hair wordlessly.

“Well, I asked where you were and Orynn said you had a meetin’ in the jail. I could see she was lyin’ and she admitted you were sentenced for stealing Maven’s prized breedin’ stallion. Now, before I go on I have to ask… have you lost your mind? What were you doin’ stealin’ the horse?” he whispered urgently.

Eonwe shrugged. “Louis Letrush and Sibbi Black-Briar had a deal. I was asked to pick Frost up.”

“And Sibbi ratted you out to use ya, didn’t he?” Delvin sighed. “If ya hadn’t been thrown outta here…”

“Well I was, okay?” Eonwe snapped.

“Hey! I’m not the one you need to be takin’ it out on. Talk to Bryn, or better yet, dish it out with the boss. I get that you’re upset, but you don’t need to be bitin’ everyone’s hands when all they want to do is help,” Delvin frowned. “But listen – I’m not askin’ for any appreciation. I just wanted ya to know it was this ol’ codger here lookin’ out for ya.”

“Why?” Eonwe murmured. “You didn’t have to bother…”

“I help my friends,” he interrupted. “Is that a good enough answer?”

Eonwe laughed. “I must have heard wrong. “Did you say “friends”?” Delvin just smiled and said nothing, and Eonwe realized he wasn’t pulling her strings. He meant it.

Eonwe looked down at the grains in the old table, perplexed. The natural lines in the wood looked back up at her, intertwined with dagger scratches, carved by an idle hand, weaving together naturally. Some weren’t of the original wood but belonged there, having been cut into the original material by time and fate.

“That’s not the only reason you had Brynjolf bring me here,” Eonwe said knowingly. “What’s going on?”

Delvin went straight to the point. “Ever since we landed ourselves in Maven’s naughty book, we’ve lost some substantial hold here in Riften. We need to change that or we’ll all be in over our heads. If Jarl Laila Law-Giver discovers her new Thane was a member of the Thieves Guild, I can’t say it will end well for us. I’m lookin’ to change that and win back Maven’s favour.”

“How?”

“I haven’t a single idea, but I all those jobs in Windhelm have paid off. I was contacted by Torsten Cruel-Sea – lookin’ to get revenge on a group of “rival thieves” that took somethin’ of his daughter’s. If we can gain a foothold over there, then maybe Maven will realize we mean business. Get it?”

“Why aren’t you sending someone from the Guild?” Eonwe asked. “And why are you going behind Mercer’s back?”

“The boss is pissed, not just at you but with all of us. I’m hopin’ that we can mend these sores before they become wounds. I never said you weren’t goin’ alone, though,” Delvin added. “Also, this should convince Mercer to welcome you back as easily as a pie fresh outta the oven. If I were him, I would have made you make your reparations instead of-”

“I get it,” Eonwe waved her hand. “When are we heading out?”

“Oh, you aren’t goin’ with me,” Delvin corrected. “If you and Brynjolf prove that you really can’t work together, then we’ll all part ways nice and quiet, and Mercer will never have known. Now,” he added briskly. “I don’t want to see one roll of them green eyes of yours until the job’s finished, alright-y? Same goes for him, so you tell him for me.”

“Does Brynjolf know about this?” Eonwe couldn’t keep the chill out of her voice.

“You bet he does. He’s the one who arranged most of this.”

Eonwe’s eyebrows flew up.

“Just between you and me,” Delvin leaned forward, acting all inconspicuous. “I think he’s real sorry about what happened. The way he’s been actin’ after ya left… Bryn hasn’t looked like that for years. I think he had a lot of hope pinned on you. Just don’t let him down, for all our sakes. Mercer is more than enough for us to deal with in one day.”

Her disbelief must have been plain. “Listen, we need you more than ever,” he urged. “And no, I’m not just sayin’ that. You might have made a couple mistakes here and there, but who hasn’t? You know how it works down here, so just follow the rules and help me turn this place around, eh? You got potential, Eonwe. Don’t waste it.”

“Are you sure you want me to do this?” Eonwe asked. “Tell me the truth. Are you really sure?”

“If I were lyin’, I’m sure you’d know by now,” he smiled. “Now let me buy you a drink and we’ll go over any other details before you head on out, okay?”

Vekel brought a couple of bottles to the table and Delvin explained everything he’d scrounged up. Eonwe listened intently, but all the while her heart was thrumming loudly. She felt oddly content, knowing that she was not only wanted somewhere but needed. Delvin was a kind man with a bigger heart than a thief ought to have had; he was relying on Eonwe to bring the Guild together. Not only did that take a lot of faith, but it took a lot of chance, and that was something the Guild didn’t have much of. They were literally scraping the bottom of the bucket, and Eonwe was the last drop left that could either save them or destroy them outright. Knowing that she had that kind of power – that she was holding the fate of one of the oldest guilds in Tamriel in the palm of her hand, made her exhilarated and terrified all at once.

But when Tonilia came over, carrying a bundle of folded gray leathers in her hands, Eonwe knew things were going to be different now. She knew that running was getting her nowhere, and that maybe the Thieves Guild was all she could have until something else finally presented itself. She was slightly reluctant, but part of her was alright accepting that she had no other choice.

We can’t make every choice in our lives, can we? she thought as she slipped into the gray leather. I’ll just stay long enough to get them back up on their feet, satisfy their need for a bit of help, make amends with Mercer and Brynjolf, then carry on elsewhere.

It sounded like a decent plan, but would what she thought actually turn out the way she was intending it to?

Chapter Text

Other than the sound of steam rising from the cracks in the earth or the steady clip-clop of the dapple-gray mare’s hooves below her, the ride from Riften to Windhelm was tense and quiet. Eonwe caught glimpses of Brynjolf from time to time, beside her on the gelding he’d “acquired” for the journey. Most the time, she was bouncing uncomfortably in the saddle, still as novice a rider as they come, so most of her attention was focused on remaining seated and not slipping off in an embarrassing heap of limbs.

Other than the few spoken words outside the stable in deciding the best route to take, Brynjolf hadn’t uttered a single word. She didn’t know if it was his pride or his arrogance, but every time she meant to open her mouth and try to not disappoint Delvin’s wishes, he either lengthened his gait or turned his head away slightly, as though interested in the clay-coloured slopes dappled with purple jazbay. Eonwe gave up and urged her mare into a smooth lope, enjoying the feel of the wind brushing away the dust from the road.

The sound of a nearby dragon gathered her attention and she reined her mare in, looking out across the rocky crags. The mare snorted and stepped uneasily from foot to foot and Eonwe shushed her gently, soothing her by rubbing her palm along her muscled neck. Just along the horizon, flying in large circles around a spiraling mountain, was a dragon the colour of broadleaves, dancing on the currents of the air. Brynjolf pulled up beside her, following her gaze to the dragon.

“He shouldn’t bother with us,” he assured. Eonwe simply nodded and nudged her horse to continue on.

The dragon’s roars faded as the sulfur pools and crags fell away to snow-laden pines and icy winds, and Eonwe was grateful for the protection her hood offered. There was nothing worse than a numb face, though a runny nose and teary eyes were inevitable.

Windhelm, as desolate as it looked, was a pleasing sight as they rode over the hill past Kynesgrove and took in the long stone bridge leading up to the city gates. Eonwe had spent more than enough time in the city, not as a visitor but as a shadow, creeping along quiet alleyways and slipping through windows. All she cared about, as she and Brynjolf tied their horses outside the stable, was thawing her flesh out in front of a roaring fire and getting something hot to drink.

Twilight hung like a curtain over Eastmarch. Eonwe puffed out her breath in a cloud of white, watching it disappear in the chilly night air, and glimpsed the first streaks of the aurora parting the plum sky, dappled with silver stars and the white claw of Secunda, hanging below Masser’s darker orb. She and Brynjolf walked in companionable silence up the long bridge, leaving two trails of footprints in the otherwise undisturbed snow.

Eonwe didn’t know what to do. Delvin wanted her and Brynjolf to get over their differences and start working together without any problems. A little part of her was expecting him to speak first, and a bigger part of her wanted him to just say something. The silence was too loud, betraying her and making her discomfort plain. When Eonwe wavered too close avoiding a patch of ice and her hand brushed Brynjolf’s, she immediately tucked them into her pockets and kept her head down. He said nothing, but Eonwe glimpsed him burrow his own hands away as well. Knowing he was feeling just as awkward made it somehow more in Eonwe’s favour, and she bit back a smile.

Once they’d passed through the city gates and warmed their hands over a brazier, the discomfort slipped away and Brynjolf kicked into his steely business mode – not unlike the persona of his merchant guise. “I have a few errands to run before we get this started,” he told her. “I’ll look out for Torsten and discuss the details if I see him. We’ll meet in Candlehearth Hall in half an hour, alright?”

Eonwe nodded, rubbing her palms together, and watched him climb down the steps and head for the main market. Not wanting to go the same way, Eonwe headed for the Gray Quarter, a certain little girl drifting through her mind. She wondered if Sofie was still living on the streets, or found luck and was taken in out of pity. Nevertheless, she kept her eyes peeled, glancing towards corners and nooks where a child might tuck herself into to sleep, out of the sights and feet of citizens.

Eonwe had made it no farther than the gates leading out to the docks when she glimpsed white fabric in the gloom of several crates stacked together. She approached cautiously, the fabric taking on the shape of a skirt, and she got down on one knee to look between the crates. A small face peered back, dark blue eyes glistening wetly. Eonwe’s heart dropped.

“Hi, Sofie,” she murmured gently. “Could you do me a favour and come out of there?”

“It’s cold,” Sofie complained softly. “I don’t want to.”

It broke Eonwe’s heart to hear the neglect in the little girl’s voice. She reached in a hand, gesturing for Sofie to take it. “Please?” Her plea was enough to encourage the child and Sofie took it, crawling out awkwardly. Her dress was a mess and her hair was ratty and tangled, worse than the ends of Eonwe’s. She smiled and wiped the tears off Sofie’s cheeks, summoning memories of her mother as she did. Sofie managed a faint smile, but her lip trembled.

Eonwe made up her mind immediately. No one had been there for her when she needed someone, and she wasn’t about to let another little girl suffer the same fate she did. Eonwe entwined Sofie’s fingers with hers and straightened, her leather creaking in the cold. “Come on,” she said. Sofie looked up at her in confusion.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Somewhere you never thought you’d go.” Eonwe watched the child’s eyes light up as she uttered, “Home.”

________

The floorboards creaked above Eonwe’s head with the weight of the customers eating and conversing upstairs. She stood at the counter, making arrangements for Sofie to have a room to stay in for a few days until she could have the girl join her at Honeyside. Though Eonwe was dubious about bringing a little girl to such a dangerous city, Eonwe knew Iona and Orynn would look after her on the days she couldn’t be there.

Either way, Sofie wasn’t spending one more day sleeping in the snow.

Sofie was at Eonwe side, looking around the inn with big eyes. Elda Early-Dawn kept giving Sofie weird glances before finally suggesting she take a bath and not bring in lice. Eonwe dropped two large coin purses on the counter and left Elda to take Sofie downstairs to the baths. The little girl’s face paled in colour, but Elda briskly ushered her along and showed her through a door leading into the cellar. Eonwe would have followed, but she was certain half an hour had passed, and knew Brynjolf would be waiting for her. Sofie would be fine – she was safe indoors.

Brynjolf was waiting at a small table in the corner across from a sturdy-looking warrior wearing steel and a smug smile. The warrior looked away as Eonwe slipped into the chair across from the fellow thief. Brynjolf started to smile at her but it dropped before it came to full fruition, his brows knotting slightly as he regarded her.

“I spoke with Torsten,” he began, and Eonwe had to lean forward slightly to hear him better. “He says the rival Guild took a heirloom pendant of Clan Shatter-Shield, and he wants us to ensure it’s returned to him. He requested we take out the Guild in the process.”

“Is that it?”

“No. Torsten directed me to Niranye, an Altmer merchant and a former fence for the Thieves Guild,” he added. “She’s before my time, but Gallus would have worked with her, and I’m sure Delvin or Mercer will remember her.”

“What did Niranye have to say?” Eonwe queried.

“It took a bit to coax it out of her, but she’s given us a name,” he said. “This rival Guild is called the ‘Summerset Shadows’ and they’re holed up in Uttering Hills Cave. It’s not far from here – just east of a couple dwarven ruins. They’re led by an Altmer named Linwe.”

Eonwe shook her head. “Did Niranye provide anything on this ‘Linwe’?”

“Aye, and it’s not very pleasant,” Brynjolf frowned. “He has a… well, a liking for robbing graves – particularly of women. I have nothing against a bit of tomb raiding now and again, but the way Niranye described it-” he seemed slightly bothered in his explanation, but Eonwe could put two and two together. “Linwe blackmailed Niranye into fencing for the Summerset Shadows, but she promised to come back to us if we deal with Linwe.”

“Then we will,” Eonwe promised coldly and Brynjolf nodded in agreement. He rested his chin in his palm and looked out across the length of the hall, and Eonwe found herself wondering if they were done and she should get up or not. Her mind had begun to drift, wandering over impalpable, disconnected thoughts, when her eyes raised and she found Brynjolf openly staring at her.

“What?” The word was out of her mouth before she could stop it, but all Brynjolf did was give her a lopsided grin, not bothering to avert his gaze. She allowed herself to meet it.

“Something’s troubling you,” he predicted.

“Is it that obvious?”

“Aye, lass. Listen, I know words mean very little in my line of work but I wanted to-”

Brynjolf cut himself off, eyes flicking to a point just past Eonwe’s shoulder and she turned to see what had distracted him. Sofie was hovering there, her hands folded together, looking small and mouse-like. She was wearing a clean green dress and her hair hung down her back in damp tendrils. She’d come to look for Eonwe.

“Which room is mine?” Sofie asked nervously.

“It’s okay,” Eonwe soothed, ignoring the thief behind her. “Go downstairs and wait for me in the hall. I’ll just be a minute longer.” Sofie nodded and went back downstairs. Brynjolf cleared his throat and Eonwe looked back at him.

“The last I was aware, you’re but a child yourself,” he said, expression oddly guarded.

Eonwe’s jaw dropped. “I beg your pardon?”

“I didn’t realize you had a lass of your own.”

Eonwe shook her head quickly, her face beginning to turn red. “No, no. It’s not like that…”

“I understand,” he raised his hands, not giving her time to explain. “I might not be a father myself, but I have an idea how difficult it is to raise a child, especially on your own.” He then got to his feet, ignoring Eonwe’s sounds of protest. “I won’t keep you, lass. I have matters of my own to… take care of.”

Eonwe’s furious glare followed him as he crossed the hall and stopped next to a chair by the hearth, bending slightly at the waist to murmur in the ear of the woman seated there. The woman had a ridiculously delighted smile on her face, and she willingly followed Brynjolf down the stairs. He glanced up at Eonwe at the last moment, eyes locking with hers, and smirked like the bastard he was. Eonwe ground her teeth and looked away, staring down at her hands and thinking of how satisfying it would be to punch him.

Eonwe waited several minutes before going downstairs, trying to stop her ears from hearing as she passed by one of the rooms Brynjolf and the woman were surely in. She found Sofie leaning against the wall, picking at a quarter loaf of bread, and smiled as she guided her into the room Eonwe had purchased for her.

Behind her, a muffled moan distracted her, and she tried not to think of how much the woman resembled her at a glance.

“There’s only one bed,” Sofie stated as Eonwe let the door slam, privately hoping he would hear. Eonwe looked around the room at the sparse furnishings, and eventually let her eyes drop to the floor. “I’ll sleep on the floor. You take the bed, kiddo.”

“No, I’ll sleep on the floor,” Sofie argued. “I’m used to it.”

Eonwe planted her hands on Sofie’s shoulders and steered her to the bed, forcing her to sit. She planted her hands on her hips and said sternly, “That’s exactly why you’re taking the bed. I’ve had my fair share of floors, too.”

Sofie didn’t reply; instead, a big yawn stretched her jaws and she kicked off her shoes. Eonwe hunted through the drawers for some kind of rug or blanket, and was lucky enough to find a bedroll folded away. She rolled it out on the wooden floor and tossed an extra blanket on top, pressing down with her hands to test its softness. It would do just as well as a normal bed.

Satisfied, Eonwe straightened and glanced at where Sofie was still sitting quietly, a forlorn expression her face. Eonwe felt so much pity for the girl, remembering what it was like to face the world alone at such a young age. She deserves better. “Want me to tuck you in?” Eonwe suggested hesitantly.

To her relief, Sofie nodded. Eonwe went to her, tugging the blankets aside and waiting for Sofie to crawl in. She draped the blanket over her up to the shoulders and Sofie asked, “Can you tell me a story?”

Oh, by the divines… “What kind of story?” She sat down on the edge of the bed.

“I don’t know. Have you ever seen a dragon up close?”

Eonwe laughed. “Well, I have in fact. I’ve fought a few and lived to tell the tale.”

Sofie’s eyes bugged out. “No way! Was it big? Was it scary? Did it breathe fire?” Eonwe bit her lip and nodded. Sofie looked impressed, and maybe a little bit in awe, but her brow wrinkled suddenly. “You’re lying to me.”

“Huh? What gave you that idea?”

“Well…” Sofie hesitated then blurted. “Da told me that dragons could only be defeated by the Dragonborn. Do you know him? That’s the only way a dragon can die.”

Eonwe smirked and leaned forward to whisper. “If I tell you a secret, you’ll have to promise to keep it. Got it?” Sofie’s eyes were shining with excitement and she nodded vigorously. “Okay. Here it is… I’ve met the Dragonborn.”

Sofie gasped and covered her mouth. “What was he like?”

“Well, he’s actually a ‘she’,” Eonwe corrected. “She’s a lot like you and me, you know? Troubled, uncertain… she told me she sometimes thinks she’s a monster.”

“But she’s not a monster!” Sofie cried. “She’s a hero! She’s a good person!”

“Well, try telling her that. She’s very stubborn… but also very sad,” Eonwe murmured. “I think it’s because everyone sees the Dragonborn and not the person she is underneath. That’s what makes her sad.”

There was a sound behind them and Eonwe jumped, her head whipping around to look towards the door. Brynjolf was standing there, arms folded across his chest. “Sounds a bit like you, lass. Are you sure you aren’t mixing the Dragonborn up with yourself?”

Eonwe snorted and jumped to her feet, stalking up to him. He smiled down at her in amusement. “Goodnight!” she snapped, grabbing the door and slamming it shut. Brynjolf leaned back just in time and called, “I’ll wake you in the morning.”

“You do that,” Eonwe retorted. “And I’ll rip your tongue out!” His laugh rang right through the wood and she heard him return to his room. Sofie was giggling on the bed, and Eonwe pressed a hand to her forehead. “Sorry,” she sighed. “I think it’s time for bed.”

Eonwe tugged off her armour, revealing the healed laceration under her ribs she received when she dragon dropped her. Sofie asked her about it and Eonwe told her it was from a dragon. “Up, up, up I went and then I fell!” She raised her hand into the air and let it drop to empathize her tale. “If I hadn’t rolled onto my arm to press the wound closed, I probably wouldn’t be here.” She adjusted her undershirt and flopped down onto the bedroll, wrapping herself with the blanket. Sofie had the job of blowing out the candle and when it did, it became very dark.

“This is different,” Sofie mumbled after a time. “I’m so used to seeing the moons and the stars.”

Eonwe murmured in agreement. “That’s all I saw before I made it to Skyrim.”

“Where did you live before?”

“Valenwood.” Eonwe closed her eyes, not wanting to go there.

“Why’d you leave?”

Eonwe stayed quiet for a very long time, listening to the patrons shuffling about and the faint sound of a lute being played. Her mind went farther, remembering the sun filtering through branches laden with green leaves, so tall that not even an arrow could pierce the highest branch. She remembered her mother’s gentle smile, the taste of a venison roast from a deer she’d caught that very morning, and the crinkles around her father’s eyes as he squinted in the sunlight. The smells and sounds of her childhood home washed away as heavy boots thumped down the hall, returning her to the present.

“I had to,” she said at last, but Sofie didn’t answer. The girl was already asleep.

Chapter Text

Sleep refused to come easily.

Eonwe fidgeted on the floor, trying to get comfortable. She longed to pace or even run, yet her body was weary and heavy with tire. She rolled onto her side and looked at the strip of light below the door, hearing a chorus of gruff laughter. It sounded as though a patrol of warriors had stopped by the inn; their boots made the floorboards shudder and thump. At least Sofie was undisturbed.

As the noise carried on, and Eonwe grew more and more tense, she finally gave in to her internal urging and sat up. She was still in her trousers and undershirt, but she took the time to slip on the sleeveless gray vest, do up every strap and buckle securely, and take the time to put on her boots. The eagerness to get out of the stuffiness of the inn was almost overwhelming, but she was forced to move at a snail’s pace.

Donning her cloak and tugging up her hood, Eonwe sheathed a dagger in her belt and left the room, shutting the door so it wouldn’t make a sound. She’ll be safe, Eonwe told firmly. I’m just going for a short walk. She still didn’t like leaving a little girl within range of several boisterous men at this hour – or any hour for that matter – but after she reminded herself Brynjolf was still around, her mind was slightly less concerned and she was able to step out into the bitter night air.

Eonwe tugged her cloak tighter around herself, hiding her Guild armour and trapping any body heat inside. She carefully walked down the icy steps and headed left, figuring she would pass though the Gray Quarter and return to the inn. It wasn’t a long walk but it should satisfy her apparent restlessness. Her feet were already moving before she’d even made up her mind, and she kept her head down when she passed any guards on night watch. Better to remain faceless.

The Gray Quarter was severe in its neglect, and Eonwe briefly despised sharing blood with her fellow Nords. Garbage and filth lined the streets and a terrible feeling of suffering and misery washed over Eonwe as she wandered down the narrow alley. She glimpsed a figure huddled further down in the shadows and, too uncomfortable to pass by them, she made for the nearest set of double doors that – much to her luck – led into a small inn as opposed to someone’s house.

Suddenly, the wind caught the door and slammed it shut behind her, gaining the attention of the innkeepers, both standing beneath a drip with a bucket in hand. A sole patron was at the counter, wearing a hood and hunched over as though they were sleeping. Before Eonwe could apologize, on the wind’s behalf, one of the dark elf innkeepers snapped, “I thought the Gray Quarter would be a haven for my kind. I suppose not.”

“I guess you blame every breeze that just happens to slam your door?” she snapped, reaching for the door handle to leave.

The dark elf that spoke made an irritated sound. “No, but I blame every shady-looking Nord that brings it in with them!”

“Malthyr, please,” his co-worker complained. “Do something about this drip and I’ll handle our customer.”

“You can call a filthy Nord a “customer”?” Malthyr exclaimed. “They’re an abomination to this world! It’s because of how they treat us that we have to deal with all these leaks. Maybe if Ulfric bothered to get off his arse and come down here, like his steward assured he would six months ago, then we wouldn’t have to worry about “drips”!” Eonwe bristled a little at his words, but she wasn’t upset enough to not hear the anguish in the dark elf’s argument.

The patron at the counter stirred. “Maybe you should do something about it?” he suggested.

Malthyr turned his gaze to the patron. “Watch it there, wood elf. You’re lucky that we’ve let you hide here as long as we have.”

The patron shrugged and turned away, sliding off the stool. His hood swayed, parting briefly the face beneath was illuminated by warm candlelight, and Eonwe gasped. At the exact same time, he froze and his eyes went wide. They stared at each other for several startled minutes before Eonwe finally exclaimed, “Malborn?”

The wood elf’s gaze hardened. “Oh it’s you,” he said, short of a sneer. “What are you doing here?”

“I… I could ask the same thing,” she responded slowly. “W-wait. If you’re mad, then be mad at Delphine, not me. She dragged me into this mess too.”

Malborn sucked on his lower lip for a second, thinking, then gestured for Eonwe to follow him. She crossed the inn, brushing by Malthyr and the bucket he still held, and entered a small side room. It was dimly lit and hard to see, but Malborn’s form was a familiar silhouette, now that he’d cast off his hood.

“I’m sorry about the way I’ve been acting throughout this ordeal,” he apologized. “I’m just… I’m so scared! Everywhere I turn, it’s as though I’m expecting a dagger up against my throat. I think I’m being watched.”

“I thought you were leaving Skyrim,” Eonwe stated.

“I was,” Malborn admitted. “I was headed for Morrowind. The Dunmer don’t care much for the Thalmor so I figured it was my best chance. There or that little island, Solstheim. The smaller the better but anyway… when I saw that Khajiit hanging around the stables, I knew I couldn’t get much farther. There’s nothing but farms and open land between here and the border, perfect to hide a Thalmor ambush…” he broke off, voice shaking fearfully. “Or assassinations.”

“Oh, Malborn…” Eonwe sighed. Not only was she sympathetic for the wood elf, but his paranoia was the same Eonwe once faced. She’d been in the same position, not once but twice, having made two entirely different enemies in only a few years and because of only a few certain individuals. Some Thalmor ambassador or justiciar was responsible for one tragedy but the other… she wasn’t so certain. She knew how well she’d handled it, and Malborn was doing just about the same.

Malborn shook his head. “I-I don’t know what to do! Well, there is one option but I’m too afraid to do it…”

“No,” Eonwe urged in alarm. “No! There’s got to be another way. You can’t give up. Isn’t the border just down the road?”

Malborn smiled. His eyes glimmered in the dark. “I wasn’t suggesting that I… no, what I wanted to do was ask you if you could help me. Just… one last time, if it isn’t too much to ask?”

“You want me to help you escape.”

“Yes!”

Eonwe rubbed her eyes and sighed, gesturing for Malborn to follow her. As the icy wind enveloped the Nord and Bosmer, Eonwe wondered what exactly happened to her short walk.

________

Eonwe kept a brisk pace, not only to ward off the cold, but because she didn’t want either Sofie or Brynjolf to happen upon her absence. Malborn seemed perfectly alright with hurrying along at her side; though his face was drawn in worry, he looked more alive than compared to she’d ever seen him.

“Okay, the Khajiit was hanging around here,” Malborn whispered as they neared the stables.

“Alright, you stay here,” she ordered. “I’ll take care of this.”

Trudging around the stables, Eonwe glimpsed two figures standing alone around a small campfire. She’d seen the Khajiit caravan stop there from time to time, but the tents were gone. As Eonwe drew closer to the two figures, she noticed they were Khajiit themselves. Pretend that they’re part of the caravan, she told herself, walking up to them.

“Greetings!” Eonwe said cheerfully, gaining their attention. The taller of the two was male, dark-furred with a wicked pair of slanted eyes. The second was shorter, her fur colourful patches, and she looked startled when she laid her eyes on the approaching Nord.

“I’m looking to trade,” Eonwe continued.

“Khajiit has no wares to sell,” the male replied. “Move along, friend.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Was I interrupting a conversation?” she feigned an apologetic smile. “Before I go, would you happen to know when the caravan will be here? I’m staying in Windhelm for only a few days with my brother and sister in-law…”

While Eonwe was speaking, the female Khajiit had leaned closer to the male and was speaking in hushed urgency. They kept passing Eonwe quick glances and their actions seemed to become more agitated. The female Khajiit’s hood slipped back as she shook her head and Eonwe suddenly recognized her. That’s the one that saw me steal Madesi’s ring in Riften!

“Sorry, perhaps I’d better go…” Eonwe started to back away but the male Khajiit held up a hand. Several claws glinted at the ends of his fingers, deadly sharp.

“Shavari,” the male Khajiit said. “Are you sure?”

“This one would never forget a face, especially one as ugly as that, J’datharr,” Shavari hissed. “Khajiit cannot believe she let it slip through her claws!”

“In this case, our lady will not have to know of your mistake.” J’datharr glanced at Eonwe and bared his teeth. “You should have left us alone, Blades spy!” And he lunged at her with a feline yowl.

Eonwe drew her dagger, the only weapon she’d thought to carry on hand, and dodged the Khajiit’s attack. Her boots slid on a patch of ice and, wobbling frantically, she fell down hard on her arse. Pain shot up her spine, blackening her sight for a second – a second too long. There was a growl overhead and Eonwe felt something sharp poking her neck.

“Aiiiieee-owl!!”

A wailing screech split the air and Eonwe blinked rapidly. Shavari was doubled over, clutching her head and making terrible mewling sounds. Malborn was standing behind her, a spike of metal in his fist. He turned stark white with terror as J’datharr abandoned Eonwe and stormed towards him.

“At last!” he hissed. “The wood elf comes to meet his death!”

“Malborn, run!” Eonwe yelled, scrambling to her feet. Retrieving her dagger from the snow, she flung it at J’datharr. It imbedded itself in the Khajiit’s back and he howled, straining to reach for it.

Eonwe seized the dagger, ripped it free then reached around J’datharr, slitting his throat. A rivulet of red sprayed through the air, catching Malborn’s chest. The Khajiit collapsed to the ground, jerking in his final convulsions of life, his animal brain panicking as it perished.

Shavari was still alive. A bit of searching found her crouching behind some stacked barrels at the back of the stables, holding her head. Eonwe could see the blood caking the left side of her face, sticky in her dark fur. Shavari bared her teeth as Eonwe came closer.

“Go away! If you know what’s good for you!” she yowled.

Eonwe stood over her, uncertain of what to do. These Khajiit were Thalmor assassins, sent to hunt down Malborn and, quite possibly, her as well. They deserved no mercy, no second chances. Eonwe hesitated; would she murder Shavari to save her own hide?

“Do you surrender?” Eonwe asked. Malborn stepped up to her side, shaken but attentively watching the Khajiit.

“To you, never!” Shavari exclaimed. “Elenwen will hear of this, and she will send more. A word of advice, Nord?”

“I don’t want any advice from you.”

“Heh, well too bad,” Shavari staggered to her feet, twitching the ear on the uninjured side of her head. “Never sleep without one eye open. Never leave your back unguarded. The Thalmor always find their enemies. It’s only a matter of time until we’ll meet again.”

It seems I make a new enemy every day,” Eonwe thought as the Khajiit inclined her head in farewell and strode off, her pride forcing her to keep her chin up. Eonwe longed to kill her, to ensure her and Malborn’s lives, but she wasn’t a killer. She wouldn’t do it, not until Shavari raised her hand first.

“Why are you letting her go?” Malborn cried once Shavari was out of earshot. Eonwe shook her head and went to J’datharr’s body, searching his pockets. She found a few broken bottles of poison and a folded note. Mindful of the sharp glass, she unfolded the parchment and read it quietly. It detailed everything from Malborn’s name being false and the purge in Falinesti, where his family had died. She handed it to Malborn and continued searching the corpse, finding an assortment of daggers and unbroken poison bottles – which she took.

“Why did you work at the embassy?” Eonwe asked after Malborn finished reading the note. He pocketed it and shrugged, accepting one of the daggers Eonwe held up to him.

“I thought I could get as much information as I could to set them up or something like that…” he trailed off, rubbing his eyes. “It doesn’t matter now. Delphine got me – well, you and me into this mess.”

Eonwe agreed, feeling a blush of hostility towards the Blades woman, but shoved it aside. She didn’t have to worry about that right now. “C’mon,” she urged, starting up the road. “I’ll walk you out to the border.”

A snowy sabre cat, two angry trolls, and four bandits later, Eonwe and Malborn stopped at the dilapidated monument that once stood as a beacon of kindness and hope for the Dunmer refugees fleeing from their ash-infested home. The wood elf looked up at Eonwe, a sincere smile of gratitude on his narrow face.

“The coward always runs, but the hero stays behind to fight,” he said as he lifted his hood over his head, looking ahead with a combination of guilt and relief in his eyes. “Don’t do what I’m doing.”

Eonwe watched the elf take off at a run and stayed there long after he was gone; even as the sun was beginning to peek over the distant horizon, she remained, his words going round and round in her head until they drowned out all else.

Chapter Text

Brynjolf stirred as the lass sharing his bed slid out from under the blankets and reached for her robe. He watched her through slatted eyes, admiring the curves of her buttocks and the long creaminess of her legs. From the back she was slender and fair, her skin unmarked and soft, and her long brown hair was a mess of tangled waves around her shoulders. A thin stream of morning sunlight came through the tiny window above the bed, catching the amber and red hues in her hair, turning it into a halo.

As she turned, Brynjolf almost expected a different woman to be looking down at him, but suppressed his vague disappointment as she leaned down and kissed his lips. “‘Bye,” she whispered, then disappeared from the room.

As much as he would have liked to stay in bed and count the tiny grooves in the ceiling, he still hauled his arse out of bed and hunted for his pants, stretching out his tired muscles as he dressed. Ruffling his hair into some resemblance of tidiness, he left his room and went to knock on Eonwe’s, but was surprised to find it cracked open. He pushed it aside, peering into the dimness of the room.

The bed was empty and the blanket had been stripped off. Brynjolf’s eyes fell on the heap in the middle of the floor, curled beneath said missing blanket. A swath of dark hair cascaded out over the floor and quiet snores emitted from beneath the pile. He approached said pile and crouched, drawing back the edge of the blanket and finding Eonwe fast asleep within. She looked dead exhausted, but it was time to get moving.

Brynjolf reached down and gently tapped her cheek. Her face scrunched up and she squirmed, huddling back down into her comfortable little heap. Brynjolf smiled and bent over her to murmur in her ear: “Don’t make me pick you up.”

“Ffffuck off,” Eonwe slurred incoherently, snatching the blanket back. Within seconds, her breathing evened out, announcing she was sleeping once more.

Thoroughly amused, Brynjolf slipped his hands under her and hoisted her up into his arms, trailing blankets, legs, and all. Eonwe groaned in complaint but didn’t have the energy to fight. She let Brynjolf carry her out of the room and down the hall. It wasn’t until he was attempting to set her on a stool that she snarled foully, fully gaining consciousness, and swore a string of language loud enough for any patrons in the inn to hear. Brynjolf held her upright by the shoulders as he asked Elda to make her breakfast.

“I’ll be back soon, lass,” he told her, leaving a handful of coin on the counter. “I wanted to speak with Niranye again before we went. Behave yourself.”

“You behave yourself,” Eonwe mumbled to his back, taking the offered cup of tea from Elda.

It was well past nine in the morning, and Niranye was already at her stall selling trinkets of various nature to the young newlywed couple. “It’s so nice to have a home of our own!” the woman said cheerfully, looking adoringly up at her husband. He smiled and kissed her forehead, muttering a sweet nothing in her ear to make her giggle and blush. Her blush deepened as she noticed Brynjolf lingering nearby and they set off with their purchase.

New citizens, Brynjolf thought as they disappeared further into the heart of the city. I’ll have to let Delvin know to check their place in a few weeks. New faces were always a good thing, because it usually meant a new home with lots of valuable heirlooms inside.

“Well, now. I hadn’t expected to see you so soon,” Niranye chirped as Brynjolf came up to her stall. “Have you taken care of… our little problem already?”

“No, but I’m headed there now.” Brynjolf leaned across her stall, making it appear that they were in intense conversation. “Is there anything else you can tell me about this place? I don’t exactly want to walk in there blindfolded.”

Niranye shook her head. “If you want to know how many people are there, I can’t say. I don’t even know what it looks like inside! I haven’t been there, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“You better hope I’m not walking into a trap,” Brynjolf growled.

Niranye’s eyes widened slightly. “I can’t promise what you’re walking into. I just know that Linwe and his Summerset Shadows use the place as their headquarters. It’s probably fortified. It might be guarded – I don’t know! Haven’t I told you enough?”

Brynjolf was convinced – Niranye wasn’t lying to him. He leaned back, gave her an easy smile as a customer inched closer with a parcel in hand, and merely said, “I’ll be back later, should things not work out right.”

Niranye could only nod and smile, but Brynjolf heard her stuttering as she handled her new customer.

________

It was past eleven by the time Brynjolf and Eonwe put their boots on the road and set off to find Uttering Hills Cave. It was a pleasant, sunny day, which only made the previous nights’ fresh-fallen snow all the brighter and more blinding. Brynjolf found himself squinting in the light, even beneath the hooded scarf he’d donned for the walk.

It was the beginning of Evening Star, the final month of the year. Brynjolf was somewhere between excitement and dread for the new year; the Guild hadn’t gotten any better as he’d hoped it would, but new years always brought new promises. He looked down at Eonwe walking beside him, baggy-eyed and shivering in her leathers, and while by no means a religious man, he sent a quick plea up to the gods that she would pull her socks up and put her abilities to better use; that’s what this mission was for after all. A way to fix the Guild and Eonwe’s reputation.

Brynjolf settled on working to convince himself that, in time, good things would happen. And it all started with a casual conversation.

“It’s a nice day,” he commented, watching the lass from the corner of his eye. Eonwe sniffled and rubbed her nose, nodding. “You’re not too cold, are you, lass?”

“No, I’m fine.” Her reply was short, almost a snap, but she seemed to correct herself and offered Brynjolf a tight-lipped smile. “Thank you for asking.”

“Aye. I suppose it wasn’t half as warm down south, eh?” Brynjolf knew it could easily turn into a very delicate subject, to talk about anything before Eonwe’s coming to Skyrim, but sometimes, pushing boundaries was what it took. More than anything, he wanted Eonwe to not look at him like how one might at a dirty rag.

“No, it was much warmer,” she gestured to her cloak. “This would have had me sweating buckets in minutes. I don’t know how you stand it.”

“Well, I’m a Nord,” Eonwe gave him a pointed look. “And although you’re one too, that doesn’t mean you’re going to be used to the weather. Give it time.”

“Time won’t warm me up,” Eonwe said bitterly.

Brynjolf wondered what that meant, but it sure didn’t sound nice. He bit back a response and they walked in silence for a long time, putting Windhelm behind them. Anga’s Mill was in the near distance, just across the river, by the time Brynjolf mustered up the courage to ask: “Did you ever get to visit Skyrim as a youngster?”

“No, but Da made the trip here a few times,” she said. “I never liked it much, when he had to put two whole provinces between us. Ma didn’t have any family she wanted to see, but Da did. Ma was always grumpy when Da was gone, having to do everything herself, and she was so determined to keep me in the house. If we needed food, she’d come with me but she’d usually scare the deer off. I remember eating a lot of berries and mushrooms in those long weeks,” she added with a laugh.

“Why didn’t you look for your family?” Brynjolf asked.

“Gran was ninety the last time Da came to visit her, and I was twelve at the time. I doubt she’d be around, and I never got word since… well, you know.”

“And if she were?” Eonwe glanced up. “Alive, I mean?”

“That’s the thing. I never got to meet her. Da always brought back a few things she’d made for me – tunics and dollies, stuff like that. But I don’t know if I’d want to meet her. I’m not exactly the kind of girl a grandmother would want, right?”

Brynjolf gently bumped against her, smiling. “I think she’d love you because you’re all she has left.”

Eonwe’s eyes softened but she looked away, pressing her lips together. Brynjolf hoped he hadn’t upset her.

As they climbed the next slope, panting from exertion, he spotted a few tents surrounding a campfire. He lunged for Eonwe and forced her to crouch low, to which she complained before glimpsing the tents herself. Their eyes scanned the site for any lurkers, but it seemed abandoned. Brynjolf gestured for Eonwe to follow him.

The tents were full of snow and the campfire was full of burnt ash. Eonwe poked it with her blade, checking for embers, then held a hand over it before feeling amongst them. “It’s cold,” she concluded. “In this cold, I’m not certain, but I’d guess this has been out for a few hours at least.”

“We’d better head inside and get to Linwe,” Brynjolf said. “I hope he’s here.”

They were presented with a series of narrow ice tunnels that carried them several feet underground. Eonwe was lucky enough to find a bow and half a quiver of arrows sitting on a table with a lantern. Brynjolf went on ahead, leaving her to check the bow, and spotted a single thief with his back to him. Brynjolf rushed up behind him and sliced his dagger across the thief’s throat before he even knew what was happening.

“That was a little more violent than necessary,” Eonwe commented behind him, an eyebrow raised.

“Aye, but just think of what he’d have done to one of us, should we’d have let him?”

“You’ve got a point,” she said grudgingly.

They worked their way through the rest of the tunnels, Brynjolf cutting down any that came within close range of them while Eonwe plucked off others with her bow. Brynjolf had to admit that she was a pretty damn good archer, though once or twice, he felt an arrow whizz past him closer than he’d have preferred. Eonwe would simply raise that eyebrow of hers and carry on smirking. It brought back memories of their fight in the training room after he’d called her a coward… which she most definitely wasn’t. In fact, he was impressed by her accuracy and finesse.

And so he danced the dance of death, knowing she could hit him by accident – or on purpose – at any given moment; a chance he was willing to risk, a game he was willing to play.

Needless to say, if this was Eonwe’s version of foreplay, Brynjolf wasn’t about to turn and run.

The ice caves fell away and they poked their noses into a large, stone-walled room, buried deep beneath the ice. It was an old tower, lost to the ages beneath countless winters, forgotten. The perfect hideout for a group of rogue thieves no better than bandits or grave robbers.

Eonwe aimed at a thief standing over the alchemy table but Brynjolf took the opportunity and threw his dagger, striking the thief square in the back of his head. He collapsed forward, landing face down on the lab. Eonwe hissed in annoyance, relieving the tension on the bowstring before whipping around to glare at Brynjolf.

“What did you do that for?” she hissed. “He was mine!”

“You were taking too long,” he shrugged, slipping past her and ducking as she struck out with her hand. He placed his hand on the back of the thief’s head and ripped the dagger free, wiping it on a nearby cloth before sheathing it. Eonwe frowned at him and walked by, snorting. “Show off.”

She got him back, though. Brynjolf was halfway down the steps and approaching a thief sitting near the cells when Eonwe shot an arrow, skimming the crown of Brynjolf’s head and sending the thief flailing to the floor. Brynjolf finished him off before he could make any noise, then stormed towards Eonwe, wagging a finger. She gave him an innocent grin and stepped into the last room.

Brynjolf went alert as Eonwe suddenly went skidding backwards, blocking the downwards blow of a sword with her bow. “There’s three of them!” she yelled.

Brynjolf made short work of the first and flew into the room after the archer on the table. He whirled, catching an arrow in midair and cutting at the archer’s legs. He tumbled off the table into Eonwe’s vicinity, and she drove a dagger into his chest. The third lunged at Brynjolf from behind, kicking his legs out from under him and causing him to lurch forward and smash his forehead on the edge of the table bench.

Thinking fast, Brynjolf kicked his own legs back and tripped the thief, dropping him onto his ass. He scrambled to his knees, unsheathed his spare dagger, and swung around to plunge it into his heart with a snarl.

Brynjolf jumped to his feet, a smug remark on his lips, but froze. Linwe himself stood in front of the banner at the end of the room with Eonwe’s arm in his grip, the end of his sword resting at the base of her throat. “Let me go, you damn elf!” she yelled, yanking at his hold, but Linwe pressed the sword in. Brynjolf saw a tiny bead of blood and he jerked in response.

“Ah-ah, no,” Linwe warned. “Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to lay your weapons down and leave.”

“And her?” Brynjolf nodded to Eonwe.

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll kill her, but not right away. I’ve never had a Nord at the end of my cock,” he taunted. “An Altmer and a Nord, how interesting. The gods would soil themselves if such a heinous act ever happened. It should be… barbaric.” Linwe leaned close to her and licked his tongue along her cheek, making her squirm in disgust.

“Let her go,” Brynjolf growled. “Or I’ll rip your head off with my own bare hands.”

“Ooh, I was right about you Nords. So fierce and loyal to one another,” Linwe smiled. “If you’re a good boy, maybe I’ll let you stay long enough to listen-”

“You sick bastard!” Eonwe screeched. She stomped her heel down on his toes and rammed her elbow backwards as hard as she could; the blade ran along her neck as Linwe released her and left her to collapse to the ground. Brynjolf stormed in and brought his daggers clanging down against the raised sword. In the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Eonwe shambling away, one hand pressed to her neck.

Linwe used Brynjolf’s distraction to his advantage. He produced a spare dagger from his belt and jabbed it into the Nord’s side, catching it on his ribs. Brynjolf howled in pain but kept his footing, and shoved his own daggers up into Linwe’s chest.

“I’ll fucking tear you apart!” he thundered, wrenching his hands up as hard as he could and finding the Altmer’s heart. Linwe convulsed and buckled, spitting blood as he bit his tongue, and Brynjolf stepped back, letting him slump to the floor ungracefully.

“Sodding bastard,” he spat, closing his hand around the dagger and slowly pulling it free with a terrible sucking sound. He groaned, letting it drop to the floor, before bending to unclasp the tiny silver locket strung around Linwe’s neck. It was a tiny engraved heart.

“Are you okay?” Eonwe asked behind him. She was sitting on the floor, still holding her neck and looking a little worse for wear, but the concern was plain on her face. Brynjolf nodded, tucking the locket into his pocket and staggering towards her. He started to bend to help her up, but sucked in a pained breath.

Eonwe hurried to her feet and grabbed Brynjolf before he could tip backwards and forced him to sit on the edge of the table. She started unbuckling his jacket with shaking fingers and Brynjolf found the ability to smile. “It didn’t take long for us to go from fighting to stripping each other, eh?”

“Shut up,” Eonwe said without looking at him, but her tone good-natured. Brynjolf’s eyes dropped to her neck and he glimpsed a faint red line, no deeper than the first layer or so – hardly close to fatal. He breathed a sigh of relief. She shed Brynjolf’s jacket and peeled his tunic up, and made a face. “Ouch, that looks nasty.”

“It feels nasty. Got anything for it?”

“I’m not just feeding you a potion. This needs to be cleaned and bandaged.” Her voice trailed off as she dug around in one of her pouches, pulling out a wad of tundra cotton, a roll of linen, and some leather strips.

“Planning to tie me up?” Brynjolf joked.

“I meant it when I told you to shut up,” Eonwe threatened. “Now sit still.”

Brynjolf sat quietly as he could for a man in his position, flinching somewhat frequently as Eonwe tended to him with what little she had. He thought for a moment that she was being purposefully rough, the way her hands darted around almost carelessly, but soon concluded that it was only because of how sore the wound was.

Eventually, Eonwe had it packed with the cotton and bound it with the linen after tearing it into uneven strips. She rolled Brynjolf’s tunic back down, mindful of the wound, then went to search the many bins and sacks in the corners for anything helpful. She came up with a few rubbery blisterwort mushrooms and a handful of wheat, as well as a nervous expression.

“What is it?” Brynjolf asked.

“My Ma was an alchemist, right?” He nodded. “Well, I’m not. I’ve never done this before… or well, I have but the results were far from extraordinary.”

“How “far from extraordinary” are we talking about here?”

“Umm,” she bit her lip. “Let’s just say Ma never let me near the alchemy table again.”

Brynjolf sighed and eased himself to his feet, gesturing for Eonwe to hand him the ingredients. She started to but stopped. “You should really sit down until you’ve gotten your strength back…”

“Lass, give them here. I know a thing or two about alchemy.”

“Is this where you say those elixirs weren’t piss in a bottle?” she scoffed. Brynjolf swatted the top of her head.

“No, it was cistern water and an old health potion I found. C’mon, you can help me get down the hall at least.”

Chapter Text

“Dammit!”

The dark elf flung the poison bottle across the dense clearing, watching it break into a hundred shards against a tree. She pressed a hand to her forehead, battling the enraged storm clouding her head. She’d hoped that the poison would work but, like several other things in her life, it hadn’t.

I’ll have to add human flesh to the mixture. Otherwise, I’ll get nowhere. Mind made up, she slung her bow and knapsack across her back and left the clearing. She felt slightly apprehensive about having to kill some random lout, but she had no other choice. At this point, she was far too along in her undertakings, and one tiny error could cost her everything.

The dark elf smirked, considering hacking off Frey’s arm and using his own flesh to poison him. She almost laughed aloud, though she knew it wouldn’t work. He would only be immune to the poison.

Climbing down the steep slope, the dark elf took shelter behind a large pine as an Imperial patrol walked by on the road, a Stormcloak rebel between them, wrists bound. The elf didn’t really care about the war, though it made it harder to travel when fights were just about everywhere these days, and the dragons constantly flying overhead merely added to her difficulties.

The dark elf’s eyes locked onto the patrol. No one will miss them, she told herself. If I do this right, it’ll look like a sabre cat got them, or perhaps a few bandits. Her bow was drawn and an arrow was notched before she could change her mind and, holding her breath, she shot the arrow out of the trees and through the back of the neck of the leading legionnaire. His comrades yelled in alarm, drawing their weapons and whirling around, scanning the trees.

“Get back!” one of them shouted to the rebel. While he was distracted, the dark elf rushed out of the trees, out across open ground, and brought her dagger slashing across his throat before he’d even turned his head back around. The rebel openly gaped at her as she notched another arrow and caught the last legionnaire in the shoulder.

“I bring death from the shadows!” the dark elf cried, moving like a blur and slicing the dagger across his face. He staggered back, clutching the torn skin, and she brought her dagger down into the back of his neck. He collapsed, dead. She turned and faced the rebel, who was still standing there gaping.

“Now there’s no need to do anything rash!” the rebel exclaimed as she started towards him, holding his bound hands up in surrender. The dark elf halted, reading the fear in his eyes. He was emaciated, his skin drooping from his bones, half dead already.

No one can know I exist, the dark elf thought. She gestured for the rebel to come to her, making it appear that she would free him. As he stepped within distance, she grasped him by the shoulder and buried her dagger to the hilt in his heart. He wheezed, startled at her betrayal, but the dark elf was kind enough to lower him to the ground as he dragged in a final breath. She watched him die with clouded purple eyes, slightly sickened and very disturbed.

What have I turned into?

Chapter Text

“Need I remind you that I kicked her out?”

Though she wanted to shrink away like a wilting flower, Eonwe held her chin up under Mercer’s scrutinizing glare. Brynjolf stood beside her; roughly a foot or two was between them, but she could feel the anxiety ebbing off him. If it hadn’t been before, then his position was definitely on the line now.

When Eonwe and Brynjolf had come strolling into the Ragged Flagon with news of their success, Vex had been waiting for them to warn them that Mercer knew and hadn’t taken well to the Guild going behind his back. Delvin was all apologies, promising that it was all on him, but Brynjolf simply squeezed the old codger’s shoulder and told him, “I can take what Mercer throws at me, but you’re coming with us to keep an eye on the lass.”

Whether that was to keep Eonwe from tearing at Mercer’s eyes, or stopping Mercer from yanking her hair out again, she didn’t really know, but was glad to have Delvin and Vex accompany them into the cistern. Something she wouldn’t have thought a few weeks ago.

“Mercer, don’t blame them,” Delvin tried to reason. “Think about it. We finally got some footin’ back in Windhelm, and a new fence on the side! We won’t have to worry about Maven doubtin’ us, right?”

“Yes, yes, that’s wonderful news,” Mercer drawled. “That still doesn’t answer why she was involved in all of this.” He looked pointedly at Eonwe, a foul smirk curling his lip as he leaned back over his desk. “Get her out.”

Vex started to take Eonwe’s arm but she shook her off, slamming her hand down on the desk. Mercer simply flicked up his eyes, his face cast in shadow as he glared back at her.

“What do you have against me, Mercer?” she hissed. She was tired of this. Here she and Brynjolf had begun to set aside their hostility for one another, and yet Mercer was the same foul bastard from the beginning. “I want to know before I walk out those doors and never come back.”

“And let me assure you, it would be the best day of my life to see you out of here,” he snapped. He looked past her at Brynjolf, Delvin, and Vex. “They obviously see something in you that I don’t. What is that you’ve proved to them that you haven’t proven to me?”

“I honestly don’t know,” she couldn’t help but smile at the ironic absurdity of Mercer trying to decipher the same thing she’d been questioning for weeks. “I just hope that if you and I have to live under the same roof for the next several years, then you spend less time thinking about it and save yourself the extra gray hairs.”

Mercer’s eyes glinted with pure fury as Vex stifled a snort of amusement, but he broke into a cold chuckle. “First you test my patience. Now you’re pushing what toleration I have left for letting you breathe before me.” He glanced between the others again and pursed his lips. “Fine. Get into your Guild armour. You’ve been called upon for gods know what anyways.”

Brynjolf and Delvin exchanged surprised glances behind her.

“Maven wanted to see you – and no, I don’t know what she wants. It probably has to do with ratting you out for torching Goldenglow.”

“Well, if there’s nothin’ else, boss…?” Delvin queried. Mercer shook his head and crossed his arms.

“I’m giving you one chance to prove your worth, Eonwe. I’d recommend not disappointing me again.” Eonwe shivered at the promise of threat in the Guild Master’s eyes as Delvin led her away, and she quickly averted her gaze, frightened butterflies battering her insides.

________

“Somehow, I knew I wasn’t going to miss these,” Eonwe complained, tugging at the tight waistband of her pants. Vex chuckled as she rifled through a spare box she kept full of unusual trinkets and papers. She made an “Ah ha!” sound as she found whatever she was searching for and handed it to Eonwe.

“What’s this?” Eonwe questioned the small velvet pouch.

“Mercer intended to throw away everything of yours after you’d left. I beat him to it and found that in your end table. Thought it was important,” Vex shrugged. Eonwe tugged the little strings and tipped the contents onto her palm. A small silver ring rolled out. Madesi’s silver ring. She laughed.

“This thing just doesn’t seem to go away,” she said. She began to slip it onto her finger but thought better of it, returning it to the pouch. “It’s brought me nothing but bad luck. Hang onto it for me, would you?”

“Ehh...” Vex shook her head. “Don’t get me wrong – I don’t believe in Delvin’s whole “curse” thing, but I don’t want a token of bad luck. It’s your problem, so you keep it.”

“Fine.” Eonwe jammed the pouch into her pocket. “I’ll sell it to Tonilia later. Where is she anyways?”

“Huh? Oh, she’s been out for a couple of days. Had someone she wanted to get in contact with,” Vex shrugged again. “None of my business. Hey, you should get going. Nothing worse than keeping Maven Black-Briar waiting.”

“Any advice before I walk in there and get my head torched by the dragon?” Eonwe joked.

“Yeah, don’t give Maven anymore reason to hate you,” Vex said. “If Mercer hears she has even the slightest problem with you, you won’t have time to regret it.”

Eonwe nodded. Fair answer. She began to head on out but stopped, remembering something. She made her way back into the cistern and sought out Brynjolf.

He was sitting by himself at the little table where some of the others would play betting games or grab a quick bite between jobs. Eonwe slipped one leg over the bench, sitting next to him.

“Hello there, lass,” he smiled. “Shouldn’t you be headed out to meet Maven? You don’t want to keep her waiting.”

“I have a few minutes. I wanted to check that wound before I went.”

Brynjolf’s eyebrows peaked on his forehead. “Looking after me now, are you? Or do you just want to see me again without my shirt on?” Eonwe responded with a light slap to his leg. “Alright, give me a second.”

The wound mustn’t have gotten any better from the way Brynjolf’s face screwed up as he strained to remove his jacket. Eonwe helped him get it off, being mindful of the injury, and gently rolled up his tunic. A slight gasp escaped her as she was faced with dark, splotchy bruises battering his ribs, surrounding the gash. It oozed smelly, yellowish pus from between aggravated red edges. “Oh, Bryn…” she groaned. “What in Oblivion have you done to yourself?”

He answered with a shrug that made him flinch. “What’s the verdict?”

“It’s bad,” Eonwe shook her head. “It’s really, really bad. You need to get this treated by someone who knows what they’re doing.”

“Well, last I heard the Temple of Kynareth was in Whiterun…”

“And there’s no way you’re headed there like this,” she finished for him. “What about Alessandra?”

“The mortician? Is this your way of wishing me to an early grave?” Despite his pain, Brynjolf’s eyes glimmered in amusement. Eonwe chuckled and lowered his shirt.

“I’ll walk you there and meet up with Maven afterwards,” Eonwe said as she got to her feet. She picked up Brynjolf’s jacket, preparing to help him into it, but he shook his head.

“There’s no way I’m getting back into that just to take it off again,” he said. She dropped it on his bed on their way out, taking the route through the Ratways so Brynjolf wouldn’t have to struggle his way up the ladder. Eonwe was aware of his slightly shallow breathing as he followed her steady pace through the dripping tunnels, but he still walked as tall and proud as ever. Stubborn man, she thought. How’d his wound get so infected so quickly?

“I’d say poison was behind this,” Alessandra concluded, gently pressing around the bruises to encourage more of the pus to ooze out. Brynjolf’s fingers were clamped around the edges of the table she’d made him sit up on, and he kept his eyes averted the whole time.

“What kind of poison?” Eonwe asked. She liked the mortician; though a bit snarky at times, she was orderly and spoke to them as normally as a civilian on the street, explaining everything with precise detail. She’d gone ahead and placed a bucket next to Brynjolf when he started to turn a bit green during her explanation, but there was a few times where Eonwe thought she’d be using it too.

“Considering how it’s affected him, I wouldn’t be afraid to say some kind of lingering poison,” Alessandra suggested. “When your friend here was jabbed, the poison would have entered his blood and stayed there. A few hours later or, in this case, a couple of days, it began is effects by weakening his immunity then slowly infecting the surrounding tissue, all the while draining his stamina reserves.”

“I’ve heard of lingering stamina poisons.” Brynjolf hissed as Alessandra wiped the wound with an alcohol-soaked pad.

“It’s not just any regular stamina poison,” Alessandra corrected. “I feel this one’s unique. Have you had any other side effects?”

He shook his head. “Just a bit tired… and nauseous. I could sleep for a week.”

“And that’s exactly what you’ll do,” Alessandra disposed of the used pads into the bucket and retrieved a small bottle from the pouch at her side. She uncorked it and showed it to Eonwe. “This here is a solution that needs to be administered along the edges of the wound twice per day. It will help soothe the infection and stop any itching.” She pulled out a second, larger bottle, shaped a bit like a flask. “And this is to be drunk. A few drops of this in some purified water every morning, to relieve any internal damage and soothe his stomach. And finally,” she drew out a corked black vial. “The cut will have to be washed with this every night. It should combat the poison and help clean his blood. Just put a little on a clean cloth and gently wipe with the wound. Soak the cloth and squeeze it over the opening should touching it hurt too much. Pat it dry and apply the first solution right after. I’ll write down the instructions on some paper for you.” She closed her pouch and headed off into a separate room, where a quill scratching parchment could be heard.

Brynjolf didn’t look very happy. In fact, he was looking a little gray around the edges. He took one of the offered bottles from Eonwe to look at, grimacing at the excessive treatment he’d have to endure. “Why can’t there just be some ordinary potion to drink and be done with it?”

“It would only make you feel better for a little bit,” Eonwe shrugged. “I’d guess a lingering poison needs to be treated meticulously over time.”

Brynjolf grunted and slid off the table, straightening slowly. The candles reflected off the sweat glistening on his bare skin.

“Are you running a fever?” Eonwe asked, remembering her mother always checking her for a fever whenever she so much as had the sniffles or a cough. She set the bottles on the table and reached up, pressing a light hand to his forehead. It was warm, not insistently so, but warm enough to raise a bit of concern. Brynjolf caught her hand before she could lower it and briefly pressed his lips to her knuckles.

“Stop worrying about me, lass,” he reassured her. “I’ve been through worse.”

Eonwe blushed, pulling her fingers out of his. His lips were still a ghost on her skin. “Maybe it would have been better if we stayed mortal enemies.”

His brow furrowed. “What are you saying? That this is your fault?”

Eonwe shuffled her feet. “I don’t know. I… never mind. I don’t know what I’m trying to say.”

“I think that you’re confused,” he suggested. “I may be an arrogant bastard, but I am a man, and even I’ve gotten a cold or a few bruises in my lifetime. It’s not as though I’m turning into some big softie.”

“Like that one?” she gestured to the scar beneath his stubble on his cheek. He reached up to feel it for himself, as though reminding himself it was there.

“Aye. Some young lad thought he was better than everyone and picked a fight with Delvin after the old codger gave him, and I quote, “A pussy job”. I intervened, telling him to mind his manners and he drew a knife, nailing me in the face.”

“What happened to him?”

“I broke his arm for it. I didn’t mean to at the time, but he turned the wrong way and I was still holding his arm. Mercer kicked him out,” Brynjolf chuckled. “His remains were reportedly found in the Hjall River. A pack of wolves must have gotten him, and the guards assumed he died fighting. One of their teeth was sunken deep into his leg.”

“What an arse,” Eonwe commented. “I’m glad Mercer didn’t throw me to the dogs as well.”

“Aye, but he will if you don’t get your arse to Maven,” Brynjolf reminded her.

“Dammit, I forgot…”

“Go,” he gave her a little push. “I’ll be fine here, lass. And mind your tongue around Maven. She might not be a witch, but you wouldn’t want to cross her.”

Chapter Text

Eonwe didn’t like Maven; Maven obviously didn’t like her just as well. Every encounter between them so far had been strained and stiff, the hint of threats and menace obvious at antagonizing levels breeding within every shared word or look. Their last encounter had involved Eonwe being tossed in jail for dealing under the table with Louis Letrush and her very son, so Eonwe wasn’t looking forward to her meeting with the hag straight from Oblivion.

Eonwe found Maven sitting upstairs in a private nook, peering through small gold-rimmed spectacles at a little book held in her lap. Eonwe thought to say hello but was too nervous to interrupt whatever Maven was reading; she instead chose to stand at the corner and wait for the woman to speak first.

It was several minutes before Maven uttered, “If you’re going to keep standing there stupidly, then you can consider this meeting over, Thane Eonwe.” She looked up with a flinty amber gaze, her lips pressed together in distaste. Eonwe seated herself across from Maven, watching her mark her book with a green ribbon and remove her spectacles. Maven finally turned her full attention to Eonwe and smirked. “I assume you know it was I who had you imprisoned. Stealing Frost for Letrush was a poor move indeed, as I’m sure a smart girl like you is aware of by now.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Eonwe said, surprised Maven bothered to compliment her. “What is it you need me for?”

“As much as I am a woman who prefers to deal with business before personal matters, I believe that there are more pressing troubles that call my attention,” Maven stated. “I am a decent judge of character, as good as or perhaps better than that oaf that beckoned you down into his little family. You, however, are unlike any girl I’ve met in recent years.”

“The first time we met was when you were in the company of your Guild Master. The next, you were late for your own coronation as Thane. And finally, you not only stole my horse and managed to escape from jail, but you’ve also landed yourself back in Frey’s good graces.” Maven leaned forward slightly. “You haven’t been anywhere close to my kind of authority, so what power is it you wield over these people?”

“Oh, I was starting to think it was pure luck,” Eonwe joked. Maven clicked her tongue, the disappointment clear in the downward turn of her mouth, and sat back to pat her book in her lap.

“This here is a record of the honey supply I was gaining from Goldenglow Estate and my total profits for what I’ve gained with my Black-Briar Mead. My contacts have concluded that it was indeed you who caused the fire – and before you open that pretty little mouth of yours to complain, yes, I am aware of the dragon,” she smiled coldly. “And that, Thane Eonwe, is how I am the most powerful woman in all of this godsforsaken hold. People will believe me because they have no other choice. People will bow down and kiss my boots should I ask them to, because it is what they’re supposed to do.”

“You’re not just after money,” Eonwe spoke her realizations out loud. “You’re after something bigger…”

“Indeed. What I am after is none of your concern,” Maven’s smile fell away. “My profits dropped by thirty percent in the last two months. Not only did my honey shortage cut into my profits and force me to import honey from elsewhere, but it allowed a competitor to sweep in with his own mead. Tell me, Thane Eonwe, do you know of any other meaderies that could go up against my brand?”

Eonwe thought for a moment. Firstly, she hated how much Maven pushed her title in her face. Secondly, she skipped through all the meadery names she knew of. “Honningbrew?” she came up with.

“Rightly so. In only a matter of months, Sabjorn raised that damned place up off the ground and started making an enormous profit with his mead. Just the year before, the production in that place was as silent as a mouse. I cannot allow it to put me out of business, even for a moment,” Maven rubbed her forehead. The lines of stress were visible around her eyes. “Do you understand what I’m telling you? You yourself only returned here to your homeland at the end of summer, and even you already know the name of Honningbrew Meadery! I cannot have competition, not at this point.”

“What do you need me to do?” Eonwe asked, slightly befuddled that Maven knew so much about her.

“I need you to head to the Bannered Mare in Whiterun. I have a partner there, Mallus Maccius. He’ll fill you in on all the details.” Maven paused here to open one of the bottles of wine on the table and pour herself a glass. She sipped at it slowly, the white pallor of her cheeks gathering colour once more. “Find out who Sabjorn’s silent partner is. I would so enjoy organizing a meeting with whomever they are and giving them a piece of my mind.”

“I’m glad you’ve found faith in the Guild again,” Eonwe said, speaking for her colleagues. Maven snorted, her fingers twiddling the wine glass impatiently.

“Faith? I don’t have faith in anyone, Eonwe,” she corrected sharply. “All I care about is cause and effect. Did the job get done and was it done correctly. There’s no gray area.”

“However,” she added. “I am somewhat pleased that Brynjolf sent me someone with business sense. It’s been far too long since I was able to rely on someone to complete a simple task.”

“What was that about having faith in no one?” Eonwe raised an eyebrow, and Maven mirrored her, a smile parting her lips and revealing a row of perfect white teeth.

“You fail to understand once more, so let me make it loud and clear,” Maven leaned forward, beckoning for Eonwe to do the same. She did, hesitantly, and saw the tiny flecks of copper and green mottling the woman’s irises as her eyes narrowed. “I trust you to not butcher this job. If you do… I promise that you will be sorry.”

________

Eonwe tripped over a jutting rock and crashed to the floor, the bottle of poison rolling out of her hand and into a shadowy corner. She groaned, turning onto her back and staring up at the dark expanse that hid the ceiling. The smell of burnt hair and filth hung in her nostrils like smoke, choking her and making bile rise in her throat. Her finger throbbed where the venomlong skeever had latched on and refused to let go, taking a chunk of skin out with it when she yanked it by the scruff. Her armour was slick and green with spider blood and venom, and frankly, she stank like the dead. Gods, she felt dead.

Crawling to her feet, Eonwe hunted for the poison bottle in the dark, hissing and swearing and finally puking her guts up on the ground. The bottle clinked when she kicked it and she hastily snatched it up, uncorking it and pouring half onto the large nest. She corked the bottle closed and stumbled down the passageway, hearing angry squeaking in her ears. She felt like passing out.

Making it into the boilery, Eonwe checked the tags on the huge vats until he found the one labelled Honningbrew Reserve. Climbing up to the walkway above, she lifted the lid carefully, avoiding a gout of hot steam, and poured the rest of the poison in. “Done,” she muttered to herself, climbing back down and unlocking the door with the key on the hook. She pocketed it and stepped out into the sunlight, sighing a breath of relief at the fresh air. She could smell rain on the wind.

Commander Caius was waiting, leaning against the counter talking to a Whiterun guardswoman that had accompanied him, an ale in hand. Mallus and Sabjorn both looked up as she shut the door behind herself, and Mallus gestured with a quick jerk of his head to go in the back. She did and he followed, but only to shut the door. “You look like shit,” he hissed.

“No thanks to you!” Eonwe snarled back, referring to Hamelyn, the wizard that had been waiting to duel her in the final cavern. Mallus told her to wipe herself down and firmly shut the door to watch the tasting ceremony.

Grateful for a bit of privacy, Eonwe started stripping off her armour when a loud yell made her jump. She went to the door and cracked it open and saw the commander urging Sabjorn out at the end of his sword, the guardswoman following mutely. She stepped out as Mallus uttered, “Farewell, Sabjorn.”

“You could have at least warned me about that freak down there!” Eonwe cried, shoving the doors open. “What were you thinking, sending me down there against a wizard?”

“I thought it would be better to leave some of the details out of our previous discussion,” Mallus mumbled. “Listen, you’ve dealt with him and he won’t be a problem anymore, so thank you.”

Eonwe snorted, folding her arms. “A simple thank you doesn’t make up for that. You’re lucky I don’t feel like upchucking all over your floors.”

Mallus curled his lip and went around behind the counter, fishing up a health potion. “Here, this should do you some good.”

Eonwe uncorked it and swallowed it, scrunching up her nose as the vile-tasting liquid slid like sludge down her throat. “Gah! It tastes terrible!”

“That means it’s working,” Mallus grunted. “Is there anything else you need before you head back to Riften?”

“Yeah, actually. Can I get a look at Sabjorn’s books?”

“Sure. Hunting his silent partner, eh?” he tossed her a small brass key. She nodded and left the potion bottle on the counter, heading for Sabjorn’s room.

Eonwe pocketed the six coin purses and the promissory note into her pockets, and took a quick look around the room for anything of value. She found a pretty golden decanter in a locked side room that she knew Delvin might buy off her, and found a pouch of uncut gemstones in a hidden nook of Sabjorn’s desk. She returned downstairs to bid Mallus farewell.

“I’m sorry about Hamelyn,” he told her. “Say, I know just the way to make it up to you. I have a few friends in the black market, and if you ever need anything fenced…”

“Sure.” Eonwe tossed him the bag of gemstones. “See what you can get for those. I’ll pick up the coin next time I come through Whiterun.”

There was a rumble and Eonwe went to the window, peering out. Rain was coming down in blowing sheets, cold and gray. She sighed heavily, knowing she would have to walk in that.

“I would have hoped for you to beat the storm, but it seems it came sooner than I expected,” Mallus said sympathetically. He took a cloak off the coatrack and handed it to her. “Stay warm, friend.”

Chapter Text

Warm was not an option, not in this storm.

Eonwe slogged through water that came up to her ankles, taking the main road to avoid getting stuck in mud, though it was little use. The rivers were all swollen and the roads were slick with mud and streams of water, making it difficult to walk anywhere. By the time Eonwe made it to Riverwood, not very far off from Honningbrew Meadery, she was soaked to the skin and shivering. She stopped at Sleeping Giant Inn just long enough to warm up, not wanting to be recognized by Orgnar.

Climbing the mountain road out of the village was impossible, so she stuck to the main road once more. She followed the river, sinking into thigh-deep puddles frequently and sometimes falling altogether. Her head was heavy with tire and she felt dizzy with nausea. The frostbite venom from the spiders was setting in quick, making her weak, and the skeever bite was an ugly purplish red colour. She kept thinking about Brynjolf’s wound and how quickly it had festered. Eonwe knew that if she remained without shelter and treatment for much longer, being sick would be the least of her worries.

A crack of thunder made her jump and she looked up, realizing that she was staring at the gate to Helgen. Her heart hammered in her chest and she made a point to rush past, slipping in the mud until she made it by and back onto the road. She continued onward, the urge to find somewhere warm to stay becoming her first priority. But out here, in the wilds where not even a tiny settlement existed, it was hopeless.

When Eonwe had come through the Jerall Mountains, she had been even less prepared for the biting cold of the constant winter climates. She had been lucky enough to find warm gear and have her father’s bow on hand, driven onwards by the urge to flee to safety. But here, wandering with bleary eyes and a foggy mind, Eonwe wasn’t being driven by anything more than simple primal needs.

The cold was biting her to the bone now, reminding her of the dangerous, icy slopes. Eonwe looked around, desperate, and heard the faint clanging of a hammer on steel. There’s a Stormcloak camp around here somewhere. I probably wouldn’t be welcome, but they’ll have a fire and medicine… she started towards the clanging, setting aside her doubts as she scrambled up the slippery slope.

The snarl was her only warning. Eonwe pushed through a bush and came face to face with glowering copper eyes before she was being propelled backwards, a savage snarling deafening her. She screamed as she dropped through thin air for a brief moment then hit the road, landing heavily on her shoulder. There was a sick popping sound as her shoulder was promptly dislocated.

Teeth seized her arm and she shrieked in agony, feeling the canine’s jaws scissoring right through the leather to her arm and clamping into the skin. Eonwe flailed, confused and panicked, blinded by the rain coming right into her eyes. “Help!” the ragged cry tore past her lips. “Help me! HELP!”

The wolf let go for a moment and Eonwe seized her chance. She kicked her foot out and landed a blow against the beast’s shoulder, hearing its startled yelp. She scrambled to her knees, bashing them as she crawled desperately, her good hand feeling for her dagger. “Help…h-help…” she whimpered. She couldn’t find the hilt, furthering her panic, but she found a way onto her feet. Not even risking to look, Eonwe ran, clutching her arm tightly as she fled up the road with the wolf charging along behind her.

Eonwe skidded and fell as she rounded the corner, boots unable to hold their own in the sudden change to icy ground. She slid right down the road at a dangerous pace, catching on something and rolling, crushing her arm further. She howled as her damaged arm was wrenched back, her head colliding with the rocks. She managed to force herself to sit upright, and blood dripped into her eyes from a gash on her forehead.

Someone yelled her name and Eonwe looked up blearily. The dark shape in front of her was coming closer and she blinked, her eyes suddenly opening and seeing. The wolf launched itself at her, lips peeled back to reveal its jagged canines, eyes wide as it came in for the kill. A childlike instinct enveloped Eonwe and a piercing scream tore free, cowering behind her arms, closing her eyes to the terrible moment about to happen.

The sound of a bow snapping was muffled by the cry of death. Eonwe peered through her lashes at the wolf, slumped on the ground in front of her, an arrow protruding from its neck. A single figure was running towards her, wearing a heavy gray cloak. A Greybeard? Eonwe thought confusedly. They crouched in front of her, saying her name, but the harder Eonwe tried to focus the faster she lost consciousness.

The last thing she felt was a gentle hand brushing her cheek and she thought of home.

________

The spider dropped from the ceiling, its long legs snatching Eonwe up and carrying her high up into the air. She wriggled and screamed, trying to push herself free from its tight embrace, her stomach rolling as she was rocked back and forth as it spun its webbing around her. She vomited violently, shaking like a leaf as the contents of her stomach splattered the ground below. It was a long way down…

Someone growled and she looked around, terrified the wolf was still lurking around somewhere, perhaps waiting below for her to fall. Eonwe saw several giant heads instead, their green eyes split by a slit pupil, their breathing deep and rumbling in their barrel-like chests. One of the dragons lifted its mighty head and spoke: “Dovahkiin, you disappoint. Alduin will be most displeased with your cowardliness.”

“I’m not a coward!” Eonwe protested, still trying to break free of her restraints. The dragon snorted sweet-smelling smoke, akin to the fragrant smell of herbs being burnt, and Eonwe blinked to clear her vision. She was suddenly falling, landing on her hurt arm; despite the cushioned surface, and her pained bellow mimicked the roars of the dragons parting far, far above in the skies.

A thrill shot up her spine as she realized on which cushioned surface she had in fact landed upon. She sat up abruptly, clutching her arm securely, and looked down at the familiar woven bedspread beneath her. Tiny green flowers had been stitched onto the faded cream-coloured wool, and a pattern of burnished yellow and brown leaves edged the hems. She fingered it timidly, her eyes watering with memory, and she raised her head to look around her old room.

“This is a dream,” she told herself firmly. “It’s gone.” She got to her feet and padded around her room, looking at the tiny scratches in the dresser passed down from her great-grandmother and the rugged mat with the one worn edge. She let go of her sore arm and ran her fingers over shelves and items once so precious to her; the skull of the very first deer she hunted, the engraved wooden cup she used for six years because it was her favourite, the collection of crocheted dollies tucked in a little pile on the shelf. Eonwe remembered wanting to give them to other children to play with, since she was too old for them, but her mother had protested that she keep them and give them to her own girls.

So much for that, Eonwe thought sadly, picking one of them up and brushing the dust off the dolly’s smiling face. She held it close to her and looked around the rest of her bedroom, drinking in every little item until she reached it.

Her father’s bow.

Eonwe set down the dolly and took up the bow in her left hand as she did, gripping the tense wood. It was a familiar feel and weight, and a rush of memories of running through the forests or practicing endlessly in the garden came to her. She stroked the wood tenderly. Lost to the ages. The words haunted her but felt… right. There was no other way to describe the absence of her childhood.

There was a crackle of armoured boots outside and a tremor of fear pummeled her stomach. She went to the window, cautiously, her years of stealthy hunting moving her body for her. She peered out the window and saw them, eight of them, gleaming like statues of gold in the moonlight. Is this how it happened? she wondered. Or is this how I’ve put it together after this many years?

The Thalmor soldiers never bothered to knock on the door of shout for her father to come down. The elf at the back gave a sharp nod and, coiling the flames in their fingers, three wizards stepped forward and let the orange light spray from between their fingers. “No!” she cried in a whisper.

The instinct to run was overwhelming, but Eonwe fought it. This time, even if it would change nothing, she would do it right. She took up her quiver of arrows, all polished and ready for hunting the next day – the day that never came – and she made for her bedroom door. Briefly, she glanced back, trying to freeze the image in her mind.

Flinging open the door, Eonwe scurried down the hall and went to her parents’ bedroom. She pushed the door open carelessly and ran to her mother’s side. Her heart leaped when her mother stirred and looked up at her in confusion. Her brows furrowed when she saw Eonwe carrying the bow and... well, much older than the child she’d tucked into bed just hours before.

“The Thalmor…” Eonwe gasped. Alarm tightened her mother’s face and she clambered out of bed wordlessly, retrieving her knapsack and a dagger. It was long with a wicked tip, intended for only one reason. Eonwe’s father was already on his feet, sheathing his sword at his hip and getting a spare dagger. He handed it to Eonwe with a serious look.

“We’ll go out my window,” Eonwe said. “I did it last time.”

“Last time?” her mother echoed but her father was already leading the way with Eonwe in tow.

“You’re older,” he commented, guiding his wife into the room and shutting the door tightly. He motioned for them to approach the side window, and Eonwe pushed it up. Eonwe’s mother climbed out and Eonwe reached for her father, but he caught her hand and shook his head.

“You’ll die!” Eonwe protested.

“Something tells me I already have, little one,” he smiled. “You look so much like your Ma…”

“I’m nothing like her,” Eonwe murmured, tears in her eyes. “I’m nothing like either of you.”

Her father pulled her into his arms and hugged her tightly, kissing his lips to the top of her head. “You’re our daughter. And I’m proud.”

“Really?”

“Really, really.” Eonwe smiled and wrapped her arms around her father tighter, breathing in his warm smell. She’d smelled his scent before, and more recently, but she couldn’t place where. Her father stepped back and bent to look her in the eye, the same dark hazel, flecked with green and gold. “Take care of yourself, Eonwe. Don’t be scared.”

“That’s not easy,” Eonwe protested quietly as her father broke away from her, heading back to the door. He glanced back at her with a quick smile, the same one he used to give her when he was poking fun with her mother.

“Life isn’t easy. If it is, then you aren’t living,” he told her before he left. Eonwe had no choice but to climb out the window and catch up to her mother, waiting at the edge of the trees.

“Sweetie, why are they here?” her mother asked worriedly. “We don’t worship Talos formally.”

“It’s not that,” Eonwe corrected. “It’s one of those purges.”

Her mother covered her mouth in shock, then grabbed Eonwe’s good arm. “Where’s your Da?”

Eonwe shook her head. “Ma, you need to know something. Th-this… it’s already happened.”

“You alluded to that already,” her mother raised a slender eyebrow in question, mimicking the same expression Eonwe did so often. Maybe I am like them. The thought gave her comfort, and enough courage to tell the truth.

“It’s been eleven years since… since we lost our home. Since… since I lost you.”

“Oh, Gods…” her mother embraced her tightly. “Oh, my little leaf. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, Ma,” she muttered against the softness of her mother bosom. Her mother stoked her hair, then drew back swiftly. “Did you live?” she demanded.

Eonwe nodded, but her eyes spoke of all the pain and loneliness her mother would ever have to know. Her mother stroked her cheek and finally opened her eyes, seeing everything. The scars on her daughter’s cheek, how her eyes and cheeks sunk in slightly, the sharper angles of a woman’s face and not a child’s face. She wore not a nightdress but layered brown leather, streaked with spider goo and venom, and one arm was torn and bloodied from the wolf’s jaws. Eonwe saw fear cross her mother’s gaze, then acceptance. “You’ve fought so hard,” she murmured. “You’re so brave. So beautiful.”

“With all this ick?” she gestured to her ruined armour. Her mother laughed.

“Even with the ick. Oh, sweetie…” her eyes hardened. “You can’t hide yourself in this dream. It’s time to wake up.”

“No, Ma…” Eonwe pleaded. She didn’t want to wake up, not while her mother was still breathing, still alive…

“Listen to me. I’m your Ma, so just do me this one… one last thing,” she stroked Eonwe’s face. “Be strong for me. Wake up.”

“No.”

“Wake up, Eonwe!”

“Ma, please!” Tears rimmed her lashes and she grasped blindly for her mother, but empty space had suddenly swallowed her. A sharp jolt yanked her arm Eonwe’s eyes went round. Something had her! “Mama! MAMA!”

Reality sank in with the force of the Red Mountain erupting, and Eonwe screamed in agony as Sapphire pushed her shoulder back into place.

Chapter Text

Sapphire wordlessly handed Eonwe a bowl of soup. It was clear broth and tasted reminiscent of dried elves ear and leeks. She swallowed a bitter-tasting mouthful and muttered a low thank you to Sapphire, who grunted as she poured herself a bowl. Rain spilled down in sheets outside, never-ending and icy cold.

They ate in companionable silence.

It had been two days since Sapphire got her back on the mend. Her right forearm was smeared with salve and wrapped, and her arm was held in a tourniquet. Sapphire had somehow gotten her out of her armour – by the gods, she’d somehow carried Eonwe all the way down the road to the little abandoned alchemist shack.

Between restless dreams or staring off into space, the fellow thief had travelled back and forth to Ivarstead to “accumulate” supplies. Sapphire had refused to feed her nothing more than soup, not wanting Eonwe to throw up all over her again, but Eonwe didn’t mind. She honestly just wanted to sleep dreamlessly until all the pain finally vaporized.

It was a tense silence between the two of them. Eonwe got the feeling Sapphire didn’t want to be there, but she didn’t blame her. She’d yelled out during her dream, and she’d seen the glances the thief gave her. Nervous little glances.

It wasn’t until another three days had passed that Sapphire finally handed Eonwe a bowl of stewed leeks and potatoes cut into little cubes. Eonwe took the bowl and Sapphire sat down the bottom of the bed, angled away from Eonwe. Unless she was changing the bandages, Sapphire never sat on the bed. Eonwe ate casually, keeping her gaze averted, suspecting that Sapphire had something to say.

“Your arm looks better,” the thief began. “And you’ve got colour in your face. We should be able to start travelling soon, maybe in a day or two. The Guild will be looking forward to your return.”

“Yeah,” Eonwe muttered, chewing on a leek.

“Umm…” Sapphire glanced over her shoulder at Eonwe and their eyes met briefly. “Can… can we talk for a second?”

“Sure,” Eonwe dropped her eyes and swallowed the leek. Sapphire took a deep breath.

“We really haven’t gotten to know each other…”

“I noticed,” Eonwe interrupted and Sapphire made an irritated sound. She suddenly whirled around on the bed, jiggling Eonwe’s arm, but Eonwe was too surprised to feel it.

“Look, I know I’m quiet. I know I don’t talk to you a lot like Brynjolf or Delvin or… or the boss. I don’t get why everyone wants me to open up all the time. The Guild is a business, not a… a forum!” she exclaimed in frustration. “Why does everyone have to know your personal business all the time?”

“I never asked you,” Eonwe stated. “And you never asked me.”

Sapphire fidgeted nervously, breathing though her nose as she struggled to calm down. Eonwe smiled sympathetically and Sapphire noticed. “Don’t pity me,” she growled.

“I don’t.”

“Yes, you do. Just like I pity you. Crying out for your Ma like that…” Sapphire broke off and lowered her head. Eonwe rolled her eyes and set the bowl on her side table. “It… it makes even the toughest of us feel sorry for others.”

“Did you think I mistook you as my Ma?”

“I don’t know what you thought! But I know what I thought!” Sapphire blistered with rage. “I know how it feels to lose your parents. I know how it feels to be helpless, then to hate yourself for having been so helpless! I know…” she choked up and broke off, shaking her head. “Why am I bothering?”

“Because we’re the same?” Eonwe suggested hesitantly. Sapphire laughed.

“We are nothing like the same. You’re cut from a different cloth. A very different cloth.”

“We both know heartbreak and loss,” Eonwe pointed out. “We’ve both lost something very important. How are we so different?”

“Because…” Sapphire’s voice dropped several octaves. “They didn’t just take my parents away from me.”

Eonwe fell silent.

“The bandits came to the farm. My parents didn’t even brandish a weapon against them, and they were killed. The cook had the job of chopping them up into little pieces and I... they made me feed the pigs the next day.”

“I was handed from bandit to bandit. I was younger than you, Eonwe. I’d only experienced my blood for two years, but they didn’t care. “Fresh meat” they called me. I don’t know how I managed those long nights. I never slept. I just… they just used me and left me to cry in the corner. That is…” her tone took on a twisted edge. “Until I couldn’t cry anymore.”

“What happened?” Eonwe heard her stupid animal brain make her ask. She didn’t want to know. She really didn’t.

“I grew older, but I also got stronger. Braver. I seduced the bandit chief and gave him the night of his life. When he fell asleep, and all of the others did too, I took a dagger,” she acted this out with her hands. “And I cut their throats. One by one.”

“Sapphire…” Eonwe whispered, her hand covering her mouth. Sapphire looked up, her expression gaunt and pale.

“I ran as far as I could until they found me. Rune and Brynjolf. They took me in. I told Brynjolf because he asked but… I never imagined telling anyone else. It hurts to remember,” she sighed. “But I think you might be right. We have both lost something very important.”

Eonwe didn’t know what to think. She wanted to cry, but she didn’t want to think Sapphire pitied her. She wanted to burrow under the blankets and forget, but closing her eyes would only conjure the images Sapphire described. She instead sat across from the thief, staring into her sapphire-blue gaze, and swallowed over and over.

“You’ve had blood on your hands,” Sapphire told her after a moment. “I can tell. There’s guilt in the blood you’ve shed.”

“Oh, so I have to tell my story now?”

“It’s only fair.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“You have to tell someone eventually. It gets to you after a while – bottles up inside you and swells until you’re ready to burst.” Sapphire’s words rang true and Eonwe sat quietly for several minutes, listening to the light rain beginning to fall outside. It should have been cold enough for it to snow; she turned her head to look and was reminded of tears.

________

It was a frigid afternoon in Bruma. It was the height of summer, but the icy winds from Skyrim still swept across the Jeralls into the heart of the city. Evening was setting in, turning the sky to a deep blue like the distant seas, far away from the enclosed province of Cyrodiil. Like the land, tucked into the middle of the continent, Eonwe felt trapped, longing to feel the sky and smell the breeze coming from across the tides and beyond. Bruma was her prison, a prison with no doors or windows – just a floor smeared with gods-know-what and a ceiling spun with spider webs, thick with their victims within the shadows.

Eonwe could relate to those poor, desiccated little flies trapped up there, more than any Imperial or Nord living within the city walls. Maybe the entire province. It was a disheartening thing, to realize how much of a forgotten outsider she was. And the innkeeper, a greedy Imperial named Vesuvius, reminded her every single, gods-damned day.

“Oi, you there!” a paunchy, balding, straggly-bearded man bellowed halfway across the tavern, where he sat with an obnoxious-looking skinny Breton aristocrat – complete with wire-rimmed spectacles, waxed mustache (let’s not forget the fine-cut suit and coat lined with fox fur) and a second portly fellow who looked as though he’d forgotten everything but the drink in his hand – which was steadily tipping towards the floor as Eonwe glanced up. “Bring me and my fine friends another round of mead, girl!” He proceeded to end his request with a floor-shaking belch. Eonwe cringed, hesitantly making her way over to him.

From the look of his past-the-point-of-drunk friend, she couldn’t help but admit, “I’m sorry, but I believe you’ve had enough.” The aristocrat gave her a look of true scrutiny over the tops of his spectacles, then turned to his friend, agreeing in a thin, nasally voice. The man who’d called for drinks gaped at Eonwe, his forehead turning a startlingly deep shade of red in an even more startling amount of seconds. Swallowing, which was a great effort for him, the man lurched to his feet and poked a fat finger within mere inches of Eonwe’s cleavage. She held her ground and his eye, preparing for yet another bothersome patron who would drunkenly argue to get his way.

When he took another swaggering step forward, Eonwe did take a step back, fearing that if he fell he would flatten her. She bumped right back into a chair and the occupant that was in it. She turned to briefly apologize, catching a glimpse of a man in leather with his hood drawn up with a long, deep bronze sword leaning by his knee, and came face to face with the drunken oaf. She squeaked and leaned right back, pressing into the leather-wearing man in a fervent attempt to escape the patron’s putrid breath. Her heart jumped into her throat and her hand dropped, palming the dagger tucked beneath the band of her apron.

The chair scraped loudly and the man behind her made an irritated sound. Something shoved her sideways and her hand automatically yanked the knife free. The leather-wearing man reached for her, fingers like claws as they tried to snag her, and Eonwe’s dulled instincts – paired with a rush of adrenaline and paranoia built up for endless months – kicked in. She couldn’t help it.

The knife slashed out and connected with the back of the leather-wearing man’s hand, and a sharp hiss jerked her back to reality. Her eyes locked onto the beads of blood on the back of his hand and she looked up into a scowling face, set with harsh sea-green eyes and a cascade of ashen-blonde hair turned gray. He grimaced, gaze bleary with drink, and snatched up his bronze sword as he strode out of the tavern. Dozens of eyes were locked on Eonwe, most of them shining with disapproval, though some were alive with fear.

A hand grabbed the back of her dress, hauling her backwards towards the kitchen. The drunken patron simply sank back down into his chair, disoriented as he turned to his friends. Eonwe, however, saw no more as she was whirled around and shoved up against the wall. She came face to face with Vesuvius, who was glowering down at her with so much fury, she thought his expression might shatter.

“With you, it’s been one problem after another!” he accused. “The bed linens are never clean, the tables are never wiped, the floors are never washed, patrons have complained about your terrible service… you are nothing but a disappointment!”

“I’m sorry,” Eonwe apologized quietly, averting her eyes to look down at the floor. Vesuvius snatched her chin and jerked her head back so quickly it bashed the wall behind, making her eyes water from the pain.

“‘Sorry’? Sorry isn’t good enough, you pathetic little twat. You are here to bend to every request and demand to those people out there,” he gestured with a pointed finger. “Now you are either going to go back out there and stop whining like a little girl, or I’ll beat you so hard you won’t be able to lift a tray for a month. What’s it going to be?”

Eonwe swallowed and began to answer, but Vesuvius’ face changed. He shook his head and unbuckled his belt, yanking it free from the loops of his pants and folding it in half. Eonwe tried to dart past him, panicking, but he grabbed her arm and twisted it hard enough to make her screech out in more shock than pain. “No! Don’t!” she cried, and glimpsed his arm raise, intending to strike her with the metal buckle.

Wriggling desperately, Eonwe tripped and fell forward, bringing Vesuvius with her. She turned and landed on her elbow and Vesuvius landed on top of her, crushing her legs. Her elbow bounced, pushing her hand up, and she felt something hot and sticky spurt against her fingers. A ragged gasp exploded in her ears and she tried to push Vesuvius away with the hand under him, but the liquid seemed to flow even more and turned her hand slippery. A tangy, metallic smell wafted to her nostrils and Eonwe shoved harder, pushing Vesuvius off of her. She started to stand but her eyes rose… and her blood went cold.

A red blossom stained the front of Vesuvius’ shirt and in the middle of it protruded the handle of the knife Eonwe had been holding in her hand. The stain grew bigger and bigger, like a blooming flower, and Eonwe stared at it, transfixed. Vesuvius’ dark eyes were fixed on her, filled with so much rage that it made her stomach curdle with complete and utter horror. She scrambled to her feet and looked down at her blood-soaked hand. Get out of here an urgent voice whispered in her ear. Before someone sees what you’ve done!

The door banged against the outer wall as Eonwe fled to the back of the tavern, scurrying down the alleyway. She tore off her apron, her feet never stopping as she followed the narrow corridor between the rows of stone and wood houses, wiping the red off her hand as best as she could. She snatched up her father’s hunting bow from behind the compost barrels, tucked her mother’s emerald into the hollow between her breasts, and followed the alleys towards the front of the city. Her heart was thumping so hard that she feared someone would hear it. Come and get her! it seemed to chant. She’s here! She’s here!

The alley ended and led to the main street, where a swarm of people were coming to visit or leave. Eonwe swallowed her fear, tucked her hand into her pocket, forced her face to settle into an expressionless mask, and stepped out into the people, following the horde like sheep being herded. Every time someone called out, she flinched, fearing they’d seen her… fearing the worst.

As the main gates loomed up in front of her and she passed the guard keeping watch, the single, shrill cry split the air like an eagle’s screech: “Murder! Murder!”

Eonwe’s eyes filled with frightened tears as she slipped past an elderly woman, pushed out the main gates, and walked briskly around the side of the city wall. As soon as she was out of sight she fell into a run, her thin leather shoes slipping on ice, the skirts of her maid dress tangling around her legs. But she ran, her lungs aching from the cold air and her face pale with sick dread. The snow tried to trip her, but it she wouldn’t let it stop her, nor would she let it slow her down.

“I just ran,” Eonwe told Sapphire, clutching the furs under her chin and staring at the fluffy white pelt. It reminded her of the snowy slopes of the Jerall Mountains that’d lay ahead at the end of all that running; the land she’d thought would grant her freedom but only pinned her down with the weight of the world. “It’s all I could do. The coward runs away.”

Chapter Text

Saturalia and the Old Life Festival had come and gone, and the year came to a close with little to no celebration or excitement for the thieves beneath Riften. The winter weather had set in full and Lake Honrich was frozen over completely; only the murky currents in the deepest of rivers chased their own tails under the layers of white ice. The rooftops in the cities were blanketed with a thick pad of snow, and the footprints skirting buildings from door to door, or window to window, made it that much more difficult for the thieves to remain unnoticed. A handful of them had been thrown in jail for a week or so, depending on how many pillaged items were found on their persons, and two new recruits had met their end only a couple of days after joining the Guild – one cracking his neck after slipping off a roof, and the other having been chased down by pursuing guards.

Eonwe quickly learned that Mercer hated winter for this very reason. Every thief was more or less on his or her own, and there was no such thing as an easy job. It took every ounce of skill and attention to scrape ice from locks frozen shut or to keep in the footprints of others and leave as little trail as possible behind that could be led back to the secret entrance. Eonwe had gotten used to scraping her boots clean before entering any place, but trying to keep warm was the real struggle; if the leathers the Guild customarily wore weren’t enough, being swathed in wrapping, trailing furs was harder, although it concealed their uniforms and allowed them to walk around Riften without being watched. Eonwe complained little when Mercer was within earshot, but she hated feeling five times her size when she was hunched in front of a door, trying to break in as discretely as possible. But somehow, the others had done it for years and continued to, even if they surpassed her abilities a hundred times over, and Eonwe knew she would rather a warm bed among friends as opposed to a damp, chilly jail cell.

Since regaining Maven Black-Briar’s favour in closing down Honningbrew Meadery, Eonwe had noticed several of her fellow thieves had come to respect her almost as much as Vex or even Brynjolf. Several of them warmly welcomed her to a table for dinner or a few drinks, and she was included in conversations, often asked to share the happenings on her last jobs. Delvin had begun saving specific errands for her, sweetly adding that he wanted the more “delicate touch”, and several of the thieves even offered to come with Eonwe to watch her back or give her a hand. It may have been the coldest season of the year, but Eonwe couldn’t have felt warmer amongst the faces that were becoming favoured, even important. It felt good, and Eonwe shamelessly clung to the feeling.

And then there was Brynjolf, who remained as much as a puzzle to Eonwe than ever. He was the one thing that didn’t feel warm or malleable in his ways, and she often looked after him in confusion. He rarely spoke to her; a nod of acknowledgement or a brief smile was all she could get out of him on good days, but most times he’d walk right past her or talk over her as though she wasn’t there. Eonwe didn’t understand why it bothered her so much; it wasn’t as though they’d ever gone past the point of acquaintances, but Eonwe was convinced she felt a sudden shift between them, a distancing, and it made her uncomfortable. She knew she was unconsciously trying to impress her mentor, bringing in more loot and gold than others as often as she could, or asking for triple the jobs in an attempt to prove her worth several times over. She blistered with embarrassment whenever she noticed the looks Delvin or Vex would give her, but made the excuse that she wanted to keep busy and help the Guild as best as she could.

“I think she’s tryin’ to knock you off your pedestal,” Delvin was saying to Vex as he scribbled down the jobs he’d lined up for Eonwe in her journal she’d begun keeping, in an effort to stay organized. Unknown to them all, a single sentence was written on the last page at the back of the already half-filled book – and sentence she had completely forgotten about but remembered nervously every time she handed Delvin the journal:

Learn Shout to defeat Alduin.

It weighed heavily in her mind, knowing the supposed destiny the Gods had chosen her to bear, but the guilt in knowing how she had abandoned what she could only describe as her duty left her restless, and her nights went sleepless. It was exhausting, but it was something Eonwe knew she’d have to live with until she found a reason to chase headlong after her fate. Besides, having someone nagging in her ear constantly was something Eonwe didn’t want to revisit.

Delphine and Esbern had kept their distance; truthfully, Eonwe wasn’t even sure if they knew where she’d wound up, but it definitely felt for better. It was hard enough, trying to juggle bringing in enough coin for the Guild while maintaining her duties as Thane; another matter that was figuratively fraying Eonwe’s hair to the roots and leaving her second-guessing every one of her moves. She couldn’t afford to make any more mistakes; she’d been given plenty of chances on Mercer’s part and she doubted he would let even the smallest mess up slide. It was the court within Mistveil Keep that, without actually saying it, promised no second chances.

Eonwe knew that, in the end, her keeping of secrets would blow up in her face and leave things further tangled in the unswallowable knot that was already building. Each day that another lie was added to the pile left Eonwe feeling heavier and heavier with guilt and worry, guilt that became immeasurable and worry that bore all the weight of the Sea of Ghosts. There was no one to admit the truth to without sacrificing the careful walls she’d built up, and Eonwe didn’t think she would be able to live without those precious walls. It was as though she were living as she did before, carrying a great burden with in goal set in mind. She wanted to find that goal – she needed to before it swallowed what was left of her, but she didn’t know where to start.

And so she continued on, day by day, wading in deep waters, fearing every step would have her plunging to the bottom with no hand to grab hers and turn her in the right direction before she subjected herself to drowning.

“Here you are,” Delvin handed back her journal with a caring smile, shaking Eonwe back to the present and out of her muddled thoughts. “These should keep ya busy for a bit and, if you dunna mind me addin’-”

“Thanks, Delvin. I can take it from here,” Eonwe interrupted brusquely, shoving the journal into her knapsack and extending her hand for the diamond Vex was handing over. “See you when I get back.” Delvin sat with his mouth flapping as she quickly wheeled out of the Ragged Flagon and following the edge of the pool as quickly as she could walk without breaking into a run. She didn’t need to hear the words she’d heard a hundred times.

~*~

Rubbing her arms briskly to fend off the cold, Eonwe stepped around the corner, avoiding the corner of the table she always managed to bang into, and heard a loud clinking. Most of the lanterns had been blown out; considering the hour was well past any decent fellow up to have a few drinks, Eonwe let her hand rest on the pommel of her dagger as she crept forward, squinting and trying to focus on the shadowy figure writhing on the bar counter. “Who goes there?” she snapped. The clinking halted with a splintering crash and the shape slid off the counter with a very drunk-sounding grunt.

“Just me, lass.”

“You haven’t been waiting up for me, I hope?” Eonwe muttered as she let her hand fall away from the dagger and she stormed past the ginger thief, who was wavering on his feet with a bottle of mead in his hand; he absolutely reeked of alcohol. Eonwe lifted the only lit lantern off of the far table and reached in, gingerly prying the stumpy candle from its pool of wax flooding the bottom of the iron tray; she held the flickering wick to the rest of the lanterns, filling the Ragged Flagon with a slightly brighter glow that enabled her to at least see Brynjolf. She frowned at his sullen expression and returned the candle to its lantern before looking behind the counter for a bottle for herself. Stepping around the broken glass, she squatted to check Vekel’s stores; rolling her eyes at the tiny stock left available, she selected an ale tucked away in the back out of the ginger thief’s reach and went to his side.

Brynjolf had slumped down to the floor by now, his outstretched legs surrounded by a variety of amber and green-tinted glass bottles, all reflecting the small specks of candlelight. Eonwe considered sitting on a stool or dragging over a chair, but Brynjolf patted the floor beside him before she could make up her mind. “Sit with me.”

At first, she hesitated, if only for a couple of seconds. She was cold and wanted nothing more than to shed her frigid leathers for warm cotton and a blanket, and to check the pot for whatever dinner was leftover. The carriage hadn’t been at the gate and the blowing wind had too much to stand in for long, so Eonwe ended up walking all the way to Windhelm. She’d been lucky enough to take the carriage back, but sitting still had turned out less comfortable than walking, as tiring as it was. It the third morning since she’d taken the jobs for Delvin, and the moon had been beginning to fall into the deep blue horizon.

But her discomfort didn’t just come from the outdoor climates, which were desperately trying to seep into the underground stone. Eonwe was immensely relieved but nervous for Brynjolf to have asked her to sit with him; he may have been drunk out of his mind, which seemingly made him more at ease and lacking in the stiff, posturing formality he’d been presenting to her, and it left Eonwe with a sensation that she could only describe as confusion. One minute he was kissing her fingers in farewell, but the next he was ignoring her like a holey sock without its match. Eonwe wanted to haul off and kick him, but she ended up sitting on the stone floor, silently rolling the bottle between her palms.

“Been a busy bee, I’ve noticed,” Brynjolf said after a while. Eonwe hummed in response. “Some of the others have been complaining to me, saying you’re taking their jobs and leaving them with nothing to do.”

“I’m just doing what I’m told,” Eonwe muttered. Brynjolf hesitated, drink halfway to his mouth, and glanced at her. Eonwe let herself meet his questioning gaze, her cheeks stinging hot but her mouth in a firm line. “You brought me here to bring in coin. Nothing else.”

“Lass-”

“Don’t you ‘lass’ me,” Eonwe interrupted bitterly, popping the cork and taking a swig of ale. The alcohol burned her throat but was nothing compared to the frustration she was feeling. Brynjolf didn’t bother to make an attempt to speak; they both fell into an uncomfortable silence that seemed deafening. Eonwe realized she kept glancing at him from the corner of her eye and put an effort into stopping, but she was waiting for some jumble of words that would resolve whatever this problem between them was. She ended up talking first, too uncomfortable to wait any longer. “Has Tonilia said anything?”

A couple of weeks ago, two cloaked figures had come to the Ragged Flagon in search of a Redguard woman named ‘Liana'. When they’d tried to confront Tonilia about some kind of issue, it resulted in a volatile argument that got Mercer involved, and they’d had to be escorted out. Tonilia had failed to divulge on what had almost felt like an interrogation with anyone, even Vekel, and the Guild had been milling with suspicious worry ever since. Eonwe, who’d been fencing a few trinkets at the time, had overheard a brief few snatches that’d sounded to her along the lines of “operation”, “deal”, and “mess”. She hadn’t mentioned this to anyone so far, mainly because of her dislike of Tonilia, but also because she believed Tonilia should be honest and come forward with the truth.

Have I been honest, though? Eonwe asked herself guiltily, feeling her joints soften as she went back to rolling the bottle, and Brynjolf shrugged his shoulders heavily, not without some difficultly from the way he was slouching back against the counter. “No, I don’t think the lass has admitted to what that visit was about.”

“Can she be trusted?” Eonwe said, more softly, gauging his reaction. The little lines around his eyes seemed to deepen slightly and there was a slightly pull at the corner of his jaw before he shook his head, more in question than an answer.

“We all have our secrets,” he began slowly, taking a drink between words. “Ton comes from a different background than us. She’s a bloody good fence but she doesn’t have the makings of a thief, like you or I do.” Eonwe blushed briefly at this rather generous comment, but the ginger thief didn’t notice. “Ton will have bigger secrets to keep cause of her line of work; if her work ends up putting the Guild in the fire, then there will be problems.”

“What kind of problems?”

“For one, lying to our faces would be cause enough for Mercer to do something. If she’s put us in danger purposefully however…” Here he trailed off and focused his attention on finishing his mead, and didn’t appear to want to continue. Eonwe had already put the pieces together and understood.

“Losing a fence would be a low blow,” Eonwe pointed out.

“It would indeed, but losing our headquarters or, worse, our lives, would be far, far worse,” Brynjolf said, then added more gently, “But I’m certain it won’t come to that.”

Despite his reassurance, Eonwe doubted his words. It was clear that Brynjolf was bothered by this; why else had he drunken himself into a stupor, unless something was truly wrong? Eonwe felt a flush of anger and protectiveness and she finished her ale, stifling the words she hadn’t yet fully formed. She licked the drops from her lip before they could spill onto her cloak and got to her feet, getting herself and Brynjolf another. Vekel is going to be furious, she thought with some grim humour, seating herself on the stone beside the ginger thief again. He accepted the offered bottle slowly, his hand wavering slightly as he tried to separate the blurred twin hands.

“I’m feeding a bad habit, it seems,” Eonwe said with a smirk. He hefted himself up into a sitting position, leather rasping, and shrugged one shoulder as he yanked the cork free.

“I’ll worry about it tomorrow,” he muttered and they downed their meads in silence. Eonwe’s head was pleasantly light and she couldn’t feel much of the cold anymore, and she helped herself to a third, quietly discussing all she encountered on her jobs and how one house’s doors and windows were all frozen but for the attic hatch on the roof.

Half a dozen ales later, Brynjolf was nearly asleep and Eonwe was swaying back and forth, very tired and starting to become giggly. She managed to drag herself to her feet and almost tipped right over, her leg having fallen asleep. Brynjolf snorted and used one hand to steady her, his fingers just short of touching her breast, as he staggered up as well. Eonwe hiccupped and exploded into a fit of laughter, clutching her belly. Brynjolf snagged her arm and guided her along, tripping over his own feet as he went, bumping off objects in the dark while trying to shush Eonwe and suppress his own laughter.

I ought to get him drunk more often, Eonwe told herself, pushing open the secret cabinet and nearly tripping into the dimly-lit hallway. The brazier there was quite low, two small logs nearly burnt down and giving off a dim amber glow. Eonwe tried to squeeze through into the hall but Brynjolf was in her way, and she pushed at him before losing her balance.

Brynjolf caught her mid-fall, swooping her up into his arms and over his shoulder, stumbling as he started down the hall with her added weight. Eonwe giggled between hiccups, which were mercifully cut off from being held upside-down, and she fell quiet, being lulled to sleep by the steady swaying. Her hair hung down like a curtain, shielding her view and making a cozy shadow on her face.

“Gods, lass. You’re as heavy as a cow,” Brynjolf huffed, dropping her down on her bed facing him. She looked up at him with bleary eyes and said “You lift cows?”

There seemed to be two of him, then there were three, and finally one again. She giggled at this and reached down to pull of her boots, but her fingers just slipped on the buckles uselessly. A red-haired head bent before her and she listened to the leather slip loose; even half-conscious, he still knew the armour better than she did, unless he was just used to undressing women.

Eonwe must have said that out loud because he lightly smacked her knee and moved to the second boot; straightening to tug them off, Eonwe lost her balance and fell backwards on the bed, head hanging off the opposite side. The blood rushed to her head and she felt her body being tugged lightly. One boot slipped free and she scrambled upwards with the weight of the ocean pinning her uncooperative body down, turning so her head was on her pillow and not dangling and making her nauseous. She felt the other boot come yanking off but suddenly, without warning, two-hundred pounds of muscle and leather were dropping onto her back, and a warm huff blew in her ear. She heard Brynjolf’s rasped apology, followed by a snore, and Eonwe groaned in response, sliding into an inviting fog of mead-induced sleep.

Chapter Text

The cave smelled of must and it was pitch black, blacker than the oily sheen of undried ink but far lighter, the air undisturbed and draped in a veil of nightly shadow. Eonwe lay on her stomach, clutching the blisteringly tender wound in her side, just beneath her lowest rib. She drew her hand away, feeling a thick wetness that was not water. Her lower-half was submerged in water, violently cold, numbing the flesh of her legs under layered leather armour that was ridged and supple, unfamiliar to the touch. A mask encased her mouth and nose, the smell of her breath in her nostrils as her gasps came quick; in pain or in fear? She couldn’t be sure.

“Brynjolf!” Eonwe called out; her voice echoed in the cave loudly, making her flinch at the sudden noise. Water droplets splashed wetly, some pattering against her thoroughly-soaked hair. Eonwe’s side burned as she shouted another name, unfamiliar to her ears, the same intimacy and alarm vibrating in the pitching octave as when she’d called Brynjolf’s:

“Karliah!”

No one answered or came to her call, and she felt the sinking sensation of isolated loneliness.

There was a sudden stirring, a splashing. Eonwe shuddered and glanced behind her, straining to see in the void. Beneath the water, where it rippled with the dimmest of glows, was a small black shape emerging, shaped like a leaf; if a leaf wore chitin on its back and had beady malachite-coloured eyes. The creature’s head came above the surface and it made a ghastly chittering sound, as though it were clicking wooden spoons together. A suckling noise followed and Eonwe felt one dagger-shaped foot press down on her foot as it waddled with a slow, thoughtful gait out of the cave mouth and closer to Eonwe. She bit back a terrified whimper; she lacked the knowledge of the creature’s name and had no clue what it could do, nor could she see much other than the tiny eyes searching blindly.

Or perhaps it was not blind, and could see all that Eonwe could not.

The creature chittered again, as though answering Eonwe’s thoughts, and its head angled her way. Eonwe could suddenly see it, all of it; the ridged form, low to the ground and dragging its belly, leaving a thin rift in the moistened ground as it moved about; it’s face was deformed, two large pincers surrounding a circle-shaped mouth filled with tiny bumps of teeth. Eonwe would have screamed if she could, but she was not alone with the creature.

A noise shifted by her head and she looked ahead and came face to face with a figure wrapped in a cloak of night. Elven eyes loomed, the pupils like spheres and rimmed with shining purple, like amethyst. The eyes flicked between Eonwe and the encroaching creature, calculating the situation, then the eyes returned to Eonwe; the purple-eyed elf lifted a finger over her lips, also encased by a barrier of black, and the eyes blinked shut…

And all was veiled once more.

~*~

Something very sharp was digging into Eonwe’s back below the shoulder blade; shifting and making plaintive noises of distress, she tried to wriggle away from the object that pained her, her stomach lurching as she remembered the frightening creature with pincers. Eonwe slid open her sore, puffy eyelids and tried to crane her head back, wondering what enormous weight had been planted on her.

Strands of hair came into view and the weight moved; bony protrusions ground into her arse and a hand, currently under one breast, squeezed lightly in response to her shifting. Eonwe stilled, mouth flopping open in mortification and astonishment, and she gathered the muscles in her arm and drove her elbow back and into a soft, vulnerable side. A sharp hiss of pain blasted unpleasantly in her ear and she laid waiting, waiting for the moment Brynjolf would raise his head and realize exactly whose bed, and body, he was lying on.

“Oh, Gods,” he groaned, yanking his hand out from beneath her and hoisting upwards. Eonwe flipped over at once, a glare at the ready, and met his eyes, only a few inches away from hers where he still hovered, weight balanced on his hands and toes. The embarrassment was plain on his face, along with traces of the kind of look someone would have who was rudely awakened and currently harbouring a particularly rough hangover. Eonwe let out her breath in a huff and wriggled out from beneath him before her cheeks could inflame. She hung her feet over the side of the bed and prepared to stand, but her body, and her head too, were not yet ready to go anywhere yet, so she just sat there as Brynjolf seated himself on the opposite side, back to her. The tension between them crackled like a thunderstorm.

“W-what happened?” Eonwe finally choked out in a whisper. She couldn’t remember anything that might have or might not have happened; coming back from the jobs and having a few drinks, and discussing Tonilia, were present memories, but all else was lost. She vaguely recalled the sensation of being rocked on a flat surface, and a weight collapsing on her from behind, and a lot of embarrassed giggling, but the rest was a muddled and blanked out slate.

Did we…? she wondered, one hand lifting to her mouth; her skin was hot.

“Can ye…” Brynjolf’s voice cracked and he rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous gesture. “Can you remember anything from last night, lass?”

“No,” she answered honestly, her own voice breaking from unguarded fear. “No, I don’t.”

A silence began to stretch but it was broken by a long, heavy sigh from Brynjolf. The bed creaked as he rose and he came round the side to Eonwe; she was unnerved by the idea of looking up at his face again but she did. Fear must have been etched into her expression because the guarded mask he was wearing softened and a nervous smile tugged the corner of his mouth as he knelt, hesitantly placing a hand over her own on her knee. “Was it so bad for it to have been with-”

Eonwe struck Brynjolf across the face and instantly regretted it, her stinging palm pressing to her mouth and stifling her apology. It had only been reactionary but the abruptness of it left them both slightly stunned; ill with guilt Eonwe shook her head and apologized again. “I just… I don’t…” she broke off, her tongue numb, and hoped the remorse in her eyes would be clear enough for Brynjolf to read.

But he had become guarded the moment her hand had made contact with his face, and he refused to look at her. Eonwe felt the need to speak, to say anything, but words refused to come. By the time she managed a pitiful squeak, he was already straightening and walking away, footsteps soft, spine stiff and straight.

It was as though the night hadn’t lasted long enough, and Eonwe felt a bittersweet sense of loss for it.

~*~

The key jammed for a second time and, blinking and actually focusing on what he was doing, Brynjolf realized that he had the key completely upside down. He shook his head, cursing himself for becoming so distracted, but once again slipped into his muddled thoughts.

Knowing that if they were to get past anything other than fleeting glances of ire and discomfit, Brynjolf was aware that he would sooner or later have to approach and fix the problem – the problem being the shakiness that had grown so rapidly between himself and Eonwe that morning two days prior. And definitely sooner, as he didn’t want another repeat of what happened the last time he rubbed her the wrong way; still, Brynjolf regretted the torment he’d allowed Mercer to put Eonwe through, and the memory of seeing her struggling not to weep in humiliation and pain prickled like a jabbing dagger.

Brynjolf wasn’t sure how to go about it, though; he was in no state of courage to simply walk up to Eonwe and plead forgiveness – he was far too proud a man to something of the kind. Neither would he continue to sulk around and pretend to ignore her queer glances – which were very queer indeed. There was no anger, at least not directed at him, but what he saw in her confusing little stares was a reflection of something that had been broken very deep within herself, beyond her skin, reaching towards that something that made her up as the lass he only half knew.

There was a sincere sense of loss, whenever their gazes were severed and the connection lost, as though a window had been slammed shut. Brynjolf didn’t know what Eonwe was trying to unconsciously convey in the silent messages he was reading. More than once, he’d wondered if Eonwe was trying to decide what came next; she was a virgin after all, as far as Brynjolf had guessed in her display of obvious naivety, though the rest of her certainly didn’t add up. Where she was knowledgeable and “well-read” in other aspects of life, he couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that she was for one, so young, and secondly, that she had never been with a man in her youth.

Needless to say that Brynjolf wasn’t about to sit her down with a bottle of mead and talk about her sex life, Gods forbid.

But perhaps it was that; Eonwe was worriedly seeking some sort of link or bond to form. It was a cry for closure, Brynjolf began telling himself, and now he was wondering just what on Nirn he was going to do about it – if he was going to do anything at all, for one.

It was also without saying that Brynjolf hadn’t been with a woman in a relationship that went much further than a night between the sheets, and nothing more, for a very long time – if ever. Sex was a means to an end and, in a way, so were the women he shared his time and company with. Such things like marriage and family had never been a primary concern or a thought: he was married to his work as a thief, and the Guild was his family. He didn’t have the time or security to raise a lad of his own, when he had means to worry about himself and only himself day-in and day-out. He’d made the decision some years ago that that sort of life was not the kind for him, but now Eonwe had become a very stubborn obstacle in the path to maintaining that decision.

Brynjolf liked the lass – there was no doubt about that. In the past, he’d of course had a brief fling with his other protégés but nothing that interfered with his duties. Gods, it had never even mattered much to him. But Eonwe… she was different, very different, almost agonizingly so, and Brynjolf couldn’t understand what it was about her that was causing him to second-guess several things that made him who he was.

He didn’t ever want to hurt the lass, neither physically nor emotionally; that sort of treatment was below him and he preferred to keep it that way as best as he could. His mother had raised him with a firm enough hand before he was tossed out, and that hand included knowing how to treat a woman, whether she was a common whore, an average lass, or a lady. And Eonwe was a little more than an average lass.

Letting out a long sigh, Brynjolf leaned back from relocking the training chests and rubbed his face, lined from tire. He was surprised he wasn’t growing gray hairs yet; by the time his own father was forty, he’d had a full beard of dark chestnut-turned pewter. Besides that, Brynjolf felt and looked far older than most immediately presumed him to be, and many often approached him with a mind that he was in his forties or perhaps fifties, though not so often with the latter. He was merely thirty-five last Frostfall, but his reflection deceived him.

The line of work a thief carried out was not easy; for anyone to believe otherwise was a fool, and an ignorant one. If the winter had not been a clear enough example of the toil and trouble the thieves were put through, and Delvin’s little “curse” on top of that, then Brynjolf didn’t know what could have been clear enough. It was a tiring job – exhausting, actually – and sleeping with one eye open or climbing through windows tended to catch up with one after a while. Even the best thieves felt it some days, if not most, and many retired after only a few years of service to the Guild.

Retiring was an option, but one Brynjolf hadn’t considered yet. He’d been with the Guild since he was a boy of ten, having wandered into their world the same month Gallus Desidenius had passed on and left Mercer Frey to take over. Brynjolf had only known Gallus very briefly but, if anything, he remembered the sword the Imperial Guild Master had carried at his side; the metal had been almost black, sharping blue-silver to the tip, seeming to be wreathed in perpetual shadow, and the hilt was shaped very much like a screeching bird clutching the moon between raised wingtips. It had been a fascinating and beautiful sword.

Hearing footsteps approaching in the hall, Brynjolf heaved him up to sit on one of the chests, cracking his knuckles. He was certain he would be spending several more years with the Guild… if a certain someone wasn’t the death of him first, at least.

Smiling in amusement, Brynjolf raised his head and looked to the entryway just as Eonwe herself rounded the corner.

Chapter Text

Why was he smiling? Had he been expecting her, perhaps thinking of her? Eonwe was frozen to the spot, the two of them staring at each other in silence, waiting for the other to make the first move. She couldn’t help the flare of annoyance that prickled her skin as she wondered if it would forever be this way between them, sneaking around each other in the hopes of not being caught but when they were, they’d pull nonchalance and pretend everything was fine?

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were in here,” Eonwe murmured, starting to leave the training room. Brynjolf rose, one hand gesturing to wait, and she did. She was dreading what he might have to say and, worse, that she wouldn’t have an appropriate response to… well, whatever it would be. He held off on his words until he was standing in front of her, and she was genuinely surprised to see the uncertainty in his eyes, then he chuckled, more to himself than anything.

“Instead of dodging the pony, as they say,” he started. “I think I’m the one who should be apologizing to you.”

Nodding, quickly, she responded softly. “Forgiven.”

“Just… tell me, lass,” Brynjolf pinched the skin between his eyes, unable to look directly at her with the question he was about to broach. “I know you lasses get all defensive about your… innocence, shall we call it?” Eonwe was still waiting, brows lowered in concentration; whether she was convincing herself to stay put and not yell, or something else entirely, Brynjolf didn’t know, but she was staying so he took it that it was safe to continue. “Had we both been with our senses, none of this clearly would have happened and you’d still be untarnished, and for that I’m sorry.”

The final words came out in a rush. Eonwe’s face had lost its colour and she was wringing her hands together, clearly discomforted. She seemed lost on words – Gods, she hadn’t been prepared for anything like this. But Brynjolf’s words were undoubtedly genuine, spoken from the heart, and it warmed her slightly that he cared and hadn’t just tossed her aside like an old shoe.

She didn’t understand what she wanted; not long ago, hardly a word was spoken between them ever since before she’d left for Honningbrew, and now they were left wondering whether or not they’d slept together. Neither of them was certain still, but Eonwe knew that when one’d had a few drinks and woke up with a man in bed, it usually confirmed the inevitable truth.

But it was the lack of talking, the loss of the growing companionship that had left Eonwe feeling so miserable and unable to confront Brynjolf. Perhaps it was silly, valuing friendship over her innocence; not that it didn’t bother Eonwe. As a child, she’d made a promise to her Ma that she would marry before giving herself to her significant other, and there was a very high chance that that promise had been lost.

All these promises, Eonwe thought sadly as she looked up at Brynjolf, registering the look of worry etching lines into his face. She needed to tell him what was really wrong, and there was no delaying it, as it was already spilling from her lips: “Why haven’t you talked to me since I left for Honningbrew?”

This took him by surprise; there was no mistaking his look as anything other than dumbfound. It was not the question he’d been anticipated to hear, but a flush of fresh guilt jabbed him in the gut. Brynjolf, unable to find the proper words to address a situation he was already so tentative over, stood staring at Eonwe in utter silence.

Sooner than expected, Eonwe’s patience wore thin and she let out a huff, folding her arms across her chest. Come on, damn you, Brynjolf cursed himself silently, his hands curling into fists at his inner frustration. She deserves an answer at least.

“I was busy.” It sounded more like a question if anything, and he would have smacked himself in the face if she weren’t still present. “I was absorbed in some important matters.” Aye, real smooth, you arse.

Eonwe feigned understanding, her eyebrows arching high with disbelief. “Oh, I see,” she said, hardly keeping the disappointment out of her tone. Knowing this, she added crossly, “Busy seems to be quite often with you, Brynjolf. Are you sure it won’t interfere with your duties as second-in-command?”

The insult sent his face aflame. “You have no right asking me a question like that!”

“As your ‘little protégé’,” she said mockingly, “I have every right as far as I’m concerned.”

“Mind yourself, lass-” She interrupted with a wordless scoff and threw her hands up in the air, then whirled on her heel to stalk back out of the training room. Without thinking carefully, Brynjolf snapped, “What do you want from me?” He could barely keep the temper out of his voice, and it rang off the walls.

Eonwe was storming back to him and stopped with barely a foot to spare, pointing her finger accusingly into his face. “For you to stop treating me like I’m not good enough for this Guild!” she cried, the dam finally breaking and letting the stagnant water surge free. “I work so godsdamned hard to bring your precious coin into this place but for what? I haven’t seen any changes around here. It’s as though my efforts have been for nothing! And you, you don’t even give me praise or recognition. You’re supposed to be guiding me, helping me, working with me so I fix your stupid sewer!”

“And if piling all your problems on me wasn’t enough, you go ahead and take advantage of me, then don’t even bother to discuss things-”

“Oh, so you want to talk about your feelings?” he sneered. “Look here, lass. I’ve been here longer than you’ll ever be if you keep your bratty attitude, so I suggest you quit bellyaching and realize things aren’t going to go your way all the bloody time.”

Eonwe hand flew but Brynjolf caught it, clenching firmly around her wrist and preventing her from striking him. Her fingers twisted into claws before coiling into a fist.

“You are… impossible,” Eonwe hissed, eyes glimmering. “Just when I started to find something after all this time, I realize now I never had it in the first place.” She yanked her hand free from Brynjolf’s hold and backed away, stiff and unpredictable, like a wild animal. “You haven’t changed at all. You’re no different from the arse you were when we first met.”

“No, Eonwe,” Brynjolf disagreed, steely and calm. “It’s you who has changed.”

“If staying here is making me into someone like you, then I’m certainly not hanging around any longer,” she proclaimed, storming off down the hall. Brynjolf followed and spotted her at the chest by her bed, gathering her belongings. Mercer had straightened behind his desk and all of the thieves were looking her way, some even approaching out of concern, but they quickly passed by or turned away at a sharp word not wholly audible from where he stood across the cistern.

Eonwe was leaving, again, and once more because of him. A horrible tightness seemed to halt the flow of air from mouth to lungs; the frayed emotions were stifling and leaving Brynjolf desperate. He was thinking quickly, pondering his options, reasoning with himself that there might be something to say while logic held him back, taunting him, casting a light on the realization that Eonwe would forever be out of an attainable reach.

Volatilely shoving aside reason and doubt, Brynjolf crossed the cistern and went to Eonwe, a thousand pardons at the ready, the words of a beggar pleading for forgiveness on his tongue, the cry for another chance-

Another chance at what? No, no; he knew and he’d known all along it would one day come to this. He was already crossing the boundaries, reaching out, vulnerable and afraid… and nothing more than a man falling in love with a woman far beyond his reach.

“Lass,” he said, softly, grasping her as gently as he could muster. Eonwe was rock still and remained so in those breathless moments as he let her turn her to face him; he noted that she moved without any real difficultly, as though he held the very strings she operated by, but he couldn’t decide whether it was a good or bad thing. Head lowered as it was, her face was stony and her mouth a hard, set line. There was anger, rejection, displeasure… all of those terrible, terrible feelings pulled her face into the expressionless mask that revealed so little and a great deal all at once. Brynjolf could read her, like a book, but she remained more a mystery than anything.

“Lass,” he repeated, thumbing her chin so she would raise her head. She did and her eyes said it all; wet and pooling with unwelcome tears, shining like two deep pools of dewy forest before the warmth of dawn – and lacking any such warmth as well – they focused on his, burning with silent accusations and a plea of her own. Change this, she begged silently. We can’t go on like this anymore. At least, that’s what Brynjolf believed them to say. The months of dejection and anguish were too much, compiling with loneliness and regret.

Eonwe, seemingly recognizing his intentions, pulled away and snatched up her possessions, letting her feet quickly carry her to the Ragged Flagon. She made it through the door and halfway down the hallway, just a few steps away from the hidden door built into the cupboard, when Brynjolf seized her. Her things dropped to the floor as he whirled her around and pushed her up against the wall, clutching her firmly, and her words of protest were silenced as he bent his head and fitted his mouth over hers.

She tasted sweet and bitter, like honey and poison; an apt description in Brynjolf’s opinion. Her lips were dry from the cold weather but soft, like scaly rose petals, seemingly beautiful at a distance but ridged up close – again, an apt description. Her lips moved under his, beginning to respond, to press back and open; he could feel her slowly unwinding, fragmenting all of his past assumptions.

With what seemed like more effort than necessary, Eonwe shoved him away and seemed to close in upon herself, the petals of her blossoming nature drawing back in to protect the core. It despaired Brynjolf, as his gut told him he’d crossed a threshold that could never be re-crossed or repaired; a line had been drawn in sand that may be filled in, but would always exist. Sensing what felt like a blatant rejection, he began to back away, trying to stifle the overpowering sensation trying to choke him.

“Stop,” Eonwe uttered, barely above a whisper, the hiss of her voice echoing ghostly. His legs obeyed but his mind rebelled; Brynjolf, who once believed nothing could truly disturb him, had found the one thing on all of Nirn that left him nearly soul-shaken with fear.

“Aye?” he responded, the word sticking in his throat. Eonwe raised her head, looking at him in the dark; where he stood he was outlined by the fiery brazier behind him. A thin sliver made it way past his shoulder; half of her face was lit very lightly, enough for Brynjolf to read the indecision in her furrowed brow and narrowed eye. He wondered what it was she intended to say.

“…why?” was all she managed in the end.

“Does it need words to be understood, lass?” he responded in his usual cheeky manner. Her nostrils flared as she exhaled sharply, almost angrily, and she straightened from her slightly hunched cower. She inched closer to him, her indecision folding slowly over into caution, and she stopped in front of him; Brynjolf was aware that his back was to the wall, and her expression left him vaguely unsettled.

Then, Eonwe was shoving him up against the stone and stretching onto her toes, pressing her lips to his. Brynjolf’s jaw might have dropped if not for the hungry pressure of her mouth, and he was almost reeling with relieved joy as he bent to kiss her more fully, embracing her wholly and nearly squeezing her to him. She responded with a breathy gasp, almost a moan, and it sent bolts of hot desire rushing through him from head to toe. His hands began to roam, in search of fastenings to undo.

“Gods, get a room, would you?”

Vex’s sardonic complaint had them tearing apart, faces red. The Imperial passed by them, amusement clear on her face. Eonwe swallowed and kept her head down, hidden by the hair that had fallen loose, but Brynjolf summoned the last traces of his dignity and joked, “This was the only one left.” A giggle escaped Eonwe and she pressed her hand over her mouth.

“Right…” Vex nodded. “Well, a word of advice?”

Brynjolf looked as though he wasn’t about to ask her for any she was offering, so she simply said, “Be sure that she doesn’t have any clothes on, when you decide to get around to it. Material tends to… get in the way, if you know what I mean?” She laughed, haughtily, and let the door slam behind her as a final remark.

A brief glance at her face told Brynjolf that Eonwe was about five seconds away from having some sort of fit; reaching out, he stroked the side of her face tenderly. She didn’t recoil from his touch, nor did she lean into him; she just looked up at him, puzzlement clearing from her eyes. “I get to make a choice,” she said hollowly.

“Aye,” he answered, a bit mournfully himself. All of their time avoiding each other at all possible chances, all of their sleepless nights wondering if the other knew something and refused to tell, all of it… had been for nothing. It lifted such a weight off Brynjolf’s shoulders but he somehow wished it hadn’t gone so soon. It had become a weight he was willing to bear.

“Brynjolf?” Eonwe’s voice was very soft and small; blinking, he returned to the present and smiled, seeing her worried face. He gathered her face in his hands, drinking in every inch of it, and decided that nothing needed to change.

Sinking his fingers into her hair, Brynjolf lowered his head and kissed Eonwe, placing all his wordless passion forward and hoping, just hoping, she would somehow hear it.

Chapter Text

Despite the blustery day, Eonwe could feel warmth in the wind and smiled; winter would soon be over, and the promises of spring were already in the air. Her gray mare whickered softly as she reined her in to a smooth jog, kicking up clumps of snow behind them. The rains of spring would be on them eventually and the world would be turning alive with green once again. Eonwe was looking forward to shedding her heavy, wrapping furs and returning to the comfort of light-weighted leathers.

Tying the mare outside the stables so she could graze before being taken to her stall, Eonwe climbed up the path past the main north gate and worked her way along the eastern wall, lifting her legs high with every step in the newly fallen snow. The eastern gate had been repaired and installed – thanks to Maven Black-Briar’s influence – and it made coming and going that much easier for the thieves, with exception of a lack of a clear pathway. The high snows made it easier to duck down out of sight of a local wolf pack, and Eonwe had spent the better part of some evenings watching the glowing eyes blinking among the birches, singing their piercing songs to one another as they hunted and preyed on succulent venison or hare. There was a wild sensation that would cling to her as she saw those bright eyes find her and observe, more in cautious curiosity than opposition or anger. She would have thought she’d be terrified of wolves after her dangerous encounters with them in the past, but she wasn’t; instead, she was fascinated by them and how they lived their lives.

Scrambling over the side of a chunky boulder poking out from beneath an icy crust, melted and refrozen again, Eonwe’s feet found the cobblestone road and she looked down it, towards the eastern border, where it led into Cyrodiil. She’d never followed the road; she’d never had any reason to, and she wondered what secrets lay at the end of the path. Adventuring now, as tired as she was after finishing a whopping twelve jobs in Whiterun and having to walk to Windhelm for a carriage ride, was the last thing on her mind, but she made a note to drag one of the thieves out to explore the local caves and find any buried treasure.

Lifting the latch on the gate, Eonwe let herself in and closed the heavy wooden door behind her with a wooden clack. Crossing the yard and through the graveyard, she let herself in through the secret entrance and clambered down the ladder, wiping her hands clean from the snowy sludge left on the rungs by her boots.

Drifting through the cistern, Eonwe spotted Sapphire oiling her gloves and waved to her; Sapphire raised a return hand in welcome before returning to scrubbing the faded leather. Vipir and Rune were deep in conversation in the hall leading to The Ragged Flagon, and Eonwe nodded a quick hello, not wanting to interrupt. She slipped into the tavern and came to a stop behind Delvin, bending at the waist and blowing on the curve of his ear, successfully spooking him.

“Blimey, girl! Are ya tryin’ to send me to my grave?”

“Getting jumpy there, Delvin?” Eonwe teased, sitting down in the chair next to him and smiling innocently; the Breton had already recovered and was looking at her expectantly. “I’ve done the jobs as you asked.”

“Great stuff. All dozen of ‘em? Any trouble?”

“Nope. Nothing.”

“Even better. Cause I ‘ave a job for ya. Think ya’ll be int’rested.” Tugging a folded slip of paper from his inner pocket, he handed it to Eonwe with a flourish. Eonwe unfolded it and read:

Thieves Guild;

I am in need of the fulfilment of an important contract. Should you succeed, you will be rewarded handsomely and have the full support of the Battle-Born Clan at your disposal. I require that you send the best immediately and with no delay.

O.B-B

“I was just in Whiterun,” Eonwe growled, handing the contract back to Delvin and leaning back in her chair, making it creak. She was certain that it would one day simply collapse at the lightest of pressure. “I swear I walked by Olfrid, too.”

“I’m sendin’ ya,” Delvin said briskly. “Take the carriage back to Whiterun, see ‘hat ya can do for ‘im. No, no,” he added, snatching her sleeve before she could rise. “Grab a few ‘ours, get some sleep, eh? You look beat. Besides, I ‘ave somethin’ else for ya. ‘Ere,” he handed Eonwe another letter, this one not yet unsealed.

“Who’s it from?”

“Got some fancy writin’ on the outside. An’ if I’m not mistak’n, that’s the Seal o’ Whiterun in the wax.” Eonwe turned the letter over and saw her name scrawled in a looping, elegant hand, and a blob of ruddy-coloured wax; the seal was that of a horse’s head and below it was a shield, with a large ‘W’ stamped in the center. Breaking the wax, Eonwe flipped the letter open and found more of the elegant scrawl within, beginning with her name:

Eonwe Jorgiis;

By request of Dagny, daughter of Jarl Balgruuf the Greater of Dragonsreach, I cordially invite you to attend a birthday celebration held in her honour on the eighth day of Sun’s Dawn at six o’clock. Formal attire is requested and has been forwarded for your convenience.

I hope you are in fine health and may attend.

Yours,

Proventus Avenicci Steward of Dragonsreach, Cloud District of Whiterun

“How convenient,” Eonwe said when she was done reading. “A meeting and a party all in the same place. Today is the sixth, right?”

“Aye. Who’s the party for?”

“Jarl Balgruuf’s daughter.” Eonwe read it over again and asked, “Did anything else come with this letter?”

“Aye, a package.” Delvin got up and went to the counter, where a paper-wrapped package bound with twine had been laid. As Eonwe took it, she felt the contents inside sag, not unlike fabric. Handing the letter to Delvin, she tore it open, gathering the attention of Vex, who wandered over to watch.

The brown paper pulled away, revealing a puddle of red and gold silk. Eonwe set the wrapping aside and stood, letting the dress pool from her hand and fall to its full length; it flashed, rippling between red and gold, almost like molten flame. The bottom half was heavy silk and the upper half was hard, layered scales.

Dragon scales.

Vex whistled in appreciation, touching the glittering scales. “Got yourself an admirer,” she teased. “This would be worth a fortune. Ton, come see this!” she called, urging the Redguard woman to join them. Tonilia looked the dress over from Eonwe’s hold, checking the stitch work and the quality of the scales. Every single one of them was polished, almost giving off an iridescent glow, starting pale gold at the peaked neck to the deepest crimson at the waist.

“I would buy it for five thousand septims, give or take,” Tonilia concluded. “And I’d turn it around for ten, or more.” Eonwe felt the blood drain from her face, and her fingers instinctively clutched the dress that much harder.

“Beaut’ful dress,” Delvin murmured in appreciation, then gestured excitedly. “Try it on, would ya?”

“Now?” Eonwe squeaked, still shocked at the expensive dress in her clutch. She wanted to do nothing more than fold it away and lay it in a display case, let alone slip it on. Vex came to her rescue and shook her head.

“Now’s not the time to be playing dress-up,” she pointed out. “Did Olfrid say anything more in his letter? Any clues as to what you’re actually going to be doing?”

“No,” Delvin answered, waving the letter. “This is all ‘hat came.”

Vex reached out suddenly, snatching the flapping paper. All of them watched as she ran her finger along the edge and, with a sound of triumph, peeled the one page into two. A second had been sealed to the back, and Eonwe could see a long and detailed description written in watery ink, designed to be hidden from the naked eye.

“How did you know there was another page?” Eonwe asked as Vex handed the letter back to Delvin.

“I could see a small gap when he flapped it like that,” Vex shrugged like it was nothing and took up a chair. Eonwe sat, carefully settling the dress in her lap. It was so beautiful, the silk cool on her warm, cold-cracked hands.

“Al’ight,” Delvin said at last. “Olfrid ‘ants us to steal an incrim’natin’ letter from the Jarl’s quarters, change ‘is identity in the prison ledger in the steward’s quarters, and get ‘is friend ‘Arn’ out ‘o the trouble he’s gotten ‘imself into. Easy as pie.”

“How is that easy?” Eonwe exclaimed. “I can’t just walk in there like I own the place!”

“Nice try, kiddo,” Vex nudged her, smirking. “You have an advantage we don’t have.”

“And that is…?”

‘You’re the godsdamned Thane of Whiterun, aren’t you?”

“How’d you find out about that?”

“We just do, okay? What does it matter what you are and aren’t?” Vex rolled her eyes. “Don’t you see? You can go to Dagny’s party posing as Thane, slip in and do what you need to do, then act like nothing happened. Thane’s get special pardons, don’t they? You can talk the guards out of arresting you if you get caught, though you really should make an effort not to.”

Eonwe chewed her lip. “It sounds risky.”

“Pissing off Mercer was ‘risky’,” Vex snorted. “This is just child’s play.”

“Coming from a better infiltrator than me,” Eonwe grumbled.

“Why are you so nervous about this? You can do this,” Vex said, a tone of disbelief tainting her voice. “This is not going to be an easy job, but it will put the Guild back in a better spot, and we’ll have Whiterun at last! You came here to help us get back on our feet, and doing this will be the first beg step we’ve had in a long time.”

Her charism was nearly infectious and Eonwe found that she was convincing herself that it would work. I’ve been taking risks ever since I was a little girl, she told herself firmly. Why doubt myself now, when I know I can do this? Relenting, Eonwe nodded and leaned forward, pointing a finger to the letters and beginning to design the first stages of their plan.

~*~

The carriage pulled up outside the gates and the driver hopped down, holding out one hand to help Eonwe climb out of the back. Clutching the hem of her trailing skirt, she stepped down lightly, the low heels of what Vex called ‘gladiator sandals’ clacking on the slick stones. It had rained earlier and she was grateful for the heavy red wolf-pelt cloak draped over her, protecting her dress and pinned and twirled locks of her hair. She could still feel the unfriendly yanks of Vex’s hands, and the ghost of Sapphire’s fingers dabbing on some ‘borrowed’ makeup. Eonwe hadn’t dressed up for any occasions except when she’d been named Thane of Riften, and when she infiltrated the Thalmor Embassy for Delphine; the dress she’d worn then had been a bugger to get out of and into her armour; that had become a nightmarish trap of tied cords, knotted ribbons, and a heavy corset studded with hundreds of freshwater pearls that neither she or Malborn could rip off in the precious few moment she’d been given. The dragon scale dress was light and airy, comfortably fitted up top and loose around the legs; the only problem she could foresee was the noisy heels on her shoes, which she knew she would have to unlace and carry.

At least she had something to use to knock any unexpected obstacles out.

The bottom of Olfrid’s secret letter requested that she meet him at The Drunken Huntsman before carrying out her mission. Eonwe stopped at Adrianne’s forge to pick up a dagger she’d requested by courier; a small gold blade that would strap onto her thigh. None of her other weapons were small enough to be carried without arousing suspicion, and she climbed the steps to the little shop-and-inn with a sense of protection at the leather and metal rubbing her outer leg.

Olfrid was sitting alone at the back of the inn, hidden by the veil of smoke and drifting ash coming from the central hearth. The savoury smell of meat was secluded by stronger spices that took Eonwe right back to Valenwood. Eonwe crossed the cracked flagstones and sat gracefully, keeping her spine straight in the enclosure of the scales; they made it difficult to bend or hunch and she knew it would be a relief to finally take the dress off.

“Ah, you’ve finally arrived,” Olfrid said, rising to take her hand in his own; his palm was very warm and she noticed he was shaking slightly. There were many deep lines around his sagging eyes and he appeared tense with exhaustion and anxiety. “You better be what I asked for.”

“We won’t let you down,” Eonwe soothed urgently.

“Is that a promise, thief?” Olfrid challenged; the light of battle gleamed in his eyes for a just a moment before he sat back and sighed. “I’m holding you to your word. You, and your entire little Guild.” The underlying threat was clear as day, and Eonwe nodded, making it clear that she understood the importance of not mucking up the job. Olfrid seemed content and waved his hand, a signal of dismissal. Eonwe rose, grateful, but paused as Olfrid added, “That’s one heck of a dress. Looks like the work of Eorlund Gray-Mane.”

“It is lovely, isn’t it?” Eonwe said, unable to keep a note of wistfulness from her voice. Olfrid smiled, lines deepening further and accentuating his face, which Eonwe thought resembled the bark of an old oak.

“Gods be with you, thief,” he said, turning back to his table and taking up his drink once more.

~*~

The sun was dipping into the horizon, bathing Whiterun in a magnificent splendour of gold and peach hues. Dragonsreach sat at the top of the hill, a dark figure in the dying rays of light, the glow of candlelight winking within the castle behind stained glass windows. Eonwe passed a couple dressed richly in wool and fur, pursed mouths and glazed eyes betraying them. One man in a heavy blue jacket was kind enough to offer a hand to Eonwe and guide her up the final step to the arched bridge over the pond, frozen at the edges and dark in the shadow of Dragonsreach. Eonwe thought she glimpsed a skeleton face peering up from the depths, but she was being swished inside before she could take a second look.

A pair of hands that belonged to a servant was tugging her wolf-pelt cloak away but she bit back a complaint, especially when she realized just how humid the air was within the palace, and instead threw the servant a grateful glance that was met with a slight nod. The hearths were roaring red and smoke turned the upper rafters white and nearly opaque, like low-lying clouds, and the smell of cooking meat and other dishes flooded Eonwe’s senses after a single mouthful of air. She could already feel a fine sheen of sweat on her bare arms and back as she climbed up the steps and further into the belly of the beast.

Eonwe glanced down at her dress; the scales seemed to ripple as they caught the light and the skirt pooled and swirled like molten steel with every step. She breached the top of the steps and looked around; she quickly felt her hair to make sure the carefully-arranged tendrils weren’t out of place or sticking out crazily, as she’d feared the hood of her cloak would have done. Content with what her hands felt, Eonwe pressed her lips together, stroked her tongue across her teeth to remove any of the golden-brown lip paint, and took another deep breath – this one to calm her. Time to party, she thought, looking around for someone to attach herself to. She figured that conversation might prepare her nerves; the demand to not make a sole mistake was threatening to overwhelm her.

A hand was wrapping around her waist and turning her around, and Eonwe’s jaw flopped open unattractively. Pressing a finger to the underside of her chin to close her mouth, Brynjolf leaned in and kissed her, the edge of passion raw but repressed.

“What are you doing here?” Eonwe gasped when he finally let her go, smiling down at her and thumbing lip paint from his own lips.

“Sapphire and I thought we’d tag along, in case you needed a hand.” He gestured slightly, turning a fraction to the right so Eonwe could see where Sapphire was. The Nord woman was leaning against the wall near Farengar Secret-Fire’s study, closed off by long yellow curtains; she wore a simple blue dress that, when she turned, revealed most of her milk-white back. Her hair, usually scraggly and unkempt, had been curled and pinned artistically so her face was visible.

Brynjolf himself was dressed to impress, and Eonwe was impressed that he could pull the look off, for a man she knew only to wear leather, straps and pouches. He wore a burnished red overcoat, lightweight by the look of it, that dropped well past his knees; beneath this was a gold vest embossed with a yellow filigree pattern; dark trousers, leather loafers, and a crisp white shirt finished the look, with a black ribbon tied loosely at his neck. Most surprisingly was his hair; normally left long and hanging freely, Brynjolf had pulled most of it back into a low queue, but left a few strands to frame his face.

“You look nice,” Eonwe complimented reservedly, reaching out to adjust the lapels of his jacket; the fabric was undoubtedly velvet, expensive velvet at that, and she couldn’t help but ask, “Which poor lad got the blunt end of your dagger?”

“Oh, no-no,” Brynjolf shook his head. “I borrowed these from Mercer.”

“Mercer?” Eonwe blinked. Mercer was half of Brynjolf’s size – give or take a few inches here or there. She couldn’t imagine the Guild Master fitting into the jacket without looking like a little boy playing dress-up with his father’s clothes.

“Aye, he brought these from High Rock, when he was just a lad,” Brynjolf explained. “I suppose he thought he would grow into them at the time. He thought a lot of things, when he put his family and his wealth behind him.”

“Why would he do that?” Eonwe asked, genuinely curious. She definitely didn’t care much for Mercer but hearing that… it made her wonder what kind of life Mercer had come from. The mental image of a younger, wide-eyed, innocent Mercer Frey made her feel somewhat apathetic and solemn. The truth was, she couldn’t think of the man any different than the rigid and volatile arse she knew him as presently. Yet, she couldn’t help but entertain the thought: Why leave so much behind for a hundred times less?

“Mercer came from an esteemed family that supposedly derived from a group of bounty hunters, and they made a lot of coin in their short reign,” Brynjolf said. “A great-grandmother of his spent years hunting down the Gray Fox but no one knows the outcome. Mercer likes to think that she and the Gray Fox had an affair.”

“That’s quite the thought,” Eonwe commented.

“Aye, but Mercer’s always admired the Gray Fox. He was the greatest thief who ever lived.”

“Some could challenge that claim,” Eonwe pointed out. “You, Mercer, Vex… you’re all great in your own right.”

“Aye, but the Gray Fox is like no other thief this world’s ever known,” Brynjolf smiled. “And speaking of thieves, don’t you think we should get this show on the road? We aren’t exactly here for the party.”

“Oh, aren’t we?” Eonwe feigned innocence. “I thought I’d stay and mingle with the guests for a while, have a few drinks, dance on the tables and sing lewd songs as the night went on.” Brynjolf chuckled and reached a hand down to run his fingers over her thigh under the silk. She shivered at his touch, biting her lip as she blushed.

“It would be quite the chore to dance in your dress. As lovely as it is…” he trailed off here, voice deep with suggestion, and Eonwe could see the burning in his green eyes. The flames of the hearth seemed to dance in them and Eonwe was mesmerized for several heartbeats, eyes open and wide like gems, a dozen naughty thoughts chasing each other in her head. Did he mean what she thought he meant? Her heart lurched and she dropped her gaze, flaming with mingled feelings. Concentrate on the job!

“You’ll keep an eye out, right?” she asked, a hint of demand in her voice. Brynjolf nodded, lightly stroking his thumb along her jawline before backing away, disappearing into the crowd. Eonwe felt her throat tighten as he vanished but she too vanished, slipping through the crowd in direction of the kitchens, shoving her longing aside and steeling herself, mentally going over her half-drawn plans.

The moment she moved out of the crowd and in sight of the servants lining the wall, she doubled over and coughed, feigning a retching noise. A slender Nord girl with sandy-brown hair came forward and stopped Eonwe from collapsing on her face, her high pitched voice asking frantically, “Are you alright, milady?”

Eonwe raised her head and the servant’s expression abruptly changed from worried to stunned concern. “Dragonborn? Oh goodness, let me bring you some water. Come into the kitchens for a moment… there we go. Easy does it.”

Leaning Eonwe against one of the counters, the servant poured a cup of water and handed it to Eonwe. Sipping it lightly, Eonwe glanced around at the nervously observing cooks, and forced a light smile. “Will you be alright now, Dragonborn? I can fetch a healer immediately, should you request it?”

“No, I’m fine,” Eonwe told her. “Would you be so kind as to find my cousin? Sapphire? She’s wearing a blue gown. I last saw her not far from the wizard’s study.”

“Oh, of course. Is there anything you would like me to tell her? Or shall I bring her to you?”

“Give her this to hold onto. I was always convinced I was allergic to this kind of metal.” Eonwe pulled the glistening ring, bronze and set with a flame-red garnet, from her finger and placed it into the servant’s palm.

“Very well. Would you like some more water? A cool pad to hold to your forehead?” the servant looked almost euphoric in Eonwe’s presence, and seemed eager to help her in any way possible.

“Oh, you’ve done so much already. I will just remain here for a moment and gather my bearings,” Eonwe smiled graciously and the servant, fully believing her, bobbed a curtsey and dashed off into the crowd, weaving amongst the richly-dressed bodies until Eonwe could no longer see her. Certain she was gone, Eonwe crept towards the stairwell that led down to the servants’ quarters, checked behind her, and slipped through the door.

Eonwe only had a slight memory of Dragonsreach but she’d never gotten to explore. She knew the Jarl’s private quarters were at one end, to the western side of the castle, and the grand porch overlooked the north. She moved quickly through the hallways, peeking in the rooms and hiding in one when a servant came through to take a quick nap. Her skirt swished as she walked and, after contemplating it, Eonwe paused to unlace and remove her sandals, the clapping of the heels too loud for comfort. Tying them together, she lifted the lid of a barrel and dropped them in amongst some burlap sacks, memorizing the place they were hidden; she doubted she could carry them about, and preferred having two free hands.

Eventually, she found the door leading up into the steward’s room, and a quick glance around told her Proventus Avenicci was as organized as he was obsessive about tidiness. She easily found the prison ledger containing Arn’s name and, with agonizingly slow precision, she dipped a quill into some ink and rewrote the name to ‘Arthur’.

Satisfied with her penmanship, Eonwe snatched a coin purse and shoved it down the peaked front of her dress – a perfect hiding spot for riches. She stole out of the room, poking her head out to look up and down the hallway before slipping out, barefoot, and stealthily climbing the stairs towards what she hoped would be the Jarl’s office.

There were no guards – none in sight at least; Eonwe wasn’t dumb enough to think they wouldn’t be around. She peered into the keyholes of the two side doors, both bedrooms, one of which belonged to children, and finally approached the Jarl’s quarters. Turning the handle, she swore softly.

Locked.

Kneeling, Eonwe reached beneath her skirts and felt for the tiny dagger, hoping it would do the trick. She slid the thin gold spike between the doors, feeling for the tiny latch, hoping she would be able to push it in and open the door manually. Biting back another curse, she tried to ignore the tension making her shoulders ache.

There was a sudden thump and Eonwe’s heart jumped into her mouth as she realized the sound came from inside the room, and close to the door, too. She was up on her feet and racing back down the steps, skirts tangling around her calves, when the Jarl’s door squeaked open and a guard came out, humming Ragnar the Red to himself. Eonwe crouched at the foot of the stairs, eyes squinted, concentrating. She saw the yellow sash appear then turn off to the right, likely to patrol the hallway. Gods be damned, she thought. A guard was all she needed right now.

Hurrying back up the steps, keeping low to the ground despite the barrier of the scaly bodice, she was thrilled to see the door hadn’t shut all the way. She was in and crouching beside the table, working to slow her thrumming heart. Alarm made the Thu’um itch in the back of her throat but she held it back, breathing without daring to speak a word.

The Jarl’s quarters were empty and the air felt relaxed, despite the electric tension setting her blood on fire. Eonwe moved around, double or even triple-checking each area before fully stepping inward. The bedroom was furnished lavishly; furs and rugs and tapestries were hung on the walls so that one wouldn’t have even guessed there was stone underneath, and the floor was spotted with more rugs and pelts. Eonwe’s eye caught sight of something on the Jarl’s bedside table and she went towards it; her brow quirked when she recognized what it was.

Under the Thalmor Embassy, in the caves, had been the same little box; the wood of it was a combination of light and dark wood, held shut by a small gold clasp. Eonwe flicked the clasp with her thumbnail and the lid snapped up. Glowing like a ruby lit from within was an exquisitely cut pink gem that hovered and bobbled in place over a bed of velvet. “What are you?” Eonwe asked the unusual gem, poking it with her index finger and watching it wobble before returning to its slumbering turn. If it heard her, it didn’t answer.

Closing the lid, she tucked the box alongside the coin purse and carried on in her search, at last finding the Jarl’s office at the opposite end; furnished less lavishly but not without some interesting décor, Eonwe spotted a pile of books and papers on the edge of the desk. Rifling through these one by one, Eonwe found a still-sealed letter that detailed the neck of the man she was trying to save:

To Current Steward of Whiterun;

Let it be known that we are seeking a criminal named Arn for the crime of murder in Solitude. Should you locate him, detain him and contact me by courier as soon as possible.

The letter was left unsigned – not even a symbol or mark to go by. Eonwe tucked the letter between coin purse and box and made a quick once-over of the room, finding nothing of value that wouldn’t be missed. Taking the unusual gem was enough.

Leaving the Jarl’s quarters, Eonwe cautiously made her way down the steps and darted to the big doors before the guard at the end of the hall could turn around; she was just pressing it shut when he started to lean back beside the hanging banner bearing Whiterun’s sigil. Breathing a sigh of relief, Eonwe started for the stairs that would lead her back out into the banquet hall, hoping she would be able to slip into the crowd, when Brynjolf came up the steps and spotted her.

“It’s boiling down there, lass,” he huffed, swiping sweat from his forehead. “How’d it go?”

“I have the letter,” she said quietly. “And I have something I wanted to show you.”

Brynjolf jerked his chin towards the doors that led out to the grand porch and took Eonwe’s arm, looping it through his to walk with her. He was shockingly warm but it wasn’t until they stepped outside and into the cool night air that she was very grateful for it. She pressed into him without shame, shivering at a breeze that rose goosebumps on her skin.

“Cold, lass?” Brynjolf asked.

“It is still winter, you know!” Eonwe exclaimed. “Ma used to have this saying about coming outside without proper clothes. I can’t really remember it though…”

“‘Don’t cast your cloot till Second Seed’s oot’?”

Eonwe grinned. “That’s the one.”

Grasping her hand, Brynjolf twirled her in front of him, making her dress spin. It came to a fluttering stop, moving like liquid metal as she shifted from foot to foot. His eyes darkened, and she watched him swallow as she studied her, boldly looking at her from head to toe. He noticed her bare toes peeping out from beneath her skirt and broke into a humoured smile. “Too loud?”

“Aye,” she mimicked him cheekily, drifting closer so his eyes slid back up her body; something about knowing he was admiring her made her feel giddy and wild. He reached for her with one hand and Eonwe let his fingers brush the scales of her bodice before spinning away and keeping out of his reach, almost laughing at the disappointment on his face. “You’re going to have to catch me, lad!”

Almost growling, Brynjolf raced after her as she took off down the vacant grand porch, dress gathered up in her hands and streaming out behind her like a fiery stream. She could barely hear the beat of Brynjolf’s shoes behind her – he was so quiet in his movements – but she was caught up in exhilaration and whooped, jumping into the air without breaking stride. She felt so young and free, like a child without burdens, and Eonwe forgot everything for a moment. There was no Thalmor in her memory, no house burning down, no endless wanderings across the cold moors and forests of Cyrodiil, no dark tavern in Bruma, and no frigid journey across the Jeralls, alone and sick with fear. She shrieked again, laughter bubbling up from her throat, all of her soul wrapped into it like the power of her Thu’um.

Only it was her voice and hers alone.

The space she had to run came to a close and she slowed, stepping around the cleared table at the end and going to the edge to look out at the night sky. A yellow and pink aurora was beginning to blaze, wrapping around Masser’s larger form, and the pearl of Secunda was so tiny, a bubble drifting behind the red sphere. Brynjolf stopped beside her, resting his arms on the balcony edge, and looked down at the hills and valleys.

“I wonder what it would be like to see the sunrise from here every morning,” he pondered aloud. Eonwe regarded him with a raised eyebrow.

“I didn’t take you for a romantic,” she teased and he poked her in the side with a finger, blushing from their run. “You’re right, though. A sunrise would be so beautiful.”

“Not as beautiful as you.”

“A sunrise is far more spectacular than me,” Eonwe laughed. “It’s the birth of a new day. It brings hope.”

“Aye, that’s what I meant.” Eonwe looked at Brynjolf in half-part wonder and half-part disbelief. “You came to the Guild to help us. Every day, you do so much that it’s a day set apart from all the rest. I might sound like some sentimental bastard for saying this, but you bring the Guild a lot of hope.”

“Really?” It wasn’t spoken with disbelief, or surprise, or any sort of feeling for that matter. She just said the word in reaction to his, blank and quiet. Part of her didn’t understand what Brynjolf had just said and then it hit her. I bring them hope.

Eonwe didn’t feel the tears streaming down her cheeks until Brynjolf was shaking her shoulder, asking her what was wrong. Eonwe touched her face and looked at the wetness on her fingertips, and she suddenly gasped for the air she wasn’t breathing and began to sob; she pressed a hand to her mouth, linking her brief disconnection to shock. I bring them hope.

“Easy, lass. Easy.” Again, he spoke to her like some frightened horse, starting to guide her back to the palace doors. Eonwe’s legs wobbled and she sat on the edge of the table, breathing deeply through her mouth, wiping the tears from her cheeks. Black streaks of makeup spotted her hands and she found the ability to laugh.

“War paint,” she said, showing him the black streaks. Brynjolf took a handkerchief and wiped around her eyes, removing most of the smeared paint. He looked a little worried but her comment brought back the lopsided smile she discovered she loved so much. “Thank you, Bryn.”

“No need for sentiments-”

“No. I meant…” she paused, a swell of sensation threatening to bring tears to her eyes again. “Do I really bring the Guild hope?”

“Is that what made you cry?” Brynjolf left the handkerchief in her hands and sat beside her, pushing out a chair with one foot to rest his feet on. “Aye, you bring us hope. You’ve changed the Guild since you joined. I think you’ve been good for us.”

“For everyone or for just you?” Eonwe flicked her eyes sideways to see his reaction. He was still for a moment, thinking carefully, then came up with, “A little of both, if you want me to be honest.”

“That’s all I’ll ever want.” The words were out before she could stop them and she cleared her throat, realizing how that sounded. The basic fundamentals of a good relationship were loyalty and honesty. Eonwe wondered if Brynjolf was thinking the same as she: That she’d proposed something more than mere kisses and touches.

Eonwe fervently wished she could let her hair hide her face, but it was still all swept back and doing nothing to hide the dusky rose of her cheeks, bold as ever against the pale of her face. She dabbled her eyes with the handkerchief, fiddling with it nervously, then Brynjolf’s hand was resting over hers, a soothing weight, gifting her a sense of immediate reassurance. She willed herself to meet his gaze and smiled, and he smiled too.

“So what is it that you wanted to show me?” Brynjolf inquired, gracefully changing the subject. Eonwe drew out the box and handed it to him, and he loosened the clasp. She didn’t miss his blink of surprise the moment the unusual gem was revealed. “What are you doing toting around one of these, lass?”

“Is it special?”

“Aye, more than what you think. I’m fairly certain that this gem here is one of the Stones of Barenziah.” Eonwe’s blank look wordlessly stated that he should continue. “They were pried off the queen’s crown by a thief hoping to cover his tracks. If I remember correctly, there’s about twenty-four in all.”

“Have you seen them before?” Brynjolf handed the Stone of Barenziah back to her and shook his head.

“No, that’s the first of them I’ve ever laid my eyes on. Where did you spot this one?” Eonwe told him the Jarl’s quarters and he added, “Aye, it must have been a gift. They’re worth nothing alone but if you found the whole set… well, let’s just say that’d be a different story.”

“I have a second one,” Eonwe said. “That one was in a cave under the Thalmor Embassy. I should try finding the rest.”

“I doubt it will be easy, but if you do, bring them to Vex,” Brynjolf suggested. “Did you want to head back inside, lass? We’ve done what we came for.”

Eonwe glanced at the sky, where the aurora had faded to a few final wisps, the dead of night sweeping in with a bitter, still cold. She nodded and slid off the table, but before she could even take a few paces, Brynjolf pulled her into him and kissed her; it was nothing like their brief touch of lips earlier. Again it was raw, strikingly so, his catch of her lips precise and unguarded, slowly unraveling into a mad hunger. When he released her, Eonwe nearly whined in complaint as she was bereft of his enticing warmth, and he chuckled.

“Gods, you’re insatiable,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, hugging her to his side. “I almost wish we’d gotten along sooner.” Eonwe laughed, nuzzling into the soft velvet of his overcoat, breathing in the sharply familiar smell that was as comforting as it was intoxicating. Wrapping an arm around her bare shoulders, they walked in slow weaving steps, stretching out the night for as long as they could in the silent company of each other.

Chapter Text

The dragon’s magnificent roar rumbled through the air like the beating of several drums, the ground trembling and upsetting the carefully laid out vials of poison. Its ginormous serpentine body soared above, great wings roughly disturbing the low-hanging branches of a study old pine, under which Karliah was seated cross-legged in front of her portable alchemy lab, concocting a variety of potions ahead of time, knowing full well that they would come in use. She cast a grim scowl after the dragon, which presently hadn’t yet seemed to notice her, and picked up the vials that had been knocked over in its passing, one of which had been an uncorked invisibility potion, and gathered a new handful of the necessary ingredients to start on a new one.

The news of Goldenglow Estate’s destruction had spread like wildfire, reaching the tavern of every city and village across the province in what seemed only a month or two, and the knowledge had set Karliah in a hurried rush to finish the final stages of her plans. Potions had to be made last in order for them to keep their potency, particularly the special immobilizing poison she intended to use on Mercer Frey; she’d tested it countless times, changing the mixture and the levels of toxicity by varying degrees, bringing down wildlife or the occasional wandering person, until she’d finally found something that didn’t maim and didn’t relent until she allowed it. Karliah didn’t bother to glance upwards as the dragon swept past in another round, instead focusing on raising the gas flow of her alembic and carefully adding the shrivelled fungus caps of dried imp stool to the boiling chaurus eggs. Alchemy was a skill she was grateful to have under her belt and knowing the remedy to a disease had saved her life, and much precious time, several times over.

Karliah leaned against the rough bark of the pine, resting her head on the frozen sap running between the wooden grooves, closing her sore eyes as she waited for the eggs to finish stewing. She had slept little in the last few months, constantly moving and gathering supplies, repairing her patchy old armour when the need arose; food had been hard to come by but she never turned down opportunity, snatching bits here and there, trying to put something down every day, although anxiety usually had it coming back up and spilling onto her boots with little warning. Karliah would have thought that nearly twenty-five years might have shaped her into something sturdier, but as the sand in her hourglass trickled lesser and lesser, her nerves had begun to fray.

She didn’t know what to expect when she and Mercer stood face to face once again, after all these years. Karliah wondered what she would feel when she looked into the depths of his eyes, her arrow protruding from his flesh, paralyzed and unable to nothing more than watch and await her to enact judgement upon him; it was that moment Karliah longed for most, to say the words that choked her in their desperation to be heard, and to observe true fear in her old rival’s gaze as she turned the tables to her advantage. The poison broth bubbled and spat, the lumpy chaurus eggs oozing greenish fluid and turning the boiling water a sickly yellow, like stagnant pus. Karliah turned her head away, covering her nose with the back of her hand, letting the toughened shells break down to a gooey rubber.

The dragon let out a hoarse roar, its flight pattern changing as it turned to the east, its attention apparently having been caught by something in the local brush. Karliah watched it go through slit eyes; its sail-like wings scooping the air as it dipped and curled in the sky, vomiting great red fireballs and setting the dry brush alight, exposed to the bone-cold air, branches left hollow and going up like tinder.

Hunting for her mortar and pestle, Karliah sought her stash of ingredients, unwrapping precious samples of briar hearts and canis root, which she immediately set to grinding into as fine a powder as she could. The sugary barky sweetness of the root was a welcome change over the hideous sour odour of the eggs, which a quick glance at told Karliah they were finished, the greenish liquid speckled with clumps of the deformed bits of mushroom. Removing the mix from the heat, she added the dry to the wet, stirring absent-mindedly; she’d made the poison many times before and it was a process she knew like the back of her hand. Returning the poison to the gas-fueled flame, Karliah used snow to clean out the mortar, being careful to not scratch the granite.

This is for the Guild, she reminded herself as she turned off the alembic and poured the poison into the thin vial she’d kept for this sole purpose, being careful to not spill a single drop. All of it would be needed, although the smallest smudge exposed to skin was toxic enough to still the muscles and render the subject paralyzed from head to toe, unless administered the antidote – which Karliah set to making with the remainder of the poison.

All she could do was hope was that nothing would go wrong, but luck always had a way of running out when it was needed most.

Chapter Text

The warehouse was pleasantly dark and the door hardly squeaked on hinges that were well-oiled as Eonwe and Thrynn entered the premises, immediately melting into the comforting black that concealed them from view. The strongest of the smells to greet them was of sea water, stagnant and almost overpowering in the enclosing walls of the East Empire Company Warehouse; it was startlingly different compared to the stony tang of the cistern which, on worst days, smelled like that of the canal spanning the length of Riften. Eonwe breathed low through her mouth, letting her senses adjust to the warehouse interiors and for her eyes to adjust to the darkness.

Thrynn brushed her as he skirted by, keeping low among the stacked crates, all stamped with East Empire Company in large faded print. Eonwe briefly wondered if she should pilfer a few items of value but Thrynn was already several yards ahead and she didn’t want to lose sight of him. She swept back her hair into a low knot at the base of her skull and stepped out, gaining her first full look at the warehouse, putting together a plan as she took in the sights.

Long and lined by two docks that reached all the way into the back, the waterway presently occupied by a ship in for repair, the warehouse was cut into the mountainside, a great big cavern letting sunlight filter in from holes in the high ceiling, where long stalactites hanging from above like wrinkly fingers, dripping with condensation. The sunlight turned the water bright blue in the places it touched and a distinct summer-green hue seemed to warm the space, despite the late winter weather still clutching Skyrim like an invisible vice. A cloying fog seemed to drift over the waterway, crawling on its belly and swaying to and fro. Here and there, Eonwe glimpsed a human shape, carrying a lantern; a small cluster could be seen around a table on the far side of the wharf, perhaps having an early lunch or playing a game of cards.

“Thrynn,” Eonwe said as loudly as she dared; the softest whisper seemed to bounce off the walls, sure to have the wardens running to seize them. The battle-scarred Nord glanced at her and she gestured to the waterway, in suggestion. “I’ll go around. You cut across.”

Thrynn nodded in response – he’d never spoken a word to Eonwe except for grunts of approval or disapproval, and he wasn’t an easy man to read, but he followed the vaguest of directions with a confidence that didn’t come from years as a thief. Eonwe knew he’d been a bandit for all of his youth but not much more could be offered. Thrynn was not at all an open book, but neither was Eonwe. She didn’t expect him to say a word about his past, especially if he didn’t want to, and while she respected that, it was hard to understand silence, or to measure a look as contempt or satisfaction – considering that that person wore a frown most of the time.

The water splashed quietly as Thrynn dipped down into it feet-first. Keeping his head above the surface, he waded out until he could wade no more; slipping forward quietly with hardly a ripple to announce his presence, Eonwe watched as he bobbed out into the dark water, keeping well away from the patches of sun that would reveal him to the wardens.

Eonwe jumped as a sudden ruckus of noise and shouting exploded outside of the warehouse and she ducked away into the shadows behind a row of double-stacked crates. There was a horrendous groaning and the sound of surging water, followed by more shouting voices and creaking. The shadows were abruptly thrown into the light and Eonwe peeked over the crates with worried eyes to watch the huge bay doors glide open, a row of boats stacked with shipments lined up and waiting to come in. Her heart sunk into her stomach at the sight of them and she heard herself murmur, “Oh, no.”

Feet thundered all around and Eonwe edged backwards onto a higher platform closer to the wall, where a neat row of crates made a good place to watch from. She couldn’t see where Thrynn was, and she hoped that he’d made it across the waterway before he could have been seen… or crushed by the boats. She couldn’t distinguish the shouting voices between orders, warnings, or cries of pursuit.

The ships, small and flat, were heavy with the shipments they carried. Eonwe’s brow lowering in disappointment, watching as they bobbed slowly under the weight. The unloading could take hours, perhaps carry into a second day, or more. She didn’t have much more than an hour, and Gulum-Ei’s scaly tail had long since disappeared before the bay doors had opened. Is that why he rushed back here like he did? Because he knew any means of pursuit would be stamped out with the arrival of the ships? Eonwe groaned silently, wracking her head for ideas, wondering that if she were quick enough, could she find Gulum-Ei and learn who the buyer was without being seen? Eonwe juggled the options, weighing her chances, but wasn’t at all convinced any would work. Right now, all of her hopes rested on that Thrynn had managed to make it across the waterway and could tail Gulum-Ei without her.

Poking her head out, Eonwe sought out rough gray leather, but flinched as she spotted a cloaked figure not ten paces away from where she hid. They were hooded, fumbling with their coin purse in nimble-fingered hands. They appeared to be waiting; if Eonwe wanted to move, she couldn’t now, because the slightest of scuffles would gain this person’s attention immediately. They were much too close.

A wide-shouldered Imperial, dark-skinned and built big, face dabbed with white streaks and void of any hair, except for the single braid of dreads running down the middle of his shaved head, approached the figure and made an annoyed gesture. The cloaked person turned and said, her voice brittle with impatience, “Vasquez! Have you brought the shipment I asked for?”

Vasquez grasped the cloaked woman by the front of her collar, pulling her close; Eonwe could see a flash of white as he bared his teeth in her face. “You owe me more than some petty coin, Liana. Those five years were yours.” The skin over his knuckles stretched and paled. “It isn’t my fault Cragslane went south.”

“If I had served those five years, you wouldn’t be standing where you are now,” Liana responded angrily. “You’re sailing the seas because of the strings I’ve pulled. I spent years creating the life you live now, so if anyone owes anyone, it’s you, Vasquez.” She paused to let this sink in before repeating, “Do you have what I asked for or not?”

Vasquez released Liana reluctantly, his nostrils flaring as he waved a hand towards two small boats, all piled high with sealed square crates, unmarked and unidentifiable. “Got it all right here. Unmarked and packed with incense so none of your little friends suspect anything,” he said, a hint of cockiness underlying his tone.

“This isn’t headed there,” Liana corrected irritably. She hopped down into one of the boats, causing the edge of her cloak to flutter aside and reveal the armour underneath. Eonwe grew rigid with alarm and leaned out, just short of falling into a beam of light, the hair rising on the back of her neck as her stomach flipped like a fish in too shallow a puddle. This Liana wore the armour of the Thieves Guild.

“…28…29…30,” Liana counted, nodding satisfactorily. She tossed the coin purse to Vasquez, who clutched it as though it were his own heart ripped from his chest. “That’s all of it. Do me a favour and take these boats out of here, to the sawmill bordering Hjallmarch, near the small falls.”

“Look, Liana. I only agreed to bring you the sugar-”

“There’ll be… ooh, say an extra thousand gold in it for you,” Liana bribed. “As well as safe passage through to Cyrodiil. I’m sure my sister would rather have you back with your head on your shoulders?”

Eonwe could see this was a decision Vasquez didn’t need time to ponder over; the burnished Imperial gestured to a small cluster of men further down the docks and went to them, giving them their orders. At once, the boats were being hauled back out, their little crew manually navigating them past the bay doors and back out under the sun. Liana never failed to get her way, it seemed.

Standing with crossed arms, she briefly watched as her shipment disappeared from view, then glanced around suspiciously, as though she felt she were being watched. As her eyes came to hover on where Eonwe crouched – with Eonwe steeling herself to not move so much a fraction of an inch – she caught sight of Liana’s face and she barely held in her gasp of recognition. She at once knew the dark eyes set in a smooth though not unscarred heart-shaped face; the full dark lips set on darker skin, and thick unruly black curls tumbling down her forehead and hastily tucked behind small, curving ears. Her expression was set, brittle and grim, as it often was from where she sat out on the suspended deck, rifling through wares or rounding up totals in her books. Eonwe was on her feet and following, keeping low, ducking when she needed to and picking up speed when she felt it was worth the risk, unwilling to let the one she pursed out of her sight.

Eonwe wanted – needed – to know for what reason Tonilia was doing purchasing moon sugar behind the backs of the Thieves Guild.

~*~

She found her answers outside the sawmill, from where she hid in the bushes of some lonely island with a lovely vantage point overlooking the marshy shores on the eastern border into Hjallmarch. The boats were there, dragged up onto the shore; Vasquez was seated on a fallen rotted trunk and his crew members were filling their skins with cold water from the river.

Tonilia had vanished by the time Eonwe had made it to the fork between Solitude and Katla’s Farm. She didn’t know where the fence had gone to but, not wanting to waste time looking around, she’d headed straight for the sawmill. Eonwe shifted, dislodging a sharp stone poking into her hip and looked around, hoping no one was watching her. She felt an anxious bite of concern for Thrynn’s whereabouts, guiltily remembering that she was supposed to be spying on Gulum-Ei, not Tonilia. But if Tonilia was doing something wrong that could endanger the Guild… wouldn’t that come first?

Her indecision didn’t last much longer. From the trees appeared a pair of horses, tall and built for pulling, their feather-edged hooves sending up a spray of sand-stained snow behind them. A flat sleigh skidded along behind them, large enough to carry the boxes of moon sugar in the boats. Tonilia was nowhere to be seen, and the two men leading the horses looked to be blacksmiths or perhaps armourers, with their rolled-up plaid sleeves and soot-stained leather smocks.

The sleigh was loaded in less than ten minutes and Vasquez was shaking hands with the newcomers, passing a few words before separating ways – Vasquez and his men back into their boats to return to the warehouse, and the men with the horses back into the wintery marshy woods. Eonwe waited until all were out of sight before climbing down the eastern side of the island and sloshing across the river, ignoring the bite of cold at her calves as she rushed up onto shore and into the trees after the horses.

A clear trail of hoof prints, men’s boots, and sleigh tracks made the path easy to follow as it weaved through the woods, and it seemed there was only one path back and forth; Eonwe guessed that where the boats had waited was a frequently-used meeting place. The air was still and cold, her breath coming out in great puffs of white that wafted behind her, her boots sliding in the slippery snow and tripping over frozen tufts of marsh grass. She wrapped her arms around herself after a time, wishing she hadn’t left behind her cloak on the rocks above the warehouse. The leather, though thick and lined with its wool undershirt, was barely cutting it. Her nose was running and her teeth chattering, but she kept moving, her steps becoming slower as the trees thickened.

If she hadn’t breathed deeply to clear her nose, she would have never caught the whiff of wood smoke. Eonwe urged herself to pick up the pace, jogging unevenly until the smoke smell grew constant and the sound of civilization reached her ears. She slammed into a tree to stop her skidding feet and clung to it, breathing deeply through her mouth, and looked out from behind the tree at the erected form a grand log cabin just ahead at the bottom of the slope, nestled in a clearing in the thicket.

The cabin was surrounded by a low stone wall, spiked with an iron fence along the top to ward trespassers away. There was one gate, at the front, guarded by a pair of burly, warmly-dressed men with a sword and an axe on each hip. Two lookouts, at either side of the wall, housed lookouts, dressed in dark leathers and carrying bows and full quivers. Fortified and well-guard, Eonwe wondered just what in Oblivion she was getting herself into. She felt a shudder run up her spine at the idea of patrolling guards in the nearby trees, and reminded herself that she couldn’t stay still long. She needed to see what was going on, why the moon sugar was being brought here, just why on all of Tamriel Tonilia was involved, and get away before she was seen and captured… or froze to death.

The sleigh was parked at the near side of the cabin, near what appeared to be a cellar. Knowing she couldn’t simply go to the cellar, Eonwe figured she would time the watching guards and make for the side door on the left of the main one. The cabin itself looked ordinary and of regular build, with two floors and the obviously basement. It looked almost cozy and approachable, if not for the constant watch and menacing wall. Eonwe wondered what was inside the cabin, and as soon as the lookout turned to observe the trees, she was making a run for it, her ice-block legs reluctantly loosening as she scrambled for the little alcove behind one of the gate guards; pressing her back to the stone, she felt for her dagger and reached for the guard, deftly wrapping a hand around his mouth and slicing the edge of the blade across his throat. He staggered and slumped, and Eonwe dragged him backwards into the alcove, kicking snow over the splatters of blood. Moon sugar is illegal, she told herself desperately, keeping from looking at the guard’s sightless eyes. This place is bad. Just remember that, nothing else!

The other guard hadn’t noticed the commotion only a few feet away – he was too busy stamping his feet and trying to warm himself. Eonwe knew that she wouldn’t be coming out by way of the gate, considering the guard would find his comrade lying in a bloody heap very soon; she slipped through the cracked gate and kept low, watching the lookout on the left tower as she made for the side door. Will I be coming back out? she wondered but it was too late; the door was already closing behind her and the bitter cold melted away as the embrace of a warm cabin touched her face and hands.

The fireplace blazed brightly beneath the stone mantle, flaming antlers swaying between the carved busts of two great stags, their blank eyes fixed on the doorframe separating the hall in which Eonwe stood from the grand sitting room, where deep imported wingchairs of Cyrodillic-make and exquisite oak coffee tables sat laden with silver trays piled with bread and cheese. The walls of the sitting room were high, reaching to the exposed rafters stretching between the peak, where a thin cloud of smoke drifted idly; the spines of many volumes gleamed where the flames caught the gold lettering, and a great assortment of objects, from globes to plates to Nord-themed carvings and trinkets, were stuffed in all the gaps, offering more than enough for the eye to feast on in one sole area. The room was lavish and warm, inviting even, and all that was absent was a person seated in one of the chairs with a throw tossed over their legs, book or cup of brandy in hand. Eonwe could picture the idealistic image so vividly that she almost believed someone was sitting there, and she had to look about a few times before she could convince herself no one was actually there watching her. Well… albeit the stuffed head of a buck over the huge mantle, an hourglass to its left and a wooden ship model to its right.

Quietly, Eonwe followed the hallway to another, which led to an equally-grand dining room and the enormous kitchen; the cabin had appeared average for a Hjallmarch-located manor, but it truly seemed bigger on the inside. Sparing a few seconds to peer into both rooms as she passed them, admiring the continued theme of cozy invitingness, Eonwe found her way to what appeared to be stairs and a door leading down to the cellar. She hadn’t yet heard a shout of warning from outside, which she was counting on to know her presence had been discovered and was relying on in case she needed to make a run for it, so she went to the cellar door and turned the doorknob slowly, listening to the metal lift and click open on release.

It was dark, terribly dark, and the air was thick with a sweet-scented smoke that was nauseating. There was a sound as well, constant and distant but vaguely familiar, like a voice too far away. Eonwe stepped back, turning her head to clear her senses, then took as deep a breath as possible before stepping inside the room; whatever was burning inside was already making her feel dizzy and light-headed, and she figured more than a couple of breaths might prove dangerous to her health.

Moving quickly, Eonwe squinted through the cloying smoke and spotted a row of six enormous vats, metal grates glowing with the hot embers shovelled beneath to keep them boiling. Keeping her distance, she made her way further along to a door at the end of the room, and she completely forgot to hold her breath as she took in the sight.

Massive machinery, beyond any technology Eonwe had ever seen, squeaked and churned and grinded away, the metal chugging as great cogs turned and levers pumped up and down all by their own accord. Beyond the noisy machinery, that steamed and hissed like an irritated dragon, Eonwe glimpsed the entire far wall lined from floor to ceiling with the crates of moon sugar. She didn’t dare go inside, for fear of the strange machinery, but she had a good guess as to what was being made in the vats behind her.

The cabin was a skooma-production facility.

Shutting the door to bar the noise, Eonwe left the vat room behind and followed the hallways with the intention of leaving, but paused as she glimpsed movement outside one of the windows. There was a man – a Breton to be exact – dressed to impress despite his severe receding hairline and trimmed goatee that made him look only more ridiculously pompous. An Imperial soldier in customary red and brown leather followed, wearing a thick cloak over his uniform. The Breton and his guard went to the main door of the place and after a few seconds, Eonwe heard two firm knocks on the wood. A few heartbeats passed and a set of four knocks seemed to stir the inhabitants of the house, and Eonwe jumped as she heard a gruffly-spoken “Just a bloody minute!” come from the floor above, followed by rapid footsteps. Moving out of sight, Eonwe watched a middle-aged oak-skinned man come along an upper catwalk, curse softly at another barrage of knocks, and came down a set of hidden stairs out of sight to reach the door.

“Good afternoon,” the Breton was clear, accented, and audible from where Eonwe stood. “I have a few signatures for you, so if you could sign this paper here, as well as these…”

There was a disgruntled flow of words, a brief conversation, a couple of light questions, then the concluding, “Thank you for your time, sir. Have a fine day.” The Breton tucked the papers back into his bag and the man of the house came into the sitting room, rubbing the bald patch at the top of his skull, a frown on his face. The ties of his patched robe swung loosely as he made for the brandy; pouring himself a cup, he seated himself in the wingchair next to the fire and stuck his feet up on a low cushioned stool with a tired sigh. “Damn this place,” Eonwe heard him mutter over the lip of his cup before inhaling meditatively and taking a slow sip. The brandy gleamed like melted amber, reminding Eonwe of the dress she wore to Dragonsreach, further reminding her of the Guild and the task at hand.

Tonilia would have to wait, she decided; she had no proof and she was certain her word wouldn’t be enough, but she knew two very important things: Tonilia was tied to Cragslane, which Eonwe had halted the production of for the Jarl and in turn became Thane of Riften, which could make her an easy target should Tonilia want to seek out revenge over a matter that was obviously very costly; and two, that Tonilia was hiding her association with the skooma-production from the Thieves Guild for reasons that could be potentially dangerous. Eonwe knew that it was very important that she brought this information to the Guild, as well as the name of the individual Gulum-Ei was hopefully going to point out. She started for the door, these thoughts at the forefront of her mind, when her foot pressed down on a floorboard and caused it to creak very loudly.

“Who goes there?” the man said, started by the noise, and Eonwe turned to find him having already spotted her. Her eyes went wide with fear and she lifted her boot off the floorboard, backing away as the man set aside his brandy and rose, coming towards her with a look of mingled alarm and anger.

“You are trespassing, ma’am. Leave at-” he began to order briskly then stopped himself, eyeing Eonwe more closely. “For what purpose should a thief enter a home and leave empty handed, hmm? Not here for material things, I presume?”

Eonwe was quiet for a moment under his commanding stare, then she lifted her chin and answered, “No, sir.”

“Then pray do tell me what you are doing in my home?”

“I… a fellow associate of mine was seen arranging for moon sugar to be brought here,” Eonwe answered. “I needed to know if she would be a threat to us, since we knew nothing of it. Your home is a guise, covering up for the production of skooma.”

The man laughed. “Ironic, is it not?” he said, the humour flat on his tone. “Here you are investigating an illegal business and yet you are a thief, of all professions. Tell me, would the woman handling the shipments be named ‘Tonilia’?”

Eonwe hesitated before nodding her head once; she held the man’s gaze carefully, even as he turned away to reclaim his brandy – apparently trusting Eonwe to remain still and not make a dash for the door. She waited, watching him swirl the brandy in his cup; she could smell the faintest of fumes and recognized the Colovian tang from when she’d infiltrated the Embassy.

“Tonilia,” he began, “came to Wintersand Manor with a proposition, involving herself and her sister, shortly after they fled Hammerfell. They were in need of money and refuge, and were both willing to handle the shipment of moon sugar once it came up from the south to here. Tonilia’s sister, Mayna, left for Cyrodiil but disappeared some ten years ago. I assume she no longer wanted to be part of this troublesome business anymore.” He paused to take a sip of the brandy before continuing, his gaze narrowing. “After someone destroyed Cragslane and its thousands of septims worth of sugar, no doubt by request of Jarl Laila Law-Giver, it was a rush to get a new shipment up here from Elsweyr, but with the Thalmor fleet docked on Valenwood’s shores, only a fifth of the original shipment made it across the waters – the shipment that arrived today, that I presume you followed here.”

“Have you found the person behind Cragslane?” Eonwe ventured.

“We haven’t,” he answered sourly. “They seem to have completely evaded us, unless they’re standing right under our noses in plain sight, but we’re just too dumb to realize it. But they will be found, and soon,” he added, the underlying threat clear in his promising words. “If you happen to discover whoever it was behind the Cragslane mess, bring this news to Tonilia immediately.”

“So… what will happen to me, now that I’ve found this place?”

“Curiosity is a fine quality for one to have,” he said. “But I must demand of you that you never share your knowledge of this place with anyone. I will escort you off of the property, but I do not want to see your face near these walls ever again. Is that understood?”

Eonwe nodded and the man led her to the main doors; opening them let in a rush of cold wintery wind, and Eonwe shivered at the thought of trudging all the way back to the docks. She turned to bid the man farewell but paused, suddenly recognizing him: Nazeem, a citizen she’d seen wandering the markets in Whiterun. She lowered her chin so the edge of her hood hid her eyes, as he would surely recognize her for who she really was.

“Go on. My guards will not harm you, unless you turn back for any reason,” he assured, the familiar bitterness caught in his nasally accent that she now fully recognized. “And remember to hold up your side of the promise – no one knows.”

“‘No one knows’,” Eonwe repeated quietly, turning away and trudging to the main gate, her eyes on the churned ground, following the sleigh tracks away from Wintersand Manor. She could feel the arrow of the lookout on her back, but she daren’t turned to see.

~*~

Thrynn was nowhere to be found and the activity in the warehouse had lessened some, if not by very much. Eonwe hugged the outskirts of the warehouse, watching the patterns of the patrolling guards, relying on the brown of her leathers to hide her against the wood. Some searching led her to a door tucked away behind one area at the farthest end; wet footprints indicated the door was used, and frequently, and Eonwe slipped inside. The smell of briny water hit her nose as she followed the narrow tunnel to a tiny dock, where two bandits lay slumped over the crates; a light touch to their necks told Eonwe that they had died only recently. A chill ran up her spine and she was cautious as she followed the half-flooded passages, wondering if it was Thrynn or someone else who’d made it here first.

Crossing a rickety old bridge strung by ropes, Eonwe longed to have a torch to see through the darkness. She feared that something might inhabit these tunnels and she didn’t want to have to face it alone and blind. Her soft footsteps ceased as she landed on what sounded an awful lot like glass shards, and the hair rose on her arms as a canine head lifted, accompanied by a growl. Eonwe continued on, placing her feet with even more care, hoping that the dog would lower its head again and forget about her. The growling softened and faded as she reached the opening, and she was climbing down when a sharp yelp cut the silence. Eonwe didn’t bother to look back; she was moving, quickly, following the grotto to its end. Someone was on her trail. She needed to find Gulum-Ei before whoever found her first.

She found the scoundrel alright, waiting with two heavily armed mercenaries who could only be described as pirates on closer inspection. Eonwe sketched out a plan in her mind, wondering whether she could take out the archer or not before she was noticed. She was growing reckless, worrying about too many things at once, and she knew she was going to be sloppy if she didn’t breathe and focus. She raised her bow, aiming for the back of the archer’s head, when boots crunched too close and she looked up in time to see an axe hilt ramming down into the side of her head.

“Well, what do we have here?” Gulum-Ei taunted sardonically, eyeing Eonwe with a tangible weight of cynical scorn. “I thought I told you to leave me be?”

“You know more than you’re saying,” Eonwe accused, spitting blood on the ground. Her head throbbed where the hilt had connected with it. “Tell me the truth.”

“I’m afraid that isn’t part of our little deal,” Gulum-Ei mocked sympathy, crouching to look Eonwe in the eye. “And besides, I have shipments to handle. We’ll have to pick this up again later. You, escort her out of here.”

The mercenary hauled Eonwe to her feet, holding her hands behind her back. Eonwe wriggled, estimating her chances. Gulum-Ei was only a few paces away and she knew that if she broke free, she could get her dagger to his neck and buy some time, perhaps even squeeze it out of the lizard.

A bloodcurdling shriek startled them all and Eonwe saw the archer fall facedown beside the fire pit, an arrow in the back of his neck, his body still convulsing. Ripping free from the distracted mercenary’s hold, Eonwe yanked her dagger from its sheath and plunged it into the mercenary where skin was exposed above the breastplate. The second mercenary charged away into the darkness; there was a clashing of weapons, followed by a garbling cry. Eonwe watched as Thrynn, streaked with dirt and blood from head to toe and weighted down by his soaked armour, stepped out into the glow of the fire. He hardly spared Eonwe a glance; his angry glare was fixed on Gulum-Ei, and his hand tightened on the hilt of his blade, striding for the cowering lizard.

“No, stop!” Eonwe cried, rushing forward to grab Thrynn’s arm before he could plunge the sword into Gulum-Ei’s stomach. “We need to know what he knows!”

Thrynn’s face screwed up but he relented, the tension in his arm loosening under Eonwe’s clutching fingers. Gulum-Ei watched them from his hunched stance in cautious alarm until Thrynn snorted and stepped back a few paces, gesturing in mock graciousness to Eonwe. “He’s all yours,” he muttered gruffly.

As she knelt in front of the cowering lizard, Brynjolf’s ominous warning rang in her ears, but she spoke with some gentleness: “Tell me about this mystery woman who’s been behind everything, and we’ll leave. Neither of us will harm you if you just say what we need to hear.” The lizard was reluctant, his lips pursed shut tight, and Eonwe prodded him with the flat edge of her dagger, her patience threateningly thin.

“Okay, fine,” Gulum-Ei hissed, scales rattling nervously, flinching away from her. “The woman… it’s her. It’s Karliah.” Eonwe and Thrynn were blank as boards and the lizard sighed in irritation. You don’t know her? She’s responsible for everything the Guild has been through. Mercer never mentioned her?”

Eonwe pondered her thoughts; somehow, the name Gulum-Ei had offered was familiar, too familiar for her to simply ignore. Had Mercer perhaps mentioned Karliah before? No, that wasn’t it. Eonwe puffed out her cheeks as she exhaled, trying to construct the reason why she knew the name and why she had heard it before. “Tell me about her,” she eventually asked, her petty scrambling offering nothing.

“Karliah was one of the best. She was highly praised for her superior skills among the other thieves. I wasn’t surprised to hear it was her, after the mess with Gallus. She must have come back to finish off everyone else, starting with Mercer. Now, you have everything you needed to know. Can we end this peacefully?”

“That’s for her to decide,” Thrynn said. Gulum-Ei looked at Eonwe pleadingly and she sighed, shrugging as she straightened.

“I suppose that’s enough for us to go on,” she said with no small amount of reluctance, gesturing for Thrynn to lead the way. They were halfway out the cave, splashing through the shallow pool dappled with light coming from holes in the ceiling, when Eonwe was reminded of why Karliah’s name was so familiar. She hadn’t simply heard it or seen it in writing. She’s spoken it, and what’s more, she’d seen the elf herself.

Gulum-Ei nearly jumped out of his scales when Eonwe appeared from around the corner, blazing with excitement. “Does she have purple eyes?” she demanded. Part of her hoped the lizard would tell her otherwise, and the hair stood on the back of her neck when he confirmed her question.

These dreams… they are more than that, she realized as she caught up with Thrynn and followed the road back up to the city. Visions of foreboding, of what was yet to come. Eonwe wondered what it meant; who or what was sending such dreams to her, and most importantly… why.

~*~

Mercer was waiting impatiently at the foot of the ladder when Eonwe climbed down, startling her as she came face to face with the glaring Breton Guild Master. “Well?” he growled. “What did Gulum-Ei say?”

“We have a name-”

“Spit it out, would you?” He was nearly standing on her toes, and Eonwe fought the urge to shrink away, or worse, to shove him back.

“Karliah.”

The final syllable had hardly broached her lips but Mercer’s reaction was instantaneous. His face paled and he staggered back, as though Eonwe had in fact pushed him, and a distinct expression of impeding shock and disbelief marred his usually palled and stagnant features. Seeing the Guild Master so disconcerted, so afraid… it made Eonwe nervous. She repeated Karliah’s name, pronouncing it a little slower. Mercer nodded, momentarily lost for words. Eonwe was astonished at his unusual behaviour: did this ‘Karliah’ truly have so much impact?

“Where is she?” Mercer spoke very low, his voice only a soft rumble.

“Gulum-Ei told us that she said, ‘Where the end began’.”

Mercer blinked, recognition returning much-needed colour to his cheeks, and he nodded. “Snow Veil Sanctum,” he uttered. “We cannot afford any delays. Are you fit to travel?”

“Yes, but-”

“No delays,” he repeated harshly, taking hold of the ladder rung, bright with a sudden burst of youthfulness. “We have little time before she’ll realize her mistake and try to escape.” The ladder rattled as he climbed.

Eonwe hesitated, looking into the cistern with darting eyes. She strained to find Brynjolf but the smoke from the lit brazier and looming shadows prevented her of that. The need to warn them of Tonilia’s involvement with the skooma facility was driving, but Mercer’s harsh order had her climbing the ladder and leaving behind the comforting embrace of the dripping stone and stepping into the shadow of the waiting Guild Master.

Chapter Text

While spring was not a far cry, the province remained in full winter as the tiring steeds approached Windhelm and were left to rest in the shelter of the stables, where warm blankets, gruel, and deep beds of straw awaited. No such pleasures were offered to Eonwe as Mercer rented out a fresh pair of horses, casually tossing a purse into the stable master’s hands, and mounted up to continue their ride through the cold. By the time they turned onto the road and passed Fort Kastav, Eonwe was shivering in her cloak, vying against the chill and fighting her urges for the blaze of a roaring hearth and a stout cup of something.

Snow Veil Sanctum lay in quiet abandonment, the crumbling stone peaking in the smooth blanket of white. A small copse of trees sheltered a single tent and a snuffed-out fire, but despite no signs, Mercer seemed to be certain of Karliah’s presence. They were into the ruins and making their way through the chilly passages, darker than night and lit only by the bobbing glow of a lantern. Draugr lay cradled in their sarcophaguses, eyes shut tight and arms folded into their sides, as though they felt the cold as well. Eonwe moved silently, her feet pressing down one at a time, too frightened to move too quickly and chance waking the dead. Mercer breathed down her neck the whole time and she fought the waves of apprehension threatening to lock her knees; every time she stilled, he’d nudge her firmly, but he daren’t speak as well. A fight would mean noise, and noise was the last thing they needed to create.

In the depths of the winding passages and magnificent rooms, they stumbled across a puzzle door at the end of a long hall, locked shut tight, its key nowhere to be found. Raking her fingers through her hair, Eonwe was dreading the idea of searching the catacombs again when Mercer reached into his inner jacket and produced something cloaked in darkness. Her eyes widened as he replicated the same scene from one of her strange dreams, and she shifted close enough with the lantern to see what he held. It was a key of some kind, bronze in colour with a fancy pommel of black, patterned with glowing green. Mercer inserted the key into the place where the proper key was meant to go but didn’t twist it; Eonwe was fascinated as combination made itself, as though by sheer will, and her eyes lingered on the key as Mercer returned it to his pocket, the corner of his mouth lifting in something like a smile. Stepping back, he graciously waved his hand and murmured unnecessarily, “After you.”

Eonwe never heard the thwack of the bowstring, nor did she see the arrow flying through the air. She sure as bloody Oblivion felt it as it pierced her chest, narrowly missing her heart by an inch, the black feathers shiny with an oily iridescence. She reached up to pull it free but her arm refused to move, as did her mouth when she tried to speak. Her legs gave unexpectedly and she crashed to the floor, clunking her forehead off the floor. Mercer was rolling her onto her side, eyeing her with some concern; his eyes found the arrow protruding from her chest and they abruptly hardened, just as Eonwe heard a skittering of feet on stone, and saw the lithe figure hurling itself at Mercer from behind. Something must have showed in Eonwe’s still gaze; the Guild Master rolled and scrambled to his feet, drawing his sword as he did. Eonwe’s eyes focused on it, studying the sleek bronze of the blade.

“Becoming slow in your old age, Karliah?” Mercer called, tauntingly, staring into the shadows of the room where she had so quickly vanished again. “I didn’t take you as one to miss.”

“Ah, but you misunderstand,” came a brittle reply on a silken-smooth voice, regally accented and whispered from the dark. “I never miss my mark. It’s you who has become slow.”

Karliah stepped from the shadows, a slender form robed in black and etched with silver, graceful and deadly as a knife. She held a bow at her side and an arrow between her fingertips, and from where Eonwe lay on the floor, immobile and frightened, she could see the fury turning the elf’s eyes to flaming amethysts. Those eyes never left Mercer and she barely flinched as he strode towards her, frame terse with hostile renewed acquaintance.

“Brave words for a coward,” Mercer hissed. “When will you simply admit to the truth? You killed Gallus and left us to pick up the pieces. There is no other story.”

“That’s just the story you’ve been telling yourself all these years!” Karliah flung back. “If you hadn’t been holding that blade, Gallus would still be alive. It’s your fault he was left to rot in this crypt, his memory trampled like dirt. You destroyed everything, Mercer.”

“If you hadn’t intervened in matters that didn’t concern you, none of this would have ever happened.” Mercer’s words held a cold finality that would have left Eonwe breathless with shock if she could do more than lay like a fish on a cutting board. It was Karliah who had killed Gallus, hadn’t it? So then why did she speak of him with the fondness Eonwe could hear?

“I intervened,” Karliah was saying, “because if I hadn’t, you would have torn each other apart. Do you think me a fool, Mercer? Or Gallus? We knew what you were doing with the coin. I saw you leave that room twice with guilt on your face. You were robbing us for months.”

Mercer scoffed. “‘Robbing’ is hardly the word for it. I was in the middle of sorting things out with Gallus when you had to come storming along and make it all about yourself. His death is no one but your doing, Karliah. Own up to it.”

“I have nothing to own up to,” Karliah snarled. “You dragged him out here and stabbed him in cold blood, then you proceeded to turn the Guild against me and accuse me of being a murderer. What kind of man does that make you? You’re a filthy, deceptive liar.”

“I told the Guild the truth,” Mercer said.

“Did you tell them about your little trips to the vault, too?” she taunted viciously.

“I was in the middle of confiding that to Gallus when you interrupted us.”

Karliah laughed darkly. “He isn’t here to tell us otherwise, but the day will never come that I believe a word that slips past those lips. Perhaps I’ll let them stiffen as you rot, as you let Gallus!” In the blink of an eye, the arrow was notched and pointed between Mercer’s eyes.

“Do you honestly believe your arrow will reach me before my blade finds your heart?” Mercer growled.

“Give me a reason to try,” Karliah smiled grimly. “But I’m confident that my mark is certain.”

“I have no doubt of that,” Mercer admitted, a pinch of unease betraying his uncertainty. Eonwe watched through glazed eyes, sick with anticipation, wondering who would strike first. Karliah had the upper hand; her bow arm was steady and her shot clear, and she was fast enough to dodge any incoming blows.

“And what lies did you feed your accomplice?” Karliah coldly asked. “Was she part of your sick plan all these years, or did you bring her along so she could take your place in this mess you’ve made, just like the rest of them will if I let you slip my grasp?”

“You still defend that rabble as though they are worth something,” Mercer sounded astonished. “There is not one thief among them who comes close to you or I. Besides, what do they matter to you anymore? If you were truly innocent of blood on your hands, you would have fought harder to make those fools see.”

“You took away any opportunity for me to secure a hold within the Guild, after the lies you spun!” she countered, tired and impatient with their banter. “You purposefully made sure I lost everything, starting with my mother!”

“Let’s not get carried away,” Mercer spat defensively. “Dralsi was killed by not my hand, but those of bandits. It was too late for any of us to have reached her. I have told you countless times how sorry I am that we, that you, lost her.”

“Then why were you in Falkreath? What purpose did you have, being there the same day she was killed? Did you lead the bandits there? Did you truly think you could get away with taking the-”

“The past is the past, and you can’t accuse me of anything that I didn’t do,” Mercer interrupted. “What matters is now. Either we fight until one of us dies or we both do… or I take you back to the Guild to let them judge you for themselves.”

“What’s one more, Mercer?” Karliah whispered. “You’re wading in enough blood as it is.”

Mercer’s eyes narrowed but he controlled his anger. “Do not provoke me, Karliah. I may not be a cold-blooded murder but I have the capacity to raise my blade in defense.”

“Is it because you have an audience?” Karliah tilted her head in Eonwe’s direction, where she still lay on the floor; the paralysis poison was beginning to ebb a little but she remained glued in place, her limbs unresponsive, her eyes wide and focused on the pair half hidden in the shadows. Her mind was fleeting though, fervently putting together the pieces, trying to understand what she was hearing. What she didn’t know was who was truly responsible for Gallus’ death, and that scared her. Who was Eonwe supposed to trust if it came to such a decision?

“She’s otiose. You’ve saved me a lot of trouble, finishing her off for me,” Mercer shook his head. “She was just a thief among us – one of the better ones, I have to admit.”

“Hah. Proud of your protégé, are we?” she said teasingly. “I didn’t take you as one to be so vain.”

“And I didn’t take you to be one so inefficient,” Mercer countered. “Why all this unnecessary chatter?”

“It’s you who will stand before the Guild and pay for your crimes,” Karliah said, her tone abruptly concluding. “Not I.”

“I’m afraid that isn’t going to happen!” Mercer cried. The bowstring snapped loudly and made its target in his shoulder as he moved. Eonwe saw Mercer’s hand jerk at his side and Karliah doubled over, staggering backwards as her hand moved to her side. She slid loose the dagger with a spurt of blood; she looked shocked to see herself wounded. The elf rushed in, her bow abandoned, twin spikes of ebony cutting the air between herself and Mercer and tearing leather. Metal clashed against metal, sounding hollow and shrill at once, akin to the brutal words shouted between them. Eonwe felt her eyelids blink and she unsealed her stiff lips, gasping in a full rush of air. Her fingers twitched and curled inwards. It took all of her concentration to break the binds clutching her muscles.

“Enough games, let’s end this!” Karliah’s screech echoed off the stones. Eonwe could see her and Mercer in the farthest corner, narrowly missing each other’s strikes, slick with sweat and blood – whether it was their own or one another’s, Eonwe wasn’t sure. Mercer bellowed as Karliah tricked him and drove a dagger down into his thigh; her other hand sailed in a downwards arc that halted deeply below his collarbone. She darted away, quick as a fish, and Eonwe glimpsed a white bottle in her hands tilting to her mouth. The elf vanished.

“Coward,” Mercer howled, groaning as he pulled the dagger from his thigh and tossed it aside, clattering and leaving droplets on the stone. He staggered in the general direction Karliah had run but stopped, meeting Eonwe’s eyes and realizing she was alive. His face sagged tiredly and he came to her side, easing himself onto the stone step next to her. He studied Eonwe for a long several moments, his thoughts muddled and slow, and Eonwe stared back, too afraid to blink again.

“….It’s complicated,” Mercer finally rasped, wrapping his fingers around the hilt protruding from his shoulder and wrenching it out with a half-bitten curse. His Guild armour was streaked with blood and torn from where Karliah had managed to catch him. The cheekbone was turning purple from a smart bash, and one nostril bled a little.

“I took some coin, among other things,” he winced as he worked on freeing the arrow next. “Nothing that would be missed. I turned things around quickly, learned how to use fear to my advantage with old fences. I needed enough to cross the border and return home.”

…he was just a lad…when he put his family and his wealth behind him.

“Gallus grew suspicious but on the day that I finally told him, Karliah showed up – she must have figured it out herself and followed. I heard her at the last minute and drew my dagger, and she shoved me the wrong way.” The arrow came free with a sucking sound and Mercer let it fall to the floor. “Gallus died because Karliah couldn’t help herself and didn’t stay out of business that wasn’t hers.”

The Guild Master raised his head and sighed. “The last twenty-five years have felt like an age that would never end. I always wondered if Karliah would come after me, and I could never guess when. I needed to hurry, to put the rest of my plans in order and get out of this damnable province. I almost had…” his smile was devoid of warmth. “When you walked into the Guild.”

“You’re too good a thief, Eonwe,” Mercer admitted. “Maybe as good as Karliah. I could have pulled the blinds down over the others eyes and walked out of there without so much as a single question asked. But you had to come along and ruin all of my careful preparations.”

So what happens now? Eonwe boldly pressed that question at Mercer silently. Does telling me all this justify what you’ve done? What you still haven’t done?

“When you came back from Goldenglow Estate, I was impressed. An encounter with a dragon is no easy thing,” Mercer shook his head, as though disbelieving the well-known truth behind the burning of the honey farm. “I knew there would be no easy way of ridding of you. But now there is, and what is there to stop me from covering up my tracks?”

Eonwe felt a cold hand clench her heart.

“I could tell the Guild Karliah put you down. I could brand you a liar, that you had been working with her all along, and that I had no choice but to kill you when you turned against me,” Mercer pondered his options. “I could say anything and they would believe me. They would never know…”

“No…” Eonwe’s throat convulsed painfully as she rasped her plea. Mercer looked down at his sword, balanced across his hands now, the smooth golden metal splattered with spider webs of drying red blood. Karliah’s blood.

“There’s a saying,” he murmured. “‘No mercy for the weak’. But you aren’t weak, are you? You’re stronger than any of us imagined. Even as you lay there, bleeding to death, that fire I saw the first time you walked into the cistern still burns like a star. It would be cruel to put you out and leave you to rot.”

“Please…” Eonwe begged, the word dragging in her throat. Mercer fell silent; a battle seemed to churn behind his carefully-still expression, and Eonwe feared what his decision might be. She flexed her fingers, wriggled her toes; the poison was beginning to wear off much more rapidly, but she still couldn’t find the ability to move if Mercer decided to end her life there and then. Murderer or not, her life still hung in the balance as did his hopes of running, and she was as equally a dangerous obstacle as he. Eonwe knew that if it meant living, and she was able to wield a blade in her hand, she wouldn’t hesitate. So what did that mean for Mercer?

The fog suddenly cleared from Mercer’s eyes and he looked up, his decision made. Eonwe flinched as he rose to his feet, dwarven blade in hand, staring down at her. The edge hovered close, frighteningly so. She could see the subtle pattern engraved into the metal, the solid, blocky print a language older than her civilization yet so much more advanced. Eonwe recognized that blade; it had haunted her every night in every dream from one side of the Jeralls to the other. She knew that blade and felt a fool that it hadn’t occurred to her before – why she hadn’t connected the pieces of the puzzle. Her eyes followed the blade to where the hand, clutching the hilt, was scarred across the knuckles from a single slash from a butter knife.

“Br…” Eonwe choked, unable to finish the word; Mercer had pressed the tip of the sword to her neck. She could feel the pulse point bringing the tender skin against and away from the point.

“I’ll be sure to give Brynjolf your regards,” Mercer said, emotionless. Hollow.

The pull chain released and the iron gate lifted, and limping footsteps sounded in the drafty hall; exhaustion gathered Eonwe in gentle arms and pulled her under with a gust of winter wind and silent stone.

Chapter Text

“Now, before you walk into that city, there are a few things you might want to hear.” The carriage driver turned round in his seat, reins resting in one hand in his lap, and he looked Eonwe in the face with an expression that said she needed to hear what he was about to say, and that there was no way around it. She settled back to show she wasn’t going anywhere.

The first thing that Eonwe had seen when she finally came to was the sloping brown fabric of a linen tent above her face and a few sprigs of drying herbs – frost mirriam and the like. It had been quiet albeit for the constant howl of the wind and its breaths finding the tiny holes between the patchwork. Her Guild armour had been shed and set aside and the arrow piercing over her chest cleaned and on the good side of half-healed. Eonwe had every reason to thank Karliah for the fact that she was still alive.

“You’ve lost a lot of blood,” the Dunmer had told her after she’d managed to keep her eyes open for longer than five minutes, her head bent over her work; she was always bent over her alchemy station or was tending to her few pieces of gear, patching holes or restringing her bow, or polishing the scope mounted on one side. As an archer, Eonwe had thought the bow a real masterpiece – black wood with lightweight silver plating in delicate loops and swirls, it topped Karliah’s head by nearly two feet and was slender like a twig, but more powerful than any weapon the Dunmer claimed to have owned. “It means a lot to me,” she’d said with much fondness when Eonwe prompted her to tell her where she’d gotten it. “It belonged to my mother. Gallus installed the scope after consulting with Enthir, a close friend of his.”

From Enthir in The Frozen Hearth’s basement through the vibrant green and gray mountain slopes of the Reach, it had taken a little more than a week to make it to the gates of Markarth, where Eonwe now sat in company of the carriage driver, who had chattered about all there was to see. A band of bandits, headed towards Falkreath, had stopped them in the hopes of ransacking the carriage. Eonwe had found quite a bit of worth on them, including a wooden box that turned out to be a silver mould, engraved with two names: ‘Endon’ and ‘Markarth’. Between having to seek out Calcelmo to persuade into helping translate the writing in Gallus’ journal and not getting into more trouble than necessary, Eonwe hoped to return the item to its missing owner.

Thanking the driver, Eonwe climbed down from the back of the cart and passed the stables, where a small paddock of black and white Gypsy Vanners were grazing and whickering to the surrounding crowd of hopeful buyers. A pair of hunting dogs barked on leather ropes, tied next to the paddock, receiving a pat on the head every now and then. A short balding man darted about in the crowd, a large purse tied to his belt, a large book and stick of charcoal in hand as he recorded offers and made his sales.

It was a bright, sunny day. The sky was a soft blue, broken by wisps of white cloud drifting lazily over the extraordinary face of the city of stone. The bronze doors gleamed like amber in the rays of warm sunshine, and small gatherings of people stood on the grass, rifling through baskets and bags full of purchases or items to trade. A few market stands had been placed on the bank of the stream that ran under the city wall – a potential secret entrance, Eonwe noted. She passed an Imperial woman in a green cotton dress and calf-skin shawl, busied by her two children’s antics as they begged for sweets. Eonwe’s hand was in and out of the woman’s satchel, pocketing a handful of septims before brushing further into the crowd, eyes peeled for easy grabs; everyone was so focused on buying that they hardly cared for the coin they were losing to reaching fingers.

Eonwe wasn’t the only thief in the crowd. A scrawny man with a tremendous amount of brown beard lurked near one of the stalls, clutching his ragged tunic; it was so filthy that the original colour couldn’t be determined. His frantic little eyes sought out Eonwe and he scrambled towards her, bare feet limping as he found the sharp stones amongst the soft grass. “You ‘here!” he rasped a whisper, coming up alongside her. “Ye one o’ them thieves, ‘ight?”

“Err… right,” Eonwe answered hesitantly. “Who are you?”

“Just an old beggar, down on ‘is luck,” he said sullenly. “Name’s Degaine. Any chance I could, erm, hire ye for a wee job?”

The corner of Eonwe’s mouth curled with amusement as she answered, “Depends on your price.”

Degaine lightened up, clearly pleased he was speaking with a thief who knew her ins and outs of the business. “Weel…” he scratched beneath his bushy beard. “Rumour has it ‘hat there’s a special device tucked ‘way in the wizard’s museum, but its where’bouts are beyond me knowledge. Now, if Degaine could get ye the key to the museum, could ye…”

“You want me to find you this ‘special device’?” Eonwe finished.

“Precisely!” Degaine wheezed happily. “How does a hundred gold sound? Half now, half after?”

“Make that two hundred and we have a deal,” she pressed. Degaine pouted but, nevertheless, reached into the folds of his tunic and plucked a purse of a hundred septims from a larger purse. Eonwe reached out for it but Degaine paused, baring his scraggly teeth in a toothy smile.

“Get me into Understone Keep first, then ye can ‘ave yer pay.”

~*~

Calcelmo looked down his long nose at Eonwe in disgust. “Are you hard of hearing, girl? I said no. No one is to enter my museum until I say so. Now get out of my way! I have important work to finish here!” With a swoosh of blue robe and a disgruntled huff, the Altmer wizard bent over his scrolls and books, scribbling nonsensically on a new line with his yellow-feathered quill.

Clearly, there was no changing the wizard’s mind. Eonwe returned to where she had left Degaine at the entrance of the wizard's massive, water-fed cavern and shook her head in annoyance. “Gods, he’s a stubborn elf.”

“‘hat’s al’ight,” Degaine said, much to Eonwe’s confusion, which promptly cleared as he held up a large bronze key by its chain. “I ‘ave the key, and ye ‘ave yer coin.”

“We should recruit you,” Eonwe suggested.

“Nah. I like it ‘ere in Markarth,” Degaine dismissed. “But I thank ye. Now, ‘bout ‘hat device…”

~*~

A puzzle box cut with several angular grooves, as though it was meant to open. Degaine suggested it would be in the laboratory, beyond the museum, but that’s where the trouble began. The city guard had been hired to watch the museum, but the laboratory and the tower were watched by the wizard’s guard – hired mercenaries just as tough and troublesome as the ones Aringoth had swarming all over Goldenglow Estate. To make matters worse, the laboratory was built within unstable Dwarven structures, where gas leaks and dangerous machinery lurked around every corner or chanced explosion at any given moment. Eonwe’s hands shook slightly as she waited for the posted guard to see what the commotion Degaine had purposefully caused with one of the Silver-Blood clansmen around the corner further into the keep, then she pushed the key into the lock and turned it, listening to all the little levers lift and at last unlock.

Sure enough, the city guard were patrolling, although they currently stood in a cluster beneath the towering figure of the centurion, arranged as the centerpiece amongst the hunks of this and blobs of that. Eonwe slipped past them with ease, hearing their masculine voices high pitched with childlike wonder at the looming automaton monstrosity, hammer-hand and shining blade ready to strike down.

The museum had been quiet, the clunking of machinery dulled by the noises of a working fountain and chiming balls of magelight, ringing in green planters placed about. Behind the door and into the laboratory, the first word that came to Eonwe’s mind was “alive”. Everything hissed and blew, clanked and groaned, as though the steam-powered pistons and cogs were fighting in a war invisible to the human eye. It was disorienting and admittedly scary; Eonwe had never stepped foot in such a place, despite the half-dozen or so ruins scattered across the province. The greenish light – fueled by natural gas – hurt her eyes, and the combination of stone and metal, the majority being of the latter, gave the impression that she was no longer in Skyrim. It was like another world.

She moved quickly but her head down, ducking at every movement, worrying at every strange object she passed, fearing they might come alive and hack her apart – or make enough noise to bring the supposed guards to do just that. In one room, Eonwe tested a lever that made a violent explosion, sending a pair of posted guards flying across the room. She hurried on, hair raising on the back of her neck the deeper she went.

The main laboratory had been viewable through a window in the first section Eonwe had seen; an Altmer wizard who greatly resembled Calcelmo, was busy at work with a strange tool that spat a small wick of constant flame. He was using it to fuse two pieces of dwarven metal together. The room was packed full of guards, some wandering and others standing stock still. Eonwe knew at first glance that there would be no passing through the room unseen, considering that there were no hiding spots. The pipes in the ceiling were too high, hardly enough room to crawl on knee or stomach. Eonwe was studying them fervently when she noticed something very irregular: one pipe, marked with a dab of white paint, distinguished it as a gas line. She followed the pipe backwards, across the ceiling, down the wall, to where it attached to a red valve. Approaching the valve, Eonwe could see a note tied with string to the handle, and she turned it over to read the large block writing:

UNSAFE FOR USE
COMBUSTION IMMINENT

Well, I suppose there is a way through here after all. Eonwe grasped the valve and, arms straining with the effort, wrenched it to the right with a grinding squeal.

The laboratory was bathed with streaming fire and whirling blades, ejected from the floor to spin into the path of the guards. Screams combated with the ruckus, terrible to hear, and Eonwe threw herself to the ground, hands over her ears, as one of the flame spouts angled upwards to the now-operating broken gas pipe.

The bang shook the room, cracking the solid stone wall with its force. Chandeliers crashed to the floor, one bringing down a fleeing guard. The screams had stopped but one survivor, cloaked in a blue robe, rushed up the stairs. Eonwe raised her head at the sound as he turned and spotted her on the floor, terrified eyes abruptly blazing with fury, and the Altmer wizard bellowed, “Intruder! Intruder in the laboratory! Seize her! SEIZE HER!!!”

The doors burst open and four steel-garmented guards stormed in, weapons at the ready, all eyes fixed on Eonwe. She scrambled to her feet, considered what she was about to do for the briefest of seconds, then rushed into the burning laboratory.

The large stone tables provided a path to avoid the bloody whirring blades; one churned heavily where an unfortunate body had gotten caught. Eonwe looked away, horrified at the sight. She dodged the streams of flame, keeping one eye fixed on the spout that was pointed downwards, not yet rising towards the gas leak. She needed to reach the end of the room before it lifted again and sent her to Oblivion, although the room was beyond hellish already.

In one corner, on a mounted pedestal, sat a small cube – the device! Eonwe rushed towards it, leaping over a dead guard, and slammed into the pedestal, picking up the device in a sweating palm. It hummed under her touch; whether that was her frantic heartbeat or the device itself, Eonwe wasn’t’ sure. She glanced back to see the guards pursuing her in the same manner as she had crossed the room, though the table-hopping was much more difficult with their cumbersome steel plate. Eonwe sought out the spout she had been watching. “No…” she uttered, horrified.

The second explosion sent the four guards sailing like dragons, their arms flapping uselessly as they were hurled into the walls. Eonwe herself was thrust backwards, her head connecting with luckily-flexible tin, and she strained to see through blurry eyes. Everything was on fire and the heat was extraordinary, and her disorientation doubled the effect. She could smell something burning at close range and she yelped at the scalding heat on her leg. Swatting out the patch of flame with her hand, Eonwe struggled onto hand and knee, shoving the device into her vest. She reached the door and pushed on it; the hinges groaned as they gave against her slight weight, and cool air rushed past her to be consumed by the flames. She crawled out and let the door slam behind her, and lay on the smooth stone, the sound of a spilling waterfall and a nearby nest of rock warbler chicks assuring her that she was alive and out of that deadly and otherworldly inferno.

Eonwe’s muscles protested as she sat up, drawing the device from her vest to study it. It was made of dwarven metal, no surprise, and the little grooves were a very dark blue and somewhat translucent. She held it up to the light and saw a sort of mechanism within, but it was too concealed to be seen clearly. Tucking it into her satchel with Gallus’ journal and the potions Karliah had provided, Eonwe got to her feet and slowly climbed the steps up to the wizard’s tower to finish the job, her knees complaining with the effort. She was done with Markarth and all the dwarven crap, and hoped to never see it again for a long while.

~*~

The wizard’s tower was quiet, like the museum; for Eonwe, it was as though the place were holding its breath, waiting for some catastrophe to happen. A large gray stone sat in clear view of the entrance and Eonwe went to it, her head tilted back to look at it where it sat on a higher level. The writing on it resembled that within the journal.

A set of stairs lit by the weird green light led up to a fair-sized workspace, in which the tables were covered with sheets of curling white paper. There were sketches and diagrams, schematics and calculations spread everywhere. Some were of the carvings seen in stone, others of the metal engravings and how they connected to the Dwemer language. There was one paper that detailed a research base in a place called ‘Blackreach’ and a mention of a person called ‘Sinderion’. Another sheet, also about Blackreach, spoke of a ‘Tower of Mzulft’ and an important secret hidden within. Eonwe’s eye caught a picture of a pale blue object, described to be a flat disk of translucent material, although the name of the material was only half written: “Aether-”.

A book was laid open, which featured a drawing of a large bumpy sack; the next page was of a winged insect, hideous and frightening to behold. Below was an even stranger but familiar creature, sporting mandibles and a ridged back, low to the ground and curved like a horker, but on little sharp legs. Eonwe stared at the creature, remembering it from her dream – the same dream in which Karliah had been.

How are Karliah and these creatures connected? Eonwe wondered, noting that these creatures – called ‘chaurus’ – cocooned upon death and matured into the winged ones, and were very deadly, as they spat poison and could be found in large number. Why are my dreams becoming real?

The stone bearing a translation to the Falmer text sat waiting, and Eonwe looked it over. It was huge, roughly four feet wide and three feet tall, and likely weighed three times what Eonwe did. There was no way she’d be transporting it out of the city and back to Winterhold. Writing it all down would take too long and be inaccurate, and she couldn’t translate it on the spot, so she decided to make a rubbing.

Eight sheets of paper and twice as many sticks of charcoal later, Eonwe carefully rolled the papers up and tucked them into her satchel with the journal and the device. She was down the stairs and about to leave when the door swung open, and a patrol of guards, led by the Altmer wizard, entered unexpectedly. Dammit! Eonwe rushed back up the stairs and shut the door quietly, stealing to the darkest corner beneath the enchanting table. She could hear distant voices – orders being given – and the following sound of pursuit. Fear clutched her as she hastily tried to remember how many guards there had been.

The door swung open and two guards strode in, blades ready. They both wore heavy equipment that more or less resembled the centurion statues, giant titans of bronze, their faces concealed behind helms designed to appear benevolent – which was all the more chilling and drained anything that might have seemed human about them. They searched the perimeter of the room; Eonwe felt a bubble of relief as they nodded, but it promptly burst as they began searching under every surface and waving their swords into the dark corners. One of the guards approached the enchanting table, serene metal face hiding the angry eyes behind. She held her breath and tucked backwards as the guard knelt to one knee.

“Here! She’s here!” the guard shouted, and Eonwe lunged, wedging her dagger between helm and collar. Blood spurted, staining the bronze, and she picked up the sword, darting out of her hiding place. The second guard came at her, clanking like a forgery; using his momentum against him, Eonwe let him run into the wall and took off.

Her escape was made clear to her as she looked out beyond the Falmer stone. A series of platforms lined the wall all the way down the entrance hall; all it would take was a bit of balance and all the silence and speed she could muster. She wasted no time following the stairs to the flat-topped pedestal, which she cautiously placed one foot on. It was sturdy, and she placed both feet onto it, glancing down at where the Altmer wizard stood on patrol – a one-man army. She could have dropped onto his shoulders and sunk his guard’s own blade into him, but she instead scrambled onto the metal platform and followed them to the end.

Climbing down was the most difficult part. Eonwe had clambered over the side and was extending herself down when the arrow wound in her chest decided it was too much. The pain was lancing and she cried out, her fingers loosening their hold and sending her crashing to the floor in a heap.

“She’s making a run for it!” the Altmer wizard screeched. Light pooled in his hands as he began to cast a spell – a nature of which Eonwe didn’t want to find out about. She struggled backwards, crab-like, throbbing with pain and fear so thick it was almost blinding. Her back pressed up against the door and the wizard advanced, his face a storm, lit by the purple glow sparking to life in his hands.

Suddenly, the door gave and she tumbled backwards. Pulling her feet free just in time before the purple sparks snapped out and scorched the stone, she staggered to her feet and made for the narrow gap that abruptly halted out over the falls. She could hear the wizard and the remaining guards following, shouting to one another, and she clung to the growing ivy, hoping she would be concealed where she hid. She inched out along the rock, slipping on the slickness from the spray, the smooth soles of her boots threatening to give. The footsteps stopped and she could hear a low discussion over the roar of the falls, but she didn’t know what they might be saying. She’d need to know if they were to warn the city guard, or block any exits she might use for escape. She slid back up the rock, straining to hear.

Her feet went out under her and she collapsed, the ivy tearing under her fingers. She slid, fingers useless in their search for a hold, and she went over the edge and down with the spilling streams of cold water. She screamed, last minute, then sank into a small pool, deep enough to catch her safely from her unanticipated drop. Eonwe felt rough stone near her hand and she grasped it, pulling her head above the surface with a splutter, clinging to the stone. The waterfall battered her from above but she was safe, and far enough from the guards to make a hopeful dash out of the city. The bumpy rock provided hand and footholds, and she vaulted up out of the water, grimacing at the sharp soreness in her chest.

“That’s enough excitement for today,” she muttered to herself, clambering to her feet and looking around. Eonwe was in an unknown part of the city, near a blacksmith’s shop. Her first instinct was to conceal her identity with a cloak – or perhaps new armour, considering her Guild leathers were soaked beyond repair. A quick and worried search of her satchel provided relief; the rubbing and journal were protected, if a little damp around the edges. The device was there too, siting idly, next to the candlestick mould that she needed to return to the person called ‘Endon’.

Eonwe opted for a set of plain hide and a thick, hooded cloak. She was in the middle of lacing up her boots when a Redguard man and a child, likely a daughter, came to visit the blacksmith. They were discussing silver, which Eonwe gathered was highly valuable and produced from the in-city mine and the biggest jail in all of Skyrim: Cidhna Mine.

“Have you found your mould yet, Endon?” the blacksmith was asking the man, and Eonwe looked up.

“No. I don’t expect to see it again,” he gave a great sigh. “I’d ask you to make me a new one, but there’s still a chance it could be found. Maybe if I send a letter to the Companions in Whiterun to track down their nest…”

“There’s no need for that,” Eonwe spoke up, approaching Endon with a friendly smile. She fished the mould from her satchel and handed it to him. “I ran into some bandits on the way here and was hoping to return it.”

“My goodness!” Endon exclaimed, looking it over in shock. “I… I’m astonished. How can I possibly repay you?”

At that very moment, a group of guards came rushing around the corner from Understone Keep, weapons drawn and searching, calling orders as they began to overturn the city for her. Eonwe instinctively shifted so a wooden post blocked their view of her. Endon was staring at her in mingled confusion and caution, but then he noticed her leather abandoned on the ground behind her, not to mention the deer-in-the-crosshairs look on her face.

“Give me that,” he instructed briskly, taking her satchel. “I’ll get it back to you.”

“But-”

“But nothing,” he interrupted. “I’ll always help out a thief in need.” He gave Eonwe a shove and slipped the satchel over his shoulder, placing one hand on his daughter’s shoulder and steering her away.

Eonwe remembered the stream flowing beneath the city and decided it would be her best chance at escaping. She followed the blue river running the breadth of Markarth, thankful that her hide gear blended naturally with the gray stone and made the chore of hiding every few moments from a passing search party all the easier. She could see the mining district clearly, where she stood above some sort of warrens, and there! Tucked in the river that bed the waterwheel at the forge was the mouth of the stream she had been searching for.

Climbing down to better survey it, Eonwe was immediately disheartened. Her hopeful escape route was barred by iron choked with weeds and innumerable water plants, and there was no getting through it. Cursing under her breath, Eonwe tried the bars but they held fast, refusing even in the slightest to move so much a fraction from their secure place.

“….you seen the criminal…” drifted to her ears and she looked up to where, not ten paces away, a city guardsman was speaking to a burly Orc. The Orc in question listened to the description the guardsman – a perfectly apt description of Eonwe – and the Orc was shaking his head when his eyes strayed to where Eonwe stood calf-deep in the stream. The guardsman spotted her, too, and immediately drew his sword.

“You there! By order of the Jarl-”

Eonwe didn’t stay to heed his righteousness. She vaulted up out of the stream, scraping her palms, and made a run for the main doors of the city, pushing through a crowd of mining workers returning from a late lunch. One man, red-eyed and flabby-mouthed, bawled after her something about a fist-fight when she sent him nearly sprawling to the ground. Muttering an inaudible apology, Eonwe could see the doors…. Just a few more paces…

A body bowled into her from behind, knocking her to the ground. Hands seized her, twisting her arms behind her back and snapping them in readied shackles. Eonwe was aware of the many eyes watching in fascinated appeal or terror at the scene that unfolded before them on the day they thought to visit the city or merely pick up a few prime cuts for dinner.

“As I was saying,” the guardsman huffed irritably in her ear. “By order of the Jarl, you are under arrest for trespass, destruction of property, and murder.”

One of the city guards laughed, but it was no pleasant sound. “Ha! It’s Cidhna Mine for you, kinsman.”

“You’re no kin of mine,” Eonwe growled, struggling against the shackles but to no avail. There was no getting out of this one. Beyond the shoulders of the guards and the heads of the observing citizens, Eonwe glimpsed Endon near one of the stalls, satchel in hand, eyes locked on hers. He knelt and placed the satchel behind the stall, and inconspicuously nodded in her direction.

The guards began to drag her off, back down in the direction of the mining district, and the gaping mouth of the mine seemed to grow bigger and bigger the closer she went to it. Her heart hammered in her throat and she began to writhe, driven by the simple instinct to flee, but the guards held her secure.

The entrance of Cidhna Mine rose above her, yawning terribly, and closed as it swallowed her down.

Chapter Text

The tunnel leading down into the heart of the most secure prison in all of Skyrim seemed to be endless; Eonwe hadn’t counted the minutes that ticked by at the beat of her heart, but she may as well have, if to amuse herself. The guardsmen provided no conversation, not even with each other. All there was to hear was the silence, the sound of breathing, and the crunch underfoot of gravelly dirt. There was nothing to see either, unless one counted the decayed skeleton half-buried by dust, a pickaxe just out of reach of its hand, an arrow still protruding from the back of its smooth white skull. No one escapes…

Sometime later, Eonwe was roughly thrust down onto an old wooden chair, stained with unmentionables – including ominous red splotches – and her shackles were attached to a chain extending from the floor. The city guard left and she was alone for a few minutes. She tried pulling on the shackles, even going as far as spitting on her hands to make the skin slippery against the iron, but they were tight and wouldn’t come off. Eonwe looked around at her meek surroundings; a few lanterns lit the room and the walls were stone, the floors earthen and bare. A brazier stood on one side of the chair giving off a surprising great amount of warmth, and in it, a few long iron rods. A table sat behind one shoulder when she twisted around, where nothing but a single dagger rested, polished to a gleaming shard of ice, a blade in the dark. A chill ran the length of her spine.

A gated door at the end of the room, leading into an area Eonwe couldn’t see, swung open and banged shut. An Orc woman approached Eonwe, her eyes deep set and creased with lines, and stood to survey her with her meaty hands on her hips. Eonwe wondered how many others she had looked down at like so before proceeding with… well, whatever she was about to do.

“Urzoga gra-Shugurz.” Eonwe wasn’t certain what the Orc woman had said until, bristling with impatience, she kicked the chair and demanded, “If we aren’t going to do this the nice way, then we’ll do it the hard way. Your name, pup.”

“No, w-wait,” Eonwe stammered hastily. “I just wasn’t sure what you said.”

“Never met an Orc before? That’s hard to believe,” she responded scathingly. “Not one prisoner of mine hasn’t met an Orc, but fine. I gave you my name and, customarily, when you meet someone, you give them yours.”

“Oh…um. Eonwe Jorgiis.” A hollow feeling settled into the pit of her stomach. “Sorry.”

“‘Sorry’?” Urzoga repeated incredulously. “What do you think this is? An apology isn’t going to get you anywhere, pup. You’re in here for life, and don’t think you’ll be getting any favours from me. The best you might get is that it’s me who scrapes what’s left of you off the ground a month from now.” The Orc picked the dagger up off of the table and laughed when Eonwe couldn’t stop herself from flinching as she brandished it too close for comfort.

“First, your hair has got to go,” Urzoga stated firmly. “I refuse to have lice down here.” With that being said, the Orc stepped around behind Eonwe, gathered her hair in her fist, and began hacking it off with several untidy swipes from the dagger. Eonwe yelped as Urzoga pulled near her temple, leaving the scalp tender, and she felt tears stinging her eyes. “Cry if you must,” Urzoga growled under her breath. Eonwe did.

She couldn’t bear to look behind her at the clumps of rich dark hair dusting the floor, but she reached her arms up as high as they could and ran a trembling hand over her head. Urzoga had left a few inches, enough to protect her scalp, but the sudden shortness was shocking. Eonwe fingered the roughly-chopped ends and wiped her cheeks, sniffling plaintively.

“Malacath save me,” Urzoga exclaimed. “It’s only hair!”

“It was my hair,” Eonwe responded icily. “What else are you going to take from me?”

“Your clothes and weapons,” Urzoga said, matter-of-factly. “And, however long it takes, your dignity. This place itself will see to that.”

The rest of the degrading procedure carried out over the next few minutes. Eonwe was stripped of her possessions and armour, head to toe, undergarments and all, and she was splashed several times with some very disagreeable smelling water from a bucket. She was then shackled to a post on the wall, arms over her head, bare back exposed to what she assumed was going to be a lashing for her crimes. When she looked over her shoulder, however, what was going to be done was far worse.

Urzoga lifted one of the iron rods from the brazier and twirled it in her hand. The end was curved like a horseshoe, with a symbol that resembled a pickaxe fit into the curve, and it glowed red-hot. Urzoga motioned for a guard Eonwe hadn’t seen to hold her firmly, and grasping the rod with both hands, she pressed the searing iron between Eonwe’s shoulder blades. She bit her tongue hard to keep from screaming, and tasted blood, but she couldn’t keep all of the sound in. The smell of scorched human flesh reached her nostrils.

The shackles were removed from the post and Eonwe collapsed, still whimpering, her back throbbing with a blistering pain. She looked up through slit eyes, feverish with anger, and ignored the offered hand, preferring to stand on her own. She refused to lose her dignity, and stood as straight as she could muster without pulling the skin around the brand, glare fixed on Urzoga as she brought a rough-spun tunic and a pair of trousers, ragged where the edges had been sewn together quickly.

“I’m going to take those shackles off to put this on you,” Urzoga said. “If you even think of trying to do anything stupid, it will be the last thing to do.”

Eonwe nodded, jaw set firm, tenser than forged steel.

She was handed the clothes to slip on herself, and she worked slowly, breathing deeply as she tied the drawstring of the trousers. She winced as she painstakingly pulled the tunic over her head, flinching as the fabric rubbed the brand. Urzoga waited with a patience that was truly admirable. Eonwe looked at the long tunnel leading back out to Markarth, but remembered the skeleton with the arrow in its skull, and that there was a chance the entrance to the mine might be guarded.

There was also a chance that she could make it.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Urzoga snapped, one hand raised to catch her, before Eonwe could even take a full step. “Better to serve your time, pup.”

The shackles were clapped back on. Grasping her by the arm, Urzoga led her to the gates at the far end of the room. Someone out of sight was operating levers, and the first gate opened. Urzoga pushed Eonwe ahead of her, causing her to stumble and catch her toe on an uneven floorboard, and the gate slammed shut.

“Listen here, pup,” Urzoga spoke under her breath. “The more you serve your time at the pickaxe, the sooner you’ll see yourself out of here. I don’t care if you’re bursting blisters pounding that ore – there’s a quota that has to be reached or you don’t get fed. Work and you’ll be paid for your efforts. Don’t work, and you’ll be lucky to get a pine box for whatever’s left of you. Am I clear?”

Eonwe gave Urzoga a look like daggers; she simply laughed in response, baring her protruding tusks. “I assure you, pup. That fire of yours will go out sooner than you expect. If you make it.” Her smile became a grimace and she added, without humour: “No one escapes Cidhna Mine, even after you’re out.”

~*~

Days became nights, nights became days, until days became long, dragging hours muddling with the sounds of an active mineshaft. Wooden carts wheeled back and forth, loaded with rock and ore, and the noise of pinging pickaxes rang sharply from the winding tunnels. The air was dusty and smelled bitter and foul, like clay.

An hour’s sleep was the most Eonwe could get, on the better days. She was bone-tired, dragging with exhaustion, wearier than she’d ever been as she stumbled along from point to point. Her stomach gurgled until it was quieted with a bit of bread and a sip of water. To spend too long sitting to gather ones breath meant a crack of the whip across hands, back, or face – whatever could be reached… whatever got prisoners back on their feet. The third day felt like the third week.

It was also the day a new face was flung into the prison. Everyone was watching as he stumbled down the wooden planks to pick up a pickaxe from the pile and get to work. He looked scared stiff, and he searched the faces passing by, most fixed into a permanent scowl or drooping with the last traces of energy. Eonwe met his eye over her rationed loaf of bread but looked away swiftly, paying attention to a tiny bug crawling across the ground. The new prisoner was grasped roughly and led down into some dark shaft, where the faint pinging of his pickaxe could be heard.

He was braver the next day and approached Eonwe somewhat boldly. He sat down beside her, a few feet to spare, and nibbled at his bread ration for a few moments before turning to her with an outstretched hand. “Eltrys,” he introduced plainly.

Eonwe stared at his hand for several moments. Calloused and tanned from exposure, he was a working man. The softness in his eyes suggested he was a family man, too.

“Eonwe,” she replied slowly, surprising herself at the gruffness of her voice. She hadn’t spoken since four days before. Eltrys smiled, their hands closing briefly.

“What are you in for?” he asked, having overlooked the fact that he was clearly sitting beside someone who could be a murderer or a lunatic.

“Trespassing,” Eonwe answered. “I was in the museum.”

“Couldn’t wait to see Calcelmo’s collection, I take it?” he said amusedly.

“Yeah. Something like that,” she cleared her throat. “Well… what about you, then? Why are you here?”

Eltrys at once grew serious, the line between his brow creasing deeply. “I was trying to understand why Markarth is so corrupted. All the murders, the Forsworn, everyone who is involved… nothing makes sense.”

Eonwe didn’t know much about Markarth except as much as everyone else. Notorious for being a hive of trouble since the Markarth Incident, and being built over top of an ancient Dwemer city, the city was obviously going to be brimming with problems. Surrounded by angry hordes of Forsworn, Eonwe wasn’t very surprised as Eltrys detailed his discoveries of how Forsworn agents were carrying out untimely deaths to those who got into business they shouldn’t have.

“They’re hiding something, something terrible. I know it,” Eltrys said. “And everything points here, to this mine.”

“Why?”

“Cidhna Mine is owned by the Silver-Blood Family. Most of these prisoners are Forsworn natives. Their king is down here somewhere and I thought-”

“Alright, lovebirds!” a gruff voice interrupted Eltrys mid-sentence and both he and Eonwe jumped. Urzoga was coming to them, nostrils flared in annoyance. “Chat time’s over. Get back to work.”

~*~

Eonwe was just drifting off, propped up against the wall she was meant to be chipping away at, when a finger poked her in the ribs. She jumped, spinning around with her pickaxe raised in defense. Eltrys raised his hands in surprise.

“Whoa! Easy there,” he said.

“Why are you sneaking up on me?” Eonwe accused.

“I was looking for you. I need your help,” Eltrys whispered, glancing over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being watched. “It took me longer than I wanted to slip away from my post.”

“What kind of help are you talking about?”

“Madanach,” Eltrys said excitedly. “I know where he is. You have to kill him.”

Eonwe’s jaw dropped. “I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t you see?” Eltrys snorted impatiently. “If you kill the leader of the Forsworn, then all of Markarth will be safe. We have to stop the corruption at its roots.”

“And how does that help us?”

“Sure, it’s the Silver-Bloods who are the real problem, having stuck Madanach down here in the first place all those years ago,” he continued on. “But if the Forsworn are stopped, and all this comes to light, then the Jarl might set us free for exposing the truth.”

“Eltrys, I don’t think you understand…” Eonwe advised cautiously. “You were imprisoned for trying to do something good. I wasn’t. I don’t think that killing this ‘Madanach’ will suddenly make you or me a hero to the people of Markarth. I still have my crimes under my belt and they’ll look at that first.”

“It’s still worth it to try!” Eltrys said defiantly. “I don’t want to be down here for the rest of my life, not when I can do something about it.”

“You said it was the Silver-Bloods who put Madanach down here,” Eonwe pointed out. “Couldn’t he just be replaced by someone else? We could be putting a stop to nothing.”

Eltrys suddenly smiled. “You said ‘we’.”

“Just a figure of speech,” she said dismissively, ignoring the gleam of hope in his eyes. She couldn’t risk giving in. The Guild depended on that translation, and if she served her time without too much trouble, it meant getting to them sooner and stopping Mercer from running away from justice. She hadn’t stopped to think about what shape the Guild might be in already, and a hollow feeling settled into her stomach.

“You have to help,” he pleaded. “Even if it means our deaths, at least we tried.”

Eonwe shook her head mulishly. “No,” she said firmly, ignoring Eltrys’ attempt at protest. “Let’s not and say we did.”

~*~

If she’d known Eltrys would try to go after Madanach himself, Eonwe might have agreed to help.

A week’s time was under Eonwe’s belt but no sign of leaving anytime soon presented itself. Yawning as she worked, Eonwe strained her sore muscles, pounding another chunk of rock free from the end of her tunnel. One of the prisoners, a big fellow with ice-coloured eyes, came to wheel her cart of rock away. Eonwe kept her head down, working diligently, despite the broken blisters on her hands burning worse than salt on an open wound. Every swing of the pickaxe vibrated through her, wracking her throbbing skull, and she reminded herself that she could have a nap in just another hour.

A racket echoed down the mouth of the tunnel. Assuming that two or more of the prisoners had decided to pick a fight to pass the time, she continued to work. The noise grew increasingly louder until the point that Eonwe had laid down her pickaxe and was creeping up the tunnel, interested in what was happening. Had a prisoner perhaps attempted escape – to do the unthinkable? The idea was exciting and urged her onwards.

The first thing Eonwe saw as she rounded the corner was all of the prisoners gathered in a loose circle, chanting and waving their arms aggressively. In the center were two people, gleaming with sweat and streaked with blood as they went at each other. Eonwe kept her distance, afraid to go too close to the violent, blood-hungry crowd. One of the fighters was Borkul the Beast, his skull-face war paint smudged, a purplish bruise beneath one gleaming crimson eye; the Orc lunged and punched his combatant full in the jaw, sending the smaller man reeling. Eonwe felt a chill in her stomach as she recognized Eltrys beneath all the grime and blood. His nose had been broken and one eye was swollen shut, but he struggled bravely.

Courage was not enough, and Eonwe’s hands shook with fear as Borkul pummeled Eltrys in the stomach. The Breton staggered, lost his footing, and collapsed to the ground, wheezing for breath. The prisoners shrieked and Borkul, casting his slow gaze across them as they howled for blood, whirled suddenly and kicked Eltrys with a booted foot. He keened in pain.

Snapping out of her frozen state at the sound, Eonwe rushed forward, trying to push between the jostling bodies. None relented at her touch and she panicked, trying to find another opening. The circle was packing in, gathering closer, trying to determine whether or not Eltrys was alive. The tension was thick, a living form.

Everyone reared back as Borkul suddenly bellowed. He held Eltrys up, neck in his huge hand, displaying his broken body to the prisoners. They fell silent as the Orc spoke.

“The Forsworn will always prevail!” Borkul roared, and the prisoners wailed in agreement. “Madanach, King in Rags! Accept this death as tribute!”

“Eltrys!” Eonwe cried, again trying to shove into the crowd. She thought her voice would be lost but she saw Eltrys stir, his one eye peeling open, latching onto where she was. She saw him smile, a sad smile – the smile from a man who knew he was going to die. The Thu’um burned her throat suddenly, but she reigned it in, terrified of what its unused strength might do. She was powerless here, and the knowledge of it sickened her.

Horrified, she watched as Borkul grasped Eltrys’ head in his meaty hands and with a single flick of his wrist, snapped his neck in two. Gaze blank, a night with no stars, he dropped to the ground with a lifeless thud. The prisoners exploded with wild chants, ravenous as wolves, eyes ablaze with madness.

Even if it means our deaths, at least we tried.

~*~

His body was still warm, when Eonwe reached out with fingers stiffened from resting curled on her thighs. She knelt over him, eyes cast down at her dirty fingernails, listening guardedly as the voices of prisoners echoed nearby or passed through the main chamber of the mine. Splatters of blood darkened the sand around them, a reminder of the fight so suddenly forgotten.

A day had passed. Eonwe knew it from how her stomach ached with the pangs of hunger. She hadn’t moved since she dropped down next to Eltrys; she’d closed his blank gaze tenderly, but her fingers had shook with coiled emotions bubbling into one. She separated those emotions now.

She was angry at the prisoners – the Forsworn. At Madanach and his schemes. And at herself, for not having helped Eltrys. She was a criminal, nothing more, and her actions in not helping Eltrys had proved she was nothing but a bad person. It was hard to accept and she hadn’t yet accepted it as the truth. It was hard to accept the truth – she was only human, after all, but was making excuses any way to ignore Eltrys’ death by her account? She may as well have killed him herself.

She was remorseful, for the loss of a friend – a friend she hadn’t deserved. Eonwe was ashamed and heavy with guilt. She was here to pay for her crimes, not make buddies with the first good person to cross her path. She’d taken everything away from Eltrys – his life, his family, his hopes and dreams of saving Markarth. Eonwe clutched his hand more firmly, begging for forgiveness, promising that she would somehow find a way to repay his kindness. She didn’t yet know how, but she knew she had to. He deserved it, and she owed it to him.

Eonwe uncovered the last emotion she was feeling, perhaps the strongest of them all. It rocked her to the core, bit her like a poisonous snake, latched onto her like shackles with no key to open them. There was no escaping the complete and utter fear that wrapped her in chains and bound her to the bright, burning light of the truth. She was afraid of herself, of that she hadn’t tried harder to save Eltrys from his imminent death.

But even more, she was afraid of the fact that she might be next when the Forsworn came howling for blood again.

Chapter Text

“…Eonwe?”

The gentle timbre of the elf’s voice jolted her awake. Karliah stood at her shoulder, a steaming cup of herbal tea in her hand and a concerned expression creasing the soft lines of her face. Her braided hair fell over her shoulder as she looked down at the drowsing young Dragonborn curled under the warm knitted quilt in front of the fireplace, in the small haven of The Frozen Hearth’s basement. Large crates of food and supplies were scattered about in large piles or lined the walls, and a living space occupied the corner, where a bed of soft furs and down-stuffed pillows sat next to a simple dresser and end table, both crafted from hard lumber; Eonwe had occupied that bed for many days, recovering from the meandering trip across the province, watching the days dim to night and brighten to dawn again and again as her withered shell dipped in and out of sleep. The mines had taken their toll, and escaping the jaws of that horrid beast was best left unremembered; she could still hear the nearly-silent legs of the spiders chasing after her through the twisting tunnels leading to the surface – a surface she thought she would never reach lest she stopped or looked back.

“Are you alright?” Karliah asked gently, holding out the cup; the steeped herbs smelled strongly of minty frost mirriam leaves and the tartness of dried snowberry preserves. The liquid was so deeply red from the saturated berries that it was nearly opaque. The tea looked like watery blood.

Eonwe wondered how she was supposed to answer the elf. She reached out and took the cup silently, biting her lip as the heat of the liquid scorched the frostbitten nerves of her fingers, and contemplated an answer that bore something of the truth. She may have been watching the flames but her eyes were elsewhere, turned inwards to the sound of scraping rock and crunching gravel. As her mind’s eye wandered backwards, she could taste dust in her mouth and smell the putrid mustiness of underground, buried alive and left to slowly rot away. The ping of metal on stone throbbed deep in her ears still, a piercing sound in even silence. Urzoga gra-Shugurz had been right: No one escapes Cidhna Mine, even after you’re out.

Eonwe smiled. “As alright as I’ll ever be,” she said reassuringly, glad her voice didn’t betray her. Karliah looked doubtful but nodded nevertheless, and pulled up a stool to sit next to the Dragonborn.

“Listen, Enthir finished translating the journal today,” the elf began; there was a hint of excitement in her voice. “We’ll start for Riften tomorrow. Make sure you get a good night’s sleep tonight; we’ll surely have to make camp in all sorts of conditions, if we don’t reach a tavern. I’d actually prefer it if we kept a low profile-” She broke off when Eonwe shook her head. “Mercer must pay for what he’s done – to you, to all of us. The Guild is depending on us.”

“But-”

“Even if Gallus’ death was not necessarily by his hand alone, all of those years of lies and deception must be answered for. Mercer owes the Guild the truth, Eonwe,” Karliah added firmly. “I will not see it any other way.”

“But he may not even be in Skyrim anymore,” Eonwe argued. “I was in that place for so long. He’s got to have left by now, Karliah. Him, avenging Gallus, restoring the Guild… none of that is going to happen. Don’t you realize that?”

“If you want to believe there is no hope…” Karliah hesitated then shook her head. “Look, I know you don’t have a lot of faith in our mission but we have to try. I… we owe it to Gallus to try. Would… would Brynjolf want you to give up?”

Eonwe jerked as though Karliah had slapped her; scalding tea spilled over her fingers and onto her lap but she didn’t feel it. A pressing sense of guilt swelled in her stomach, bloating mushroom-like, and she broke eye contact with the elf as shame washed over her. No, she thought sadly. No, of course not. Eonwe blearily wondered where her courage had gone to, and felt tears sting in her nose, and her mouth trembled as she reined in her emotions; they had become so delicate and she found herself crying or frustrated at the simplest of thoughts. She was a shell of the woman she used to be; in fact, she felt like the troubled and terrified young girl who’d started this journey so long ago. A rush of anger swelled inside her and she lifted her head, seeing Karliah smile. “No, I won’t give up.”

“I knew you’d say that,” Karliah murmured. “We won’t know anything until we get to Riften; we need to be prepared for any situation. Oh, I doubt this is the right time, but I wanted to give you this.”

Karliah returned with a carefully wrapped package. It was the size and length of a sword; Eonwe set her tea aside and untucked the burlap, and gasped in admiration at the beautiful blade in her lap. The steel was nearly blue, polished to a pure silver at the tip. The hilt was wrapped with soft black leather, molded from the grip of another hand; in the center of the cross guard was a bird cupping the moon between upraised wings. A cold power emanated from the blade. “Oh, how beautiful…” Eonwe whispered appreciatively.

“This belonged to Gallus,” Karliah said. “I would like you to have it. I’ve protected it since… well, I believe it’s time it had a new owner to avenge its last. What do you say?”

“I…” Eonwe realized the sword meant so much more than a simple gift with Karliah’s words. The weight of the obligation brought with the weapon was heavy, almost as heavy as her duty as Dragonborn, but she shouldered that thought away and nodded bravely. “I’ll try to put it to good use. Thank you.”

“Eonwe…” Karliah hesitated and reached out, gently taking the Dragonborn’s hand in hers and applying the lightest squeeze of pressure. “You need to know… if the Guild doesn’t listen to us and all of this has been for nothing, and they are as bloodthirsty as I fear, then…” her eyes glowed amethyst and an ominous feeling of dead filled the void of Eonwe’s stomach. “You might have to.”

<> 

A cool rain began to fall deep into the heart of the Rift.

There was a sort of serene unfamiliarity that wedged itself deep within Eonwe as she and Karliah rode by horseback through the autumn forest, warm with hues of rich amber and vibrant orange. Deer were scattered amongst the ash forest, the white blobs of their tails bouncing as the two bay steeds kept an even pace along the old cobblestone road.

A sense of penetrating sadness continuously broke through Eonwe’s content; she was unsettled beyond words and her distress only grew more apparent as they drew closer to their destination. At the beginnings of their journey she had busied her mind by counting the stars or warding off hungry animals lurking behind snowdrifts. As the snows became lesser and the humid embrace of the hot springs sweltered them to the skin, Eonwe began remembering minor remembrances that left her shaken with grief and worry; for instance, when they passed the giant’s camp in Eastmarch and saw a dragon spiralling the peak of Bonestrewn Crest, Eonwe recalled when she and Brynjolf had passed through the area at a time when they could have been no more further apart, on their way to deal with the Summerset Shadows. A lump filled her throat and she looked away from the dragon soaring in its desolation. The blade at her side felt impossibly heavy as its old sheathe scratched her thigh.

Following the forest road up to the city, Eonwe could see bandits camped around the walls of the fort, too busy to bother with the wandering rogue and robed accomplice skirting the exterior walls. Eonwe could feel trickles of sweat dribbling down her back under the hooded black robe but she didn’t fuss; the soft rumble of thunder was on the nearing horizon, the promise of rain ever approaching.

Rain crashed down in droplets the size of pebbles, exploding into smaller beads that flew in spiralling circles as they submerged into the puddles dotting the muddy road, some connecting into larger pools that rippled like small ponds. The horses plodded through these without question, splashing mud onto the hem of the robe and soaking the steed’s underbelly. Lifting her head at Karliah’s voice, Eonwe saw the Three Sentinels through the sheeting rain and felt a sickening wave of déjà vu; it had not been so long ago that she had come up this road in weather much the same, in search of the very same man.

Her hands tightened on the reins and she steered her horse after Karliah’s to the stables, wordlessly leaving them to the care of the stable master and squelching up the path to the main gates. The guards posted there eyed them cautiously but opened the gates without any problems; Eonwe kept her head hidden within the hood and obediently followed Karliah’s lead. Once through, she glanced up, and her breath caught in her throat – just like in the stories.

Riften stretched out before her, mystical in its weathered beauty. The torch lamps glowed golden in the misty rain, shimmering with an ethereal quality that felt immensely magical. The smell of damp wood and the surrounding lake flooded her nose, smells that were reminiscent and invigorating. Karliah didn’t seem to pay much mind as they climbed down the creaky old stairs to the lower level of the city, where the water sloshed onto the rotted timber and left everything hazardously slick. A sense of isolation seeped into her skin with the cold flush of the rain, and everything seemed incredibly illusory and yet so hyper realistic. It was hard to believe – and very hard to accept – that she was actually standing in Riften and not trapped in the mines anymore. Eonwe was almost frightened that the reality around her would vanish as simply as a candle blown out; if that were the case, she clung to the few moments she had of this wonderful dream and believed in it with all of her heart.

“Here we are.” Karliah stopped outside of the gate and rested her hand on the handle, then glanced Eonwe’s way. She looked troubled. “Are you prepared to face whatever is waiting for us?”

“They don’t know we’re here-” Eonwe began but Karliah cut her off with a laugh.

“Don’t underestimate the Guild when they’ve been provoked. I’m sure someone saw us enter. Mercer will have the entire city under watch. No one will come through those gates without being accounted for.”

The rain pounded the boards above their hearts, a unison of several thudding heartbeats. Eonwe twisted her hands together and looked past Karliah into the gloom, a tremor of ill-boding stiffening her spine.

“What do we do if he’s in there?”

“Well…” Karliah reached into the inner layer of her jacket and drew forth the leather journal. “We show the Guild this and hope for the best.”

“What if they don’t believe us?” Eonwe whispered; she didn’t necessarily want an answer, but Karliah didn’t offer one. Stepping through the gate without another word, they descended into the Ratways.

<> 

The memories seemed to come alive the further they traversed the dripping tunnels of the underground city, inhospitable and unappreciated by those who had never tasted subjugation. It was the home of a thief or a beggar; it may have reeked of mildew and stank of mold, and it may have been darker than the inside of a witch’s empty cauldron and three times as perilous, but to many it was a place of seclusion and safety.

As much as Eonwe had dreamed of returning to Riften, she felt an odd sense of foreboding; she was trespassing in a world she no longer belonged, and the realization hurt. Karliah moved with a sureness that made her skin itch with envy; the Dunmer belonged here, despite being separated from it for more than twenty-five years.

Eonwe didn’t know where she belonged.

It was all too soon that the door to The Ragged Flagon loomed ahead. They stared at it in mingled expectancy and dread, but they had no choice but to enter. Bloodshed and death waited on the other side; or perhaps reason and hope. Eonwe swallowed and reached for the handle, her entire body trembling, and the soft click rang through the darkness as they stepped into the enormous heart of the underworld.

The bar was vacant. They moved quickly past the tables and Karliah produced a rusted key from her pocket to open the secret cabinet that hid the passage into the cistern, the headquarters of the Thieves Guild, where everyone surely waited. Eonwe followed her though, the sound of her footsteps echoing around them, and a desperate urge to run began to build deep in her gut.

The hallway was short, shorter than she remembered; somehow, she thought it was longer. Eonwe tried to forget the first time Brynjolf had kissed her, mere inches from where she stood, and a burning sensation filled her nose as frustrated tears fought to be free. She wiped her eyes hastily and turned to Karliah. The Dunmer looked as afraid as she felt, but they nodded and walked forward; they couldn’t delay the inevitable, not when they had come this far.

Breathing shallowly to soothe her wracked nerves, Eonwe cast aside her trepidation and entered the cistern.

Chapter Text

Brynjolf regarded the two approaching strangers with a hostile gleam in his eye. Every instinct was doused in a potent concoction of blinding red rage, but he reined in his boiling temper to a manageable simmer as Karliah and her hooded accomplice walked to the center of the cistern to meet him. Rune and Etienne took up position behind her, preventing escape lest she choose to run. Karliah drew back her hood and glared up at Brynjolf with a bold stare; she was small and slender, lithe and graceful, wearing her old leathers and a frown he could judge as neither hostile or cordial, but somewhere in the middle. A master of reading faces, he was slightly repulsed by the fact that he couldn’t read the elf, and he shifted his eyes to the robed person beside her.

Small and slight in stature, their face was concealed by a billowing hood; they stood with an awkwardness that favoured one side, as though they had suffered injury. Brynjolf glared at the accomplice for several moments, his eyes trailing over them for some clue to clarify their nature, when he saw the familiar hilt of an old blade at their hip. Bitterness rose in him and overflowed.

“Plucking trophies off your dead marks? Just what I’d expect from the likes of you,” he scorned venomously. “Why are you here, Karliah?”

“To right the wrongs,” she answered boldly, reaching into her jacket and producing a leather-bound book. She held it out, her face a challenge. “I translated Gallus’ journal. You have all been mislead for years.”

Brynjolf narrowed his eyes, looking between Karliah and the hooded assistant lingering at her side. Rather than taking the journal – believing it was a fabrication created by the elf’s hands – he instead crossed his arms in stubborn disapproval. “More tricks? I’d have thought you’d run out of them by now.”

“And here I’d hoped you would be more genial,” Karliah said, a sarcastic edge to her voice. “If you won’t listen to diplomacy, then will you be open to bribery?”

Brynjolf snorted. “I’m not open to anything, lass. Your options are limited and my patience is running thin.”

Karliah folded her arms, sighing in apparent intolerance. “By Nocturnal, if only Mercer had been here to stumble over his own words into a trap. It would have been much easier to face the enemy head on than to deal with… what, his lackey? So what is it you do around here, Brynjolf? You are Brynjolf, right?”

“Aye,” he answered coldly, hardly keeping from grinding his teeth.

“Hmm, I’ve heard you prefer to be called ‘Bryn’ by your friends – by those who are important to you…” she trailed off and wound her finger around a strand of hair by her ear. “I have to regret what happened to your protégé. I can only guess the two of you were close, by the way she cried for you as she bled to death in that crypt.” She made a disappointed tsk with her tongue, watching Brynjolf with half-concealed expectancy; if the elf wanted to press his buttons, she was doing a fine job. It took all of his control to keep from wringing her neck and ending the torment she was striving to create.

“Ah, the mask falls away and the true face beneath is revealed,” Karliah intoned with a smirk. “You’re a coward – oh, don’t bother trying to contend with me over something not even you can admit to. We’ll never get anywhere if I have to convince you of another truth.

“Here you are, unwilling to look at two very different sides of a history you’ve had crammed down your throat,” she continued. “And the one told by word-of-mouth is the version of history you choose to accept as truth – regardless of fact.” She waved the journal as a point. “Are you that reliant on a leader? Have you no independent thought?”

Brynjolf was bristling with annoyance and, more so, confliction. He daren’t open his mouth, because he was well aware that Karliah wanted him to stumble into her trap of weaving her magic and having him believe a lie.

Karliah seemed to read something on his face and she relaxed; or, more correctly, she settled into the security of the knowledge that she had gained a fair amount in her side of the argument. “Look,” she said, holding out her hands in a submissive gesture. “I know that the Guild doesn’t see me in a positive light…”

“Damn right!” Vex hissed somewhere along the outer ring. A few voices echoed her indictment.

“…but think about it, Brynjolf. I have several times more experience than you will ever have as a thief. I am a master markswoman; an agent of silence and shadow. If I’d wanted to truly attack the Guild, I could have done a lot, I assure you,” she smiled. “But what more have I done than cause a little trouble for you all? A little lost coinage here, a little friction between contact there… I’ve hardly done anything in harming your reputation.”

Brynjolf laughed suddenly, so suddenly that even Karliah faltered. “Do you expect me to believe this rubbish?” he jeered. “You’re no innocent little flower, lass. You’ve taken away more than even your life will ever repay. There is nothing I need to think about.”

“Oh? Again, I think you’re wrong,” she corrected frostily. “There’s twenty-five years worth of discussion to make sense of. The only side of it you’ve heard – and chosen to apparently believe – was Mercer’s.”

“And that is all I need to hear,” he flared with building ire. “You murdered Gallus and… end of story.”

“Has the damage gone too deeply? Are you so blind that you’re willing to follow your leaders and without question? Is your judgement so pulverized by your pride, your lack of insight?” she exclaimed. “It is long due past time to change your train of belief. Perhaps I should tell you a scenario of how your Guild Master is the liar in this situation; perhaps I should enlighten you of how his hands are soaked with the blood he swore to defend and protect!” she stepped forward, spine straight with fury. “I’ve lived for just short of three decades with the Guild at my throat, my name slandered from corner of corner of the map, and Gallus’ death hanging over my head. I think you owe me the decency of listening!” she ended with a cry that rang in the tense silence. Her accomplice edged forward toward her but she held out her hand, preventing them from offering comfort. Brynjolf hadn’t so much as blinked throughout her tirade and he sighed tiredly.

“And what is the point of all your screeching and posturing?”

“We are two very different people, Brynjolf. I can tell a coward from the moment I lay eyes on him,” she said after a long moment. “I was there when I shot the arrow into her heart.”

Without warning, the blood drained from his face. No, no! He wouldn’t hear it! He couldn’t!

“I watched from the shadows as she cried for you – did Mercer tell you of how she begged for release from suffering? I’d never seen anything so… endearing and precious, not in all my years.”

Brynjolf stared, hollow with blunt grief, paralyzed by terror. This – this – was how Karliah would undo him, but the words to stop her refused to come as the aching need to know her – her – final moments were shared with his ringing ears.

“It was just as I expected that he didn’t bother to put her out of her misery,” Karliah finished softly.

It was at this that Brynjolf faltered, his face paling as two links in the chain didn’t match up. He recalled what Mercer had said, when he’d returned alone from the ancient barrow, battered and exhausted from the frigid trek on foot.

“Karliah shot her with an arrow…”

“…wound had to have been fatal…”

“...made the decision to ease her suffering...”

“Did you even look for her remains?” Karliah inquired.

“There… nothing was there,” he admitted, remembering the long voyage through the knee-deep snows to the desolate barrow, where his hope had been extinguished upon discovery. There hadn’t been a trace of her, save for a pool of congealed blood, as cold and still as the grave itself.

“So you presumed her dead?” Karliah asked a hint of incredulity entering her tone. “You gave up searching for the woman you supposedly cared for? Did you not think of asking your contacts if they’d seen her travelling somewhere?”

“Enough,” Brynjolf rasped; his head was beginning to pound.

“Think about it, Bryn. What if she was alive? What if she could have been saved? What if she were out there, struggling to come home to you, but died lost and alone because you didn’t bother to try. Think about it!”

“Stop it,” he hissed through clenched teeth. The robed accomplice wavered slightly, as though suddenly dizzy, but he heeded little notice outside of his own woes.

“Coward!” Karliah accused. “What is eight months to twenty-five years? You’ve suffered but a fraction of what I’ve had to endure! Tell the truth, Brynjolf: Would she have abandoned you so easily as you abandoned her? By Nocturnal, did you even love Eonwe?”

A bolt of sheer agony severed his heart and he drew his dagger, lunging forward with a furious roar. Karliah darted back, her hand flashing towards her own dagger, but her accomplice was faster, blue-black blade sliding from its sheathe and rising to meet the dagger’s fall.

His weight disregarded the bar of steel and they dropped, thudding hard on the slick floor. Brynjolf wrenched the sword from their hand and flung it away, and pressed the dagger to the exposed pale skin of the throat, lightly marked with a spray of sand-coloured freckles – a lass’ neck. A gasp escaped her at the prick of steel.

Rebellion burned brighter than dragon fire and the desperate quest for blood poisoned his heart black. Reaching up, he grasped the hood and yanked it back, to see into the eyes of his enemy as they died. Suddenly his hand went limp and the dagger clattered to the floor; waves crashed in his ears and he found he couldn’t breathe anymore. Reality shifted and everything he knew – everything he’d been forced to believe – all fell away as he looked into the most beautiful green eyes he thought he would never see again.

<> 

Eonwe was so close to him that she saw his pupils dilate.

The reek of masculine sweat and ale washed over her; her senses were so saturated that every gulp of air felt thin and sparse, and her sides began to ache. It wasn’t until he was pulling her up into his arms that she realized she was hyperventilating from inert shock; she melted into the enclosure of his arms unquestioningly, some deep need within her sated by his hold. The tears that had threatened her pooled and overflowed, spilling down her cheeks, and it was through her helpless sobs that she heard his muffled voice saying, “…is it you, lass? Is it really you?”

“I never thought I would see you again,” she whispered, reaching up to touch his face. His stubble spiked against her fingers but the skin underneath was warm and rough – solid and real. This is reality, this has to be, she thought desperately. “All this time…”

“Where were you?” Brynjolf demanded, voice gone hoarse with emotion, cupping her face between his palms. Her hair was woefully short, hacked nearly to the scalp and spiked in every direction; he only now realized how emaciated and gaunt she looked; he could see the bones of her face under the skin. Her eyes stared out from shadowed hollows and she seemed paler, more fragile. Brynjolf feared that if he held her too tightly she might shatter, yet all he wanted to do was wrap himself around her and never release her lest she fade away.

Eonwe answered so softly that Brynjolf had to ask her to repeat it. She looked incredibly stricken but she forced the words from between toughened, cracked lips, “…in Cidhna Mine.”

It had been an ordinary day, just like all others before; no rest, no food, and only a few dribbles of filthy water that she was certain the guards used for washing in; alas, she never complained for the sake of having water, regardless of how revolting it might be. Eonwe had been working in her tunnel, some few feet longer than when she’d started it eight months ago when it was no more than a nook big enough to curl inside, when the pinging in the next tunnel over ended with an abrupt explosion of tectonic shuddering. Eonwe had ducked and covered her head, fearing a cave-in, but nothing more than a few grains of sand loosened and trickled down the back of her collar.

The sounds that had followed were terrifying; paralyzed with fear as the sounds of startled screams and metal on stone reached her ears, Eonwe waited in her tunnel with a sense of building dread, pickaxe raised as her only tool of defense. When nothing came and the sounds began to quiet, she crept up her tunnel and stopped as she surveyed the battered bodies strewn across the floor of the mine. And there, in the entrance to the mine shaft where the explosion had occurred, sat a bronze ball of clinking, innocently puffing occasional spouts of steam; she wasn’t fooled and, to prove her gut instinct, she had flung the pickaxe across the large chamber. It had struck the wall, and the ball unfolded at once, rushing to investigate the noise.

Eonwe had raced down the tunnel, tripping over bodies and mutilated flesh, hoping that her choice wasn’t for nothing. She breathed a prayer as she reached the end, blown wide open; the faintest smell of natural gas reached her nose and she, as she crawled through the barbaric excuse of an exit, presumed that a spark must have caused the blast. She had rushed through the passages, almost flat-out sprinting at one point, but she had forced herself to move carefully when the drooling mandibles of spiders glinted in the shadows, or the clicking of the Dwarven Spheres warned her they were nearby. Her heart had been in her throat the entire time, hammering with the force of a dragon’s beating wings.

When she had fallen, she crawled; when she regained her feet, she ran. Stubbing her toes and cracking her fingernails, she struggled with a primitive need to flee regardless of pain or suffering, until she reached the enormous bronze doors that marked her escape. Out into the night she had stumbled, the cool autumn air kissing her cheeks and welcoming her soul back among the living; carefully darting from shadow to shadow, she’d plunged into the shallow pool behind the blacksmith’s forge and waded below the creaky walkways, keeping low and out of the sights of the crowding citizens who’d gathered at the excitement of the mine explosion. At last minute, she had remembered to retrieve the satchel bearing the translated journal and had squeezed through the rusted iron bars caught with algae and hanging moss, leading out below the city wall and to the river – to freedom.

All of this gritty resilience and sheer human will was reflected in her face as Brynjolf looked into her eyes and saw a world of pain he would never know. He could see shame and loneliness, and he longed to wipe it away, desiring for a world where no suffering had to exist. He raised his head suddenly, looking past her at where Karliah lingered, violet eyes soft with some unreadable expression.

“The arrow was tipped with a paralysis poison I specially crafted, in the intention of catching Mercer. It lowered her heart rate and kept her from bleeding out,” Karliah explained. “He deserves judgement for his betrayal. This journal will fill you in on the details of his actions before he took leadership.” The journal cover slapped the floor next to Brynjolf’s thigh, but he could hardly move; he was in no state to release Eonwe, nor did he have the energy left to consider anything more than the reshaping reality around him.

“Bryn,” Eonwe murmured and his soul shuddered to hear her speak his name; it was a balm, soothing the corners of his spirit that he never thought would feel lightness again. He looked at her and stroked a hand over the light brush of unkempt hair shielding her scalp, a question in his eyes, for words refused to present themselves. Her face was grim, a stark pragmatism against the rosy pallor of the present he swayed mindlessly in, and a weight seemed to drop again onto his shoulders.

“Aye, lass?” he asked finally.

Eonwe wore no smile as she issued the command: “We need to find Mercer. I need you,” she glanced back at Karliah. “We need you.”

Chapter Text

The campfire crackled merrily as Eonwe fed it more twigs, the dried wood catching flame almost immediately and blazing to life with newfound rigor. The warm golden glow was comforting; she pulled the thick black fur cloak around her shoulders tighter and huddled inward, seeking any measure of heat in the freezing climates of eastern Eastmarch.

Rather than staying in a tavern, Karliah had insisted on camping out some miles from Irkngthand. The ruins of Raldbthar arced imposingly against the midnight sky, void of stars, an empty sea in the air. Eonwe stared at it, even if it made her feel small; she’d missed the open sky during her time underground and wanted it to last as long as possible before she descended again.

Brynjolf joined her, his breath billowing in the dark as he sagged to the ground beside her, wrapped in his own thick cloak. “Skyrim’s a cold place, lass,” he muttered, a hint of humour lightening his complaint. “But this is bloody freezing.”

“You told me you could trust Karliah. What about now?” Eonwe watched him from the corner of his eye. He grinned and pressed into her, and she let him wrap an arm around her shoulders, burrowing into his side. If his hair wasn’t fiery enough, he vented heat like a forge. She was almost surprised the snow wasn’t melting.

“Aye, I know what I said but…” he looked around grimly. “In these conditions, I’m starting to doubt my rationale. I was distracted, is all,” he added, and suddenly blushed deeply. Eonwe stared at him.

“Why ever for?”

“Err… well,” he instinctively began to rub the back of his neck, but remembered he was wearing a hood and stopped the motion midway. Then he quickly said, “Have you seen this armour? It fits like a glove.”

Eonwe cleared her throat impatiently, sitting upright to get a better look at his face, and he flushed a deeper shade of red. His eyes were twinkling with mischievous humour and, if she was right, a dash of embarrassed reluctance.

“And… uh… the armour sure looks swell on – well, lasses.” He let out his breath in a rush and looked away. Eonwe was still staring, but a creeping sensation of confusion, followed by anger, built like a small campfire in her stomach.

“You were looking at Karliah instead of listening to her?” she accused sharply. Brynjolf swung around, eyes wide open with shock.

“Eh? No, no. I-” he coughed and began to laugh, tears in the corners of his eyes. “Lass, I don’t have eyes for Karliah. I was looking at you.”

Eonwe felt a hot stain spread across her cheeks and she watched Brynjolf’s eyes on her face. She felt as though she had walked into a tavern wearing not even a stitch on her skin, and she dropped her head in humiliation. Gods, what had she been thinking?

“But I’m…” She had begun to picture herself, but remembered how gaunt and ugly she had become after being neglected and malnourished for months on end. A mirror picture of her stared back at herself in her mind’s eye, ridged-cheeked and sunk-eyed. Humiliation became mortification, then disbelief, then finally doubt and insecurity. “I look like a draugr,” she finally said, barely above a whisper.

“No, lass. You look dead,” he sounded troubled. “And to me, for nearly the past year, you were.”

“Be honest,” Eonwe pleaded suddenly. “If I were still gone, if I had never come back… if I really were dead, what would you have done?”

Brynjolf pushed his hood back and ran a hand through his hair, a sudden thoughtfulness deepening his gaze. “Honesty is hard to come by, when you’re a thief,” he whispered after a time. Eonwe knew that he didn’t want to tell her the truth, but she was tired of all the inconspicuous little lies and secrets. A great desire to come clean nearly rocked her.

“Bryn,” she began softly. “We’re never going to get anywhere if we can’t be honest. You’re afraid to confront the truth. I’ve been afraid to face it for a long time, but we can’t hide forever. It’ll drive us to madness. But we can’t go our lives listening to only what we want to hear and ignoring all the rest. We wouldn’t be very good people if we did that.”

He unexpectedly bristled next to her. “What do you want from me, lass? I’m a thief, a rogue. I live in a sewer and I make a living stealing people’s belongings. I’m no hero – I’m not like the Dragonborn, someone to look up to and be proud of.”

Eonwe tensed as she was confronted with sheer terror. A gaping maw stretched before her, serrated teeth glistening, fire spouting from the endless throat. “I-I’m sure the Dragonborn has her – I mean, has their days, too,” she stammered. Honesty, her inner voice taunted. You’re going to have to be honest if you want the same from him. You earn nothing unless you give a little.

But I’m afraid, another voice fretted. It’s all too new between us. The bond we began to build crumbled and now we have to build it again. I won’t throw something like that into the middle of it. I can’t… I’m not ready!

“I just want you to realize things are different now,” Eonwe managed to say, twisting the edge of her cloak between her hands. “We can’t pretend it’s the same between us. Eight months will have changed us, and how we think of each other. I don’t even know if you can trust me anymore,” she added dully. She eyed Brynjolf nervously.

“Trust is hard to come by,” Brynjolf said; he might have been agreeing but if anything, it sounded far from agreement. It was the way he said it, with a stiffness that was vaguely familiar to when they’d first become acquainted, that made Eonwe suddenly angry. Was he accusing her of being untrustworthy?

“I beg your pardon?”

“Aye, I don’t hand out trust to people very often,” he elucidated.

“And what do I have to prove? I’m not the one who sat around in the Guild coming to conclusions about the person they supposedly cared about!” she accused viciously. Brynjolf went rigid and his green eyes blazed with a pale jade light.

“I dare you to say that again, lass,” he growled, his accent deepening enormously. She sat up and twisted around to face him head-on, the fire in her belly igniting to a fury she had struggled to smother; now, it seemed, it was time to come to terms with how she really felt.

“I dreamed of the cistern every night while I was in that mine. Sometimes I thought I was really there,” she began, teeth chattering not with cold but untempered rage. “I would wake up and find myself lying in the dust, surrounded by Forsworn and criminals far worse than you and me. I was terrified and hoped that eventually, I would get out. I wanted to see the sky; I wanted to feel the road under my feet. Dammit, I wanted you!” she cried, her eyes blurring rapidly as they filled with tears. “I waited every day for you to be there, to take me by the hand and drag me out of there. I thought you would have tried. It might have been some crazy illusion but I needed…” she broke off and wiped her eyes quickly; her hands were shaking – but again, not with cold.

“You believed Mercer instead of following your own judgement. He lied to you and you believed it. And Karliah – Karliah tried to give you the journal and make you understand but you were so stubborn! I was so happy to see you again but I was so afraid,” she confided unsteadily. “I could see only vengeance in your face and I knew what Mercer had done, but I hated you for it. You were so quick to assume – to believe – a truth that wasn’t even real and you betrayed me!” her voice rose nearly to a scream. “Bryn, you betrayed me and let me down! How could I trust you? How could I love you after that?”

Brynjolf lurched forward and seized her by the shoulders, her teeth clenched together so tightly they grinded and made his jaw ache. “I looked for you!” he shouted, inches from her face. She recoiled but couldn’t get far; he refused to release her. “I thought you were dead, Eonwe. Dead! It was torture! I didn’t know where you were and I didn’t have any way of finding you. And to think this was all because of Mercer and his lies and-” he broke off, halting for breath. Eonwe tried to ignore the bruising pressure on her shoulders, but she must have winced because a white pallor fleeted across his face. His hands loosened and lightly rubbed where he had pressed.

“I’ve hurt you, over and over, right from the beginning. And now that I know I didn’t try harder to protect you and make up for it, that I couldn’t save you from something I should have seen…” he delicately touched her jaw, the thumb swiping her cheek lightly. “I remember the first time I ever saw your face. You came down from upstairs with Keerava and I was there, at the corner waiting. I didn’t know who you were – I thought you were a threat. And when I came around that corner and saw you there, right there, dragon fire couldn’t have made my heart burn brighter. I saw those green eyes,” his finger swept beneath an eye, releasing a tear from the lashes, “and I saw a glimpse of your soul, in that moment.” His fingertip caressed her lower lip and she immediately parted them, her breath catching slightly. A smile crooked the corner of his mouth to see it.

“Aye, I thought you were something different. All the lads say that but you are different, in a way that scares me so much that I can’t help myself but want to be close to you,” his voice deepened audibly and he bent inward slightly, his lips brushing hers with the faintest touch. Eonwe inhaled, beginning to soften in his hands, molding like clay to his hold. Her eyelids fluttered shut and she waited in anticipation, but there was a crunch of snow and she opened her eyes. He’d sat back and let go of her, and she saw an immense sadness darken his eyes.

“But a dragon can’t be caged,” he finished sadly, the faint smile disappearing before it had even begun. Eonwe hated to see it go; it had been replaced by something that made her stomach clench into a painful knot.

“There was this… dream. I was in the graveyard and you were there with me. The sun came out and fixed its eye on you, holding you in a beam so bright that I was nearly blinded. You were so glorious; the light pooled in your eyes and your skin seemed to shine like it were lit from within. And you burned. The sun burned you to ash and when the clouds came in, the rain scattered you all through the flowers and I couldn’t put you back to together,” his shoulder shook with the force of his uncontrolled sobs. “I knew then that you were gone and never coming back, and every bit of hope I had died. I’m no religious man but I knew the Divines must have sent me that dream.”

“Why?’ Eonwe gently brushed back some of his hair so she could see his face. His cheeks were silver with running tears. “Why would you believe that?”

“I prayed for the first time in my life, on that night,” he choked. “I begged them to show me a sign, any sign. I couldn’t take it anymore. And… and that dream…” he broke off and let out a wrenched sound so horrible that Eonwe thought a hand had twisted her heart. She reached out and pulled him into her arms, and he turned to her, his soft cries muffled against her breast.

Eonwe looked up at the sky, where a single star shone hopefully, and she closed her eyes to its distant light. It was all she could do to hold onto Brynjolf and not let him fall apart, and she was willing to do just that.

The Divines could stuff it, for all she cared.

<> 

Eonwe woke at first light and sat up, stretching and releasing an enormous yawn. Brynjolf grumbled beside her and rolled onto his back, squinting at the sunlight brightening the tent wall. “Morning already?” he mumbled. “I almost had that sweetroll…”

Eonwe laughed at the absurdity of it, and he actually cracked a smile. The sight of it banished the memory of the previous night. She awkwardly walked over on her knees and leaned up, kissing the scar on his cheek. The stubble prickled her lips pleasantly and she felt his smile broaden.

They pulled on their armour piece by piece, peering outside at where Karliah was turning a pair of rabbits on a stick over a fresh fire. “Seems we have breakfast,” Eonwe said cheerfully, trying to abate her nerves. Today they would reach Irkngthand, and tomorrow held only mysteries. She started filling her backpack, retying the water skin on the outside by its long cord, so that it was easy to access when she needed a drink. She was rifling around for a ring she’d found outside of Shor’s Stone when she noticed Brynjolf was unusually quiet.

“Are you alright?” she asked as lightly as she could. He nodded.

“It’s just… there was one more thing,” he added, pausing in rolling up his bedroll. His eyebrows were knitted over whatever internal thoughts he was working over.

“What?”

“In the dream,” he said. “Once the rains went away and the sun came back out, your ashes coalesced into a form.”

“What kind of form?” Eonwe asked, looking up and swiping a loose strand of hair back from her eyes. She stopped in the process of buttoning the cloak around her shoulders at the strange look on his face. All of a sudden, she wished she’d hadn’t asked.

Brynjolf held her gaze as he answered. “A dragon.”

Chapter Text

Irkngthand rose from the mountain wall, a towering fortress of metal and stone united to create the magnificent abandoned palace that overlooked Bronze Water Lake in the snowy borderlands between Eastmarch and the Pale.

“It would have been easier to drop down on the place. See that bridge?” Brynjolf pointed out the extended bridge stretching from one rooftop to the Arcanex entrance. “If we’d come from that direction, we’d have stayed out of the sight of all those bandits.”

“If we keep to the shadows, we’ll remain unnoticed,” Karliah said.

“What shadows? Lass, while I appreciate the armour, we stand out as boldly as a mad jester in court,” Brynjolf scoffed. “It should have been white, if you ask me.”

“A White Nightingale,” Eonwe chuckled. “That’s hardly appropriate.”

“Well, I didn’t ask for Irkngthand to be in the mountains now, did I?” Brynjolf frowned. “Neither did I choose this place to be my last refuge. Do you really think Mercer’s in there?”

“Absolutely,” Karliah assured. “He won’t leave without the eyes, and this place is enormous.”

“It would take less than eight months to get through here,” Eonwe pointed out, somewhat bitterly.

“Aye, but there’s a chance he’s still here. And it’s a chance we need to take,” Brynjolf reached out and squeezed her shoulder lightly in reassurance. “But there’s time enough. Let’s wait until nightfall; it’ll give us better cover.”

The afternoon stretched out almost languorously; the three thieves were yawning with impatience, though a deep-rooted fear was shared by them all. What if Mercer were indeed gone? What if this place turned out to be a trap – or worse – their final resting place? Eonwe didn’t like the look of Irkngthand. It held a certain foreboding menace that almost promised that if they entered they were not going to come back out. She shuddered – it was Cidhna Mine all over again, but this time she was dragging Brynjolf along with her.

<> 

The pungent, metallic richness of blood reached her nostrils the moment they entered the ruin. A trail of bodies – human, elf, and automaton – paved a clear path past traps and obstacles of all shapes and sizes. It was also incredibly dark.

Eonwe had never actually seen a Falmer up close before; it wasn’t hard to be surprised when she turned around in the midst of investigating one of their open-roofed tents to see a gaunt white face set with blind red eyes staring back at her. Though sightless, their other senses were acute, heighted beyond natural levels, and it was a long and careful descent further and further into the hole of terrors.

The Falmer frightened her; their grotesque physique and ugly features were freakish, but she somehow found a sense of sorrow at a glimpse of their slender elven ears and elegant if elongated bony fingers, and the sad stoop of their spines. She recalled hearing somewhere that the Falmer had once dominated Skyrim before the Night of Tears; their race was lost to legend and their order demolished by those Eonwe called kin. It was a sad tale, and all the more distressing to see the results of what enslavement had turned them into – decrepit and twisted versions of themselves.

But it was further into the ruin that Eonwe encountered a most disturbing creature, and one she vividly recalled from the many notes in Calcelmo’s museum. The book had been sprawled open on the table amidst sketches and rubbings, turned to a page describing the maturing process of the chaurus, the ridged-backed, mandible-faced insect that crawled in deep dark holes on sharp, stunted little legs. If they weren’t creepy enough, bluish lumps glowing occasionally along their sides, there were the large fleshy sacs grouped together in threes or fours, slick with a vile greenish goo. Similar to a butterfly, the chaurus cocooned itself on death and its soupy form congealed into a brand new being altogether, winged and fast and buzzing like a nest of wasps.

The Dwemer titan was busy with the Falmer, dishing out enormous blows with the hammer extensions of its arms, and it was easy to slip by the ruckus it made as it killed the squealing, snarling elves. Karliah was leading the way, close to the wall and fleet of foot; Eonwe had blinked and suddenly she was gone, and she pulled up short, squinting in the dark to see where Karliah had gone. Brynjolf had disappeared, too, and a ball of fear mingled in her belly, hot and pulsing in sync with her slamming heartbeat. Turning blindly, she walked forward slowly, retracing her steps and made a right instead of turning left, utterly confused.

There was a squelching, ripping noise nearby and she whirled, nerves crackling with alarm. An immediate buzzing filled her ears and the whisper of rapid wingbeats stirred the air by her ear. Eonwe stood very still and closed her eyes, too afraid to see. The buzzing was overwhelming as the creature circled her, a certain intuitiveness migrating from its lulled movements; she was the prey to this hunter and one false move meant…

Yol.

The Thu’um rasped her throat and she coughed flames, igniting the inquisitive insect. Its wings fluttered frantically as it was engulfed in orange light and crumpled to the ground. Eonwe didn’t pause to watch; she ran, ignoring the answering ripping of innumerable sacs in answer to their fallen hive-mate; her breath came hard and fast and she flung herself into shadow, ducking behind a pillar and struggling to contain her hysteria. The buzzing was nearby and she peered out, trembling as she beheld the chaurus hunters.

They swarmed around the dead corpse, their iridescent wings catching the flames and shining like rainbows. They were long-bodied and curled like a giant bee, the stinger oozing venom as they hovered a few inches off the mucky ground; their bodies, compact and exoskeletal in appearance, shone with the slick fluids of their cocoons. Their tiny heads swiveled, antennas bobbing, their abnormally large eyes glowing pale turquoise as they sought the intruder. They were twice the height of a man and more frightening than anything Eonwe had seen in her entire life.

Moving with the reluctance of a sabre cat in a patch of sun, she crawled through the mud on hand and knee, crushing delicate fungi and wading through shallow puddles, focused on remaining as small and inconsequential as possible. The cloak of the armour dragged, making the process of moving dexterously more difficult than necessary. Everything smelled foul, a combination of wet mold and rotten cheese, and bile rose in her throat as she sank almost to the chin in one larger puddle, the bottom sucking at her palms and threatening to pull her under. A moment’s panic was won by logic and she heaved backwards, breathing through her mouth to avoid the sickening smells, and she rounded a large boulder covered with moss.

A row of cocoons waited on the other side.

They all sat prettily in neat order below an overhanging ledge, half-concealed by the tendrils of roots. The wall behind them glowed with dozens of sprouting mushrooms, the blue light giving her an all-too-clear picture that held her fast where she crouched.

One by one the sacs began to wiggle, the sides bulging as their inhabitants sensed her presence, and she could see the wings shivering inside the illuminated fleshy walls. She tasted vomit on her tongue and slid one knee back, intending to hide behind the boulder.

The first hunter broke free, squeezing out from the small hole it’d torn and creeping out. It was slick and gooey, but a fledgling, a brand new creature taking its first breaths. The antennas sprang up, twitching as it tested them, running one long forearm along the waving tendrils of sensitive vibrissae. Lastly, the wings peeled free from its sides, dripping with mucus, as it abandoned its sac and tested its flight for the first time.

Eonwe turned away and pressed her back to the firm hardness of the boulder, feeling the spongy softness of the moss. The rest of the chaurus hunters tore free from their confines and drifted after the first, floating past Eonwe to explore their home. She watched with enormous eyes the size of platters, holding her breath as their wings sent a soft breeze across her cheek. As soon as the last of them were out of sight, she resumed her tedious escape through the dark, muddy terrain, cringing at the slimy filthiness of the ordeal.

At last, smooth stone scraped her hands and she straightened slowly, tingling with awareness. Her cape was plastered to the backs of her thighs and sweat made her scalp itch; but a subtle bubble of relief gave her courage to follow the elevated stone walkways, searching for the missing thieves. “Karliah,” she called in a whisper, daring to make noise. “Bryn!”

A white shape suddenly dropped in front of her and she leaped back, startled. The blind red eyes of the Falmer were fixed in her direction and it shambled towards her, nostrils flaring as it sniffed the air. Eonwe stepped back, footfalls silent, roiling with tension. The Falmer kept coming, pointy teeth bared as it finally detected her position, and lunged.

The Nightingale Blade flashed in the shadows, cutting a ribbon of darkness, and the Falmer slumped into a pool of blood. Eonwe watched it drip along the blue-black length and settled for carefully wiping it clean on the stained skirt of the dead Falmer. She gripped the sword in her hands and continued onwards, alone.

<> 

By the time Brynjolf reached the charging port for the Dwarven Centurion for a fifth time, he was shaking. Karliah placed a sympathetic hand on his arm but didn’t try to reassure him again; he was grateful that she didn’t bother. If he had to say “I know” to one more “We’ll find her, Brynjolf” he was going to lose his mind – if he’d hadn’t already.

“Where is she?” Karliah hissed, pulling down her mask and wiping her brow. “She was with us until right before the Animunculus activated.”

“Ani-what?” Brynjolf glanced at her with a puzzled frown.

“Automatons. The Dwarven Centurion,” Karliah clarified.

“Why didn’t you just say that instead?” he snorted. “I’m not a scholar or an academic, Karliah.” He suddenly smiled, distracted momentarily from his worrying. “Gallus rubbed off on you quite a bit, didn’t he?”

“Somewhat. I collected pieces for the black market for a few years when I was younger,” she shrugged. “I needed work. The name – Animuncili – has stuck longer than the newer ‘automaton’ as they refer to them now.”

“There was no body near the Centurion, so we’ll have to assume she’s either gotten lost or is looking for us,” she continued.

Brynjolf’s thoughts clouded, combining a ghastly image of Eonwe’s broken body crumpled in front of the steaming robot. He vividly pictured that massive hammer smashing her into a wall, breaking every bone in her body, and shuddered away from the thought.

“Brynjolf, she’s not dead.” Karliah prodded him sharply, drawing his attention. “She’s gone through Oblivion and back. She’s stronger than she looks. Nothing can break her core.”

“The lass is different,” he murmured, shaking his head when she began to object. “I talked to her last night and… she isn’t the same woman who I first met. Strong and stubborn, aye. But she’s got something different about her. She’s darker; Eonwe’s hiding something from me and I wish she wouldn’t be scared to tell me. I want her to know I’m here for her…” he looked around at the dark caves and sighed. “Or at least that I’m trying to be. We just keep being pulled apart.”

“Perhaps…” Karliah began, but broke off and pretended she’d not spoken; Brynjolf nudged her. He could see the uncertainty in the depths of her purple eyes.

“Perhaps you and Eonwe aren’t meant to be.”

Brynjolf jerked as though he’d been scalded. “I won’t believe that!” he snapped.

“I loved Gallus with all my heart and look where that’s brought me?” she reasoned, bordering on tears. It was strange to see Karliah suddenly so fragile; she seemed so self-dependent, never flaking under pressure. “I tried to protect him and be there for him, and he’s dead. He isn’t coming back. The least I can do now is preserve his legacy and avenge him, but it’s not enough. It will never be enough, but we’re Nightingales and this is our way. This is Nocturnal’s way of keeping order.

“The Nightingales protect the Skeleton Key and the Twilight Sepulcher from intruders. If Nocturnal hadn’t wanted Mercer to infiltrate the Sepulcher, she would’ve relinquished his status as an agent and safeguarded the Key.”

“Are you saying that Nocturnal allowed Mercer to do all of this?” Brynjolf blinked in astonishment. “But why?”

“She’s a Daedric Prince,” she said with a hapless smile, as though it answered everything needing to be answered. “There is no telling what their motivations are for the decisions they make. The mortal world is a massive game for them. We’re flung back and forth at their will.”

“Is Nocturnal to blame for Eonwe being in that… place?” Brynjolf demanded.

Karliah shrugged. “There’s every chance that was her wish. It could be her who doesn’t want you and her together.”

“Gods or Daedra, I don’t give a bloody damn!” Brynjolf snarled, enraged. “I love the lass, and no religious figure is going to decide anything for me!”

“Mind your words, Brynjolf,” Karliah warned. “I would not advise starting a war with a Daedra, especially when it’s her favour we need.”

Brynjolf couldn’t say anything. He was too afraid to. He simply looked away and started their search for the sixth time, his shoulders set with determination. He wouldn’t let Eonwe down – not again. Not this time.

<> 

The ruin seemed to go on forever.

Eonwe followed the deadly maze of traps and dead ends, evading gruesome inhabitants and relying on every skill the thieves had taught her. All of that lockpick training never prepared me for this now, did it, Vex? she thought grudgingly as she clambered over some inoperable pipes and reached a small empty room. A campfire burned here, which was immediately unusual. The Falmer didn’t rely on firelight. The place was lit solely by glowing fungi and hunks of blue rock, swimming with an ethereal light that reminded Eonwe of a ring she had been given long ago.

There was only one explanation for the fire: Mercer.

The area had been thoughtfully barred off with pieces of fencing and several large boulders too big for an ordinary person without some magical prowess or the Thu’um could move. Eonwe poked around the area, relaxing when nothing popped out to startle her.

Further inspection found a sack of glistening goodies, likely straight out of a museum or some wealthy estate, were hidden in the back of one of the Falmer tents. A bedroll and a plate covered in crumbs were tucked there. Eonwe found littered bits of food around the entire site, and she could hear a faint scraping noise not too far off. She sourced it to the doors at the end of a long tunnel, leading into the deepest part of the ruin yet, but it was darker than a witch’s cauldron there and she was too afraid to venture alone.

Turning around, she thumped straight into Karliah.

“By Nocturnal’s Cloak, where have you been?” the Dunmer exclaimed in a whisper, shaking Eonwe. “We’ve been searching for you everywhere!”

“I was looking for you,” Eonwe admitted, hugging the elf in relief. “I thought you’d had gone on ahead.”

“We wouldn’t abandon you, lass.” Brynjolf was suddenly there, green eyes sparkling in the firelight. Eonwe let go of Karliah and threw herself into his arms, and he stroked her head with tender affection, before pulling back and covered his already-masked face. “Bloody Oblivion, you reek!” He was trying not to laugh.

Eonwe glanced down. She was head-to-toe in muck and Gods-know what else. She grinned sheepishly. “It’s a long story,” she began but was interrupted by a grating screech followed by a crystalline thud. Everyone went silent.

“Mercer, it has to be!” Karliah said softly.

“Ooh, finally. Let me get my hands around his neck,” Brynjolf said, flexing his hands. “I’ve had enough of the scoundrel.”

“Wait.” Karliah and Brynjolf looked at Eonwe in surprise, and she wrung her hands together. “Karliah, tell me what happened at Snow Veil Sanctum.”

The elf seemed to understand. “Gallus and Mercer were headed for Winterhold to see Enthir. They took shelter near the ruins during a blizzard. I saw them arguing but couldn’t hear anything for the wind; an icicle fell from a branch and splintered on a rock. Mercer drew his dagger and I misjudged why. I tried to take the dagger but slipped on some ice. I shoved him into Gallus.”

Brynjolf folded his arms. “It sounds like it was no one’s fault.”

“It was his fault as much as it was mine. Mercer should have come forward about his stealing from the vault. I should have spoken to him, or asked Gallus for more information than prejudging. Gallus should have kept a closer eye on him,” she sighed. “It was an accident waiting to happen, and we are all at fault for it.”

“But following that,” Brynjolf interjected. “He lied to the Guild by saying it was Karliah who was to blame; the Guild disbanded; our “luck” ran out because Mercer stole the Skeleton Key to fulfill his greed; he told me that Eonwe was-”

“He wanted to go home,” Eonwe said quickly. “He stole the Key to reap Nocturnal’s powers, but in return she turned his intentions around and poisoned his mind.”

“Nocturnal is as much to blame, but we cannot argue with her. It falls to us to make a decision, based on Mercer’s actions outside of all relations to Nocturnal’s influence,” Karliah admitted. “He has put the Guild at risk because of his ignorance.”

“He beat Eonwe,” Brynjolf murmured. “But I’m the reason for it.”

Karliah’s gaze was questing, but Eonwe remembered. Her jaw and scalp ached with the memory but more so, her dignity quivered.

But an older memory swept through her, paralyzing her momentarily. Brynjolf reached out and steadied her when she wavered, and she took his hand for support. An apology swam in his eyes and she knew he meant it; words didn’t mean as much for this instance. She swallowed and said, carefully, “I met Mercer in Bruma, before I came to Skyrim.”

Both Brynjolf and Karliah looked astonished.

“I was a tavern maid there,” she began. “It was a rough place; the men that came in were bigger than you, Bryn. And they had enormous personalities, none of them kind. I was just young then, but Mercer was a patron. I recognized the scar on his knuckles and his sword.” She paused for a moment to gather herself. “Mercer grabbed my arm and I was scared. I struck his hand with a knife and he left.”

“Lass,” Brynjolf said sympathetically as Karliah murmured, “I wonder why he was there?”

“He looked nothing like he does now. It’s only been a few years’ difference but… he looked so young. Ash blonde hair, not grey,” she mentioned. “How old is he?”

“Late forties. He and I were a good ten years’ difference. He was already in his twenties when I joined the Guild as a young rascal,” Brynjolf answered, then grimaced. “Gods, that reminds me. I’ll be a year older in a few days. What is this… the ninth of Frostfall?”

“Tenth,” Karliah corrected. “We’ve been down here for fourteen hours. Now, are we going to kill him?” She looked to Eonwe, knowing she held the stone over the scale of judgement.

The stone weighed an awful lot.

“Does he need to die?” Eonwe finally asked. “I don’t want to sound like I’m defending him, but this is life and death we’re talking about here. We’re not sending him to jail for the rest of his life; we’re taking that life from him.”

“Eonwe,” Brynjolf said. “I would kill that man in a heartbeat, knowing me lied to me about your fate. For that, I have no hesitation in wanting to see him dead.”

“He was dishonest from the beginning,” Karliah spoke. “He cannot be trusted. I believe Nocturnal will decide the fate of his soul in the Evergloam.”

They looked to Eonwe.

The seconds passed.

The door creaked open behind them and a low laugh echoed along the walls. “Well, well. What a surprise,” Mercer chuckled. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

Chapter Text

Karliah’s bow was off her back and an arrow was notched in place before Eonwe or Brynjolf even had time to react to Mercer’s appearance. She sighted down the shaft, all attention focused on the thief clutching the large sack in one hand and his sword in the other. His eyes shifted between the Nightingales and he smirked.

“Nocturnal has found herself some new playthings, has she?” he clucked his tongue disapprovingly. “I wish you all the luck in the world with that wench hanging over your heads.” He started forward.

“Take one more step and you won’t be standing,” Karliah hissed. The bow string tensed.

“Come now, Karliah,” Mercer smiled. “Are you really going to shoot-”

The arrow snapped free and imbedded deeply in Mercer’s shoulder, just below the collarbone and a few inches to the left, where muscle and cartilage met bone. He staggered and dropped to one knee, and looked down at the arrow’s black feathers still quivering from their flight. “Why you…” he muttered.

“The next will find your heart,” Karliah promised.

“Eonwe, neither of us are going to make a move until you tell us if you want him alive or dead,” Brynjolf said next to her in an undertone. “But if you can’t decide, Karliah is going to put another arrow in him.”

The bow stretched with another arrow readied.

Eonwe looked at them, all of them; Karliah preparing to fire, Brynjolf’s troubled gaze, Mercer kneeling on the ground in cautious anticipation. It was all too much. She closed her eyes and looked within for an answer.

Clarity, she thought. What is the right choice in this matter? Life or death? Justice or revenge?

Then she realized: How was death ever the answer?

Eonwe turned to Mercer. “Why did you lie about Gallus? Why didn’t you tell the Guild it was an accident?”

Mercer looked puzzled.

“Nocturnal drove you mad with those powers,” Eonwe continued, wondering if reason would be the key to undoing all the damage. It was either that – or bloodshed. “I understand the allure of power, but it brings nothing but bad. It has to be controlled, not left to its own devices.

“Mercer, you’ve made a lot of mistakes but does that mean you have to keep making them?” Eonwe asked. “You can hand over the Skeleton Key and come with us, or I can let Karliah put another arrow in you and leave you in Nocturnal’s hands.”

The thief looked as though he’d deflated. There was something impossibly frightening about the dead look in his eyes. She took a hesitant step forward for a closer look, her foot disappearing in shadow.

The bolt of agony lanced across her face and she hit the ground, shocked by the sudden pain. It seized her and she felt it sink into her, claws of darkness penetrating her sides, and she screamed, trying to wriggle free from whatever darkness had grasped her.

A violent surge ripped through her, tearing into her, and she could feel a rapid drain of strength. The magnitude of whatever power she was experiencing was horrifically strong. She opened her eyes and everything was blood red. Mercer’s blackened silhouette stood in the center of the mass churning background, and suddenly he vanished, a puff of smoke. “Look out!” she shouted.

Brynjolf hit the wall and slumped, unconscious. Arrows were pinging in the strange absorbing silence with muffled elven curses. Karliah was suddenly hurtling overhead and striking the wall, and fell into a heap of limp limbs.

Get out of the shadows, Eonwe thought. She sank her fingernails into the ground and pulled her weight forward, dragging on the ground, prying free from whatever dark force was sucking her energy. Hurry and get out!

A hand suddenly clutched the back of her collar and yanked her upright, and she looked around into the malevolent features of Mercer. He was drawn with exhaustion, the flesh hanging from his bones, and she could see only madness in his eyes. Darkness and madness. Nocturnal’s doings. “What have you done?” she whispered, appalled by the Daedric Prince’s level of corruption.

“Got them out of my way,” Mercer answered, thinking she was talking to him.

“What did you do to me?”

“Nocturnal grants powers to her agents – I bear all three. I took some of your life force to sustain my own,” he answered bluntly. “I know it hurts. But so did that arrow.”

“I didn’t shoot you!”

“You came here with them looking for vengeance,” Mercer said, annoyed. “For honour, for glory – I don’t give a damn. The Key is mine, and so are the Eyes.” He released her and she dropped to the ground. “Interfere and I won’t hesitate to kill you… this time.” He began to walk away.

“You could have saved yourself the trouble,” Eonwe called to his disappearing back. She struggled to stand and was facing him when she straightened. “If I have anything that never seems to run out, it’s perseverance,” she said.

“And foolishness,” he added.

“You’re destroying yourself by keeping that Key!” she exclaimed.

“With it, I’ve accomplished more than I ever could have,” Mercer yelled back.

“Was Gallus’ death included?” she flung back. “Was disbanding the Guild and bringing it to ruin? Was creating all the havoc part of your plan to return home?”

It was his hesitation that was enough. Eonwe held out her hand calmly.

“Give me the Key.”

“No.”

“Give it to me!”

Anger creased his face and he flung out a hand. A rippling wave of power caught her and pushed her back, her boots sliding on the ground. She shielded her face with her arms and struggled to hold her ground. This is no ordinary magic, she thought dimly as the winds stopped driving her back, and she looked up.

Mercer was gone.

For one awful moment Eonwe felt lost. The sack he had been carrying lay abandoned on the ground and something pale poked out from beneath the leather. Eonwe bent and folded it back. A most beautiful crystal, twice the size of her head and shaped like an egg, gleamed back at her. An Eye of the Falmer – and it’s worth every Septim.

But there was only one; he must have gone for the second.

Lifting her head, Eonwe saw the ebony-and-moonstone bow, and lunged for it.

<> 

The arrow was imbedded only a few inches below the skin but it had scraped sharply off bone and lodged between the scapula and the clavicle. Mercer grasped the arrow shaft and pulled; he nearly collapsed from the pain it brought on. Sweat dripped from beneath his hair into his eyes. He couldn’t dislodge the damn thing.

Drained and tired, he ascended the steps up to the head of the grand stone depiction of the extinct snow elves, eye fixed on the shining oblong crystal still entrenched in the benign face. Climbing up onto the wide collar below the statue’s pointed chin, he began to edge along carefully towards the priceless rock and reached for the slender, knife-edged nose. An arrow thwacked off the stone, skimming his hand.

“One more move and I’ll put you down,” Eonwe threatened.

Mercer sighed with impatience. “As I said… foolishness, not perseverance,” he answered, turning to look down on where she stood on the platform, bow readied with another arrow. The same stance as Karliah, he thought. The same iron heart.

“If anyone is a fool, it’s you.” Her gaze never wavered, her aim never faltered. “I will ask one more time: Give me the Skeleton Key.”

So you can return it to her? Never!

Mercer reached up and tore the amulet from around his neck – the Nightingale Pendant – and smashed it against the statue’s face. Power surged up his arm, flooding his veins, and before he could implode, a deafening shockwave of sheer darkness erupted from his flesh. The entire cavern shuddered, the rock walls nearly cracking under the concussive blast, and Eonwe was flung back against the doors. The bow bounced off the ledge and fell over the side below.

Gathering her self, she raised her head in time to see Mercer flash into view in front of her, smoke curling from the pocket of darkness he’d stepped from.

“Your life is mine!” Mercer roared, driving forward and slashing viciously in a broad swipe. Eonwe jerked back, the tip of the blade almost meeting her neck, and hurled herself off the ledge. She hit the ground and fell, colliding with a hunk of fused stone and metal. Scrambling to her feet, she was dimly aware that she was splashing through ankle-deep water. A stray glance spotted a continuous flow of water falling from the ceiling, and several drips splattered her arms and head as she rushed up the stairs two at a time, slippery with the sudden wetness.

…Irkngthand… beneath Bronze Water Lake…

…lake…

LAKE.

The entire chamber would flood; the roof was buckling under the pressure of the water, the weight of a hundred dragons all barreling into the ground at once. Eonwe realized this in a matter of terrifying heartbeats and drew her spare dagger from her belt as she reached the top. A rumble shook the cavern and a block of stone crashed to the floor; water poured in immediately, and the water was up over the first steps within a matter of seconds.

If she’d not seen the shadow on the wall in front of her, her head would have been rolling. Eonwe ducked and the blade struck the back of the statue’s head, ringing so loudly that her ears throbbed. She swung around and met leather with the tip of the dagger, but Mercer was faster, despite his injury. Grabbing her wrist, he yanked her towards him and twisted her around, nearly wrenching her arm from its socket. Eonwe shrieked and the dagger fell from her fingers.

Mercer drew back his arm, about to thrust the blade up through her back. There was no choice and no thought – there never was in the moments between life and death. There was only the sheer will to combat the end, to strive towards any opportunity to continue breathing. The battle for life survived in all species, all creatures of all forms; life was bitter and short, but every moment that there was life, it could not be denied. The Thu’um bubbled up and tore free.

The sword leapt from Mercer’s hand with a metallic clang.

He let go and staggered back, astonishment crossing his face. Eonwe advanced towards him, the power still whispering on her lips, her eyes glowing with the light of her dragon soul. She could see them, reflected in the dark pools of Mercer’s wide gaze, two suns shining brilliantly.

“You should have been more careful about who you made enemies with,” she told him, voice channeling an echo of authority that made the cavern murmur in awe. Rocks plummeted from the ceiling to their deaths, now splashing into the dark water that flooded the lower levels. Eonwe grasped the arrow shaft and felt an awful smile curve her lips, and she shoved it deeper into his shoulder. Mercer’s face went white as he dropped to his knees; the head was black with blood, poking through a hole and running a thin rivulet down the faded leather.

“I should have put my blade through your heart when I had the chance,” Mercer hissed through his teeth, dripping with sweat.

Eonwe looked down at him with a slightly forlorn expression. “Yes, you should have,” she murmured. “But you lost your chance.”

<> 

Brynjolf lifted his head with a groan. He was sore from head to toe, and a cloud of confusion seemed to be floating inside his head. A rumbling seemed to shake the ground under his body and he pushed himself to his feet, pulling back the hood and rubbing a tender spot on the back of his head. His fingers came away smeared with dark blood.

Karliah marched up the tunnel; seeing him conscious, she grabbed him urgently. “She’s in there with Mercer. The door is blocked,” she informed sharply. Brynjolf felt as though he had been plunged headfirst into the Sea of Ghosts, and he was stumbling blindly down the tunnel towards the barrier.

Several large rocks had toppled and formed an immovable heap in front of the large bronze doors. However, a narrow crack trickled water over the rubble, and Brynjolf felt his stomach clench. What was happening in there?

“We need to clear this,” he was saying but Karliah was dragging him away.

“No, I think there’s another way in. There was a cave- Brynjolf, are you listening to me?”

“Karliah, it’s flooding in there. I’m not leaving until I know she’s alright!” he demanded.

“Shadows preserve us,” she breathed petulantly. “There is a cave at the top of the lake. There might be a way into that chamber. C’mon, we cannot waste time!” she pelted away, vaporizing into the darkness, and Brynjolf had no choice but to run after her.

<> 

A dark lake spread out before Eonwe.

She sat on the crown of the statue’s head, arms wrapped around her knees, quaking with fear. The water was pitch black, holding no light; it looked bottomless and she was trying not to imagine the huge serpentine creatures twisting around in their depths, milky white eyes waiting for a foot to appear over the water’s surface. Of course there were none there, but no one could have convinced her differently.

Mercer hunched beside her, a hand pressed firmly over the oozing wound in his shoulder. He had pulled the arrow free; he looked slightly ashen, but it was too dark to see much more than the patches of glowing fungi allowed.

“So naturally the Divines decided that I’m to die beside you,” Eonwe said through chattering teeth. “If I’d known that, I might have never come to Skyrim.”

“If I knew I was going to have to hear you complaining in my final moments, I would have never left High Rock,” he answered spitefully. “I was enjoying the silence.”

“Well, if making your last moments as horrible as possible benefits me in any way, I’m going for it,” Eonwe shot back. She glanced at the dripping blood on his back. “If you don’t pass out from blood loss first, that is.”

“Why don’t you take a nice refreshing swim?” Mercer glared at her savagely.

“Why don’t you-” she broke off as a splintering sound echoed above their heads suddenly. “What was that?”

“I suspect the ceiling is about to give,” he answered blackly. “If we survive the impact, the water will make sure of changing that.”

Eonwe felt her heart sink into her stomach and she hid her face in her arms.

“Whatever you do, don’t ask Nocturnal for help,” Mercer warned.

“I’m not religious.”

“So you don’t agree with the Nords supporting the rebellion and their talk about Talos?”

“I am not talking about religion or politics before I die, especially with you,” she lifted her head and fixed him with a look that could kill. Mercer rolled his eyes and looked away.

Silence stretched out between them.

“Why did you leave me alive in Snow Veil?” Eonwe asked after a time.

“What does it matter?” he sneered.

“It does, alright?” Eonwe flung out her arms, agitated. “You let me live. That matters. Why did you choose that?”

Mercer shrugged his good shoulder but still winced. “I had enough blood on my hands.”

“You told Brynjolf I was dead.” Thinking of him hurt almost physically.

“I thought you would have died. I didn’t realize Karliah was going to heal you, or whatever she did,” he said. “I told him that so that he wouldn’t leave the Guild unprotected.”

“From Karliah or from you?”

Mercer hesitated, but it was a clear enough answer.

Eonwe shuffled closer and pressed a hand against the trickling wound, trying to staunch the flow. He hissed in pain and gave her a questioning glance but didn’t move away. “Why are you so forgiving?” he asked softly. It wasn’t the question that necessarily surprised her; it was the fact that he even thought of asking it.

“I’m not. I just don’t… I don’t want to die alone,” she confided at last. Mercer looked as though he had just watched her grow two heads, but said nothing.

“You’re the Dragonborn. They talk about you like you’re some divine figure. Do something,” he waved a hand, suggesting ‘something’ be anything.

“Even if I did, I can’t guarantee we’d both live,” Eonwe looked up at the ceiling, then the water level. Mercer’s heels were submerged. Then she looked again, suddenly feeling that she’d missed something important. Her eyes scanned searchingly. Where was it…?

There were loose rocks in the ceiling.

“Look!” she cried, pointing wildly. “There’s a way out!”

Mercer struggled to see what she was gesturing at, but it wasn’t relief that crossed his face. No. In perfect Mercer-fashion, annoyance curled his lip and he spat, “It would have been useful if you’d noticed that sooner.”

“I’m going to try and loosen them. Stay there,” Eonwe said absently, so caught up in excitement that she missed his ironic, “Oh, right. As if I’m going anywhere.”

Climbing over the stone headpiece, she surveyed the large rocks and summoned the Thu’um. “FUS… RO DAH!” The wave of force struck the rocks and they recoiled slightly against it. She tried again and one shifted.

“Once more,” she muttered to herself.

The boulders cracked and dropped into the water, sending up great splashes as they sank and disappeared into the void. A large hole and a small, thin beam of pale light had been hiding behind the rocks. Eonwe nearly cried with joy.

Mercer was looking at her strangely when she returned to his side. Eonwe raised an eyebrow but he said nothing, except to emit a muffled grunt as she helped him stand upright. He leaned against the headpiece when his balance threatened to betray him.

“Do you have any idea how to get up there?” Mercer asked, jerking his chin at the hole in the ceiling.

“It’s too high, isn’t it?” Eonwe planted her hands on her waist as she looked up. It had to be a twenty foot drop; neither of them would be about to reach it.

Without warning, Mercer wavered and tilted sideways, his eyes rolling back into his head. Eonwe lurched after him with a startled cry, grasping leather between her fingertips, and they crashed into the dark water.

Chapter Text

Valenwood had a warm climate; the flora grew in abundance, lush and thick for the plentiful hoards of creatures that lived within the province. The lakes and streams were a pleasure year-round, the waters warm enough along the shallows for casual beachgoers, while the deeper areas were refreshingly cold. While never much of an adept swimmer, Eonwe had spent her fair share splashing in the rivers on muggy sunny days, or lazed in shallow pools when it was too hot to do much other than recline.

Skyrim’s waterways were frigid and merciless. Many succumbed to the icy-cold water and perished; even if they managed to escape, a warm fire and dry clothes were imperative to their survival but impossibly far away. The rivers ran through the mountains, rushing through cracking ice fields where the wind was death and the snows went on forever. Eonwe had experienced the harshness of Skyrim’s winters in the Jerall Mountains but had been lucky enough to avoid any deep rivers.

As expected, her luck reached its limit.

The cold was sapping her strength and her appendages had gone numb in only a few quick seconds, and the chill was creeping into her arms and legs. Within a matter of minutes, she would be completely paralyzed and, moments after that, she would be dead.

No amount of struggling brought her any closer to the surface, and she was growing more and more tired by the second. She was terrified, less so of the imagined creatures in the dark depths than her imminent doom. The weight of her cloak was dragging her under, and she grappled at her neck, trying to unbuckle it with fingers that operated like ingots. Her lungs were aching as she fought to hold her breath, the only thing keeping her alive. Pressure filled her head.

A wing of blackness swept over her vision, and she foolishly welcomed it.

<> 

A mirage of light caught Brynjolf’s eye and he glanced towards it; sunlight filtered in a narrow crack hidden behind one of the Falmer huts. He turned to alert Karliah but the Dunmer had already disappeared ahead. Brynjolf turned to the light and squeezed behind the hut, pressing himself into the cramped space, wishing not for the first time he was a smaller man. Looking up at the pale glow’s source, he was surprised to see a tumble of rocks forming a sort of natural ladder; heavy grey clouds drifted in a dull blue sky straight above the opening.

Climbing the rocks, he fit his hands and feet into the grooves that made fair handholds; panting at the top, he hoisted his weight over the edge and looked around, breathing raggedly. The ground was soft here, a sheltered nook hidden from sight. Brynjolf turned around and saw a great expanse of ice, broken up in the center where the lake flowed, and beyond that he could see bronze pipes. Squinting, he could make out the formation of rocks that made the cave Karliah had mentioned.

There was no time to lose.

Running along the edges of the frozen lake, Brynjolf reached the cave entrance and stepped inside, drawing his daggers. The cave held the faintest whiff of wolf, but the further he went, the more the place seemed abandoned. It was warm and dry inside, unlike the frosty chill of the air outside, and he saw the traces of an old campfire; there was even a tent folded up in the corner, quickly stowed away by an adventurer who’d stopped for the night and out of the cold.

Following the natural curve of the cave, Brynjolf entered a narrow passageway that gradually dipped lower and lower, carrying him a good several feet underground. The air was slightly colder here and smelled musty. The dirt walls gave away to solid rock, and a layer of slime and mildew coated its surface. His breath puffed in a faint silvery cloud, and he suddenly heard the lapping of water.

Rounding a bend, Brynjolf came to a halt; a pool of water flooded the end of the passage.

He was directly above the cavern.

<> 

Consciousness returned abruptly.

Eonwe’s first instinct was to gasp for breath, and she did. She was violently cold and emitted a feeble cry, curling into herself as feeling returned to her body rapidly. “H-h-help…” she mumbled, voice unsteady. “C-cold… s-so cold.” She could barely see except for a vague blur, and her teeth chattered louder than crunching ice in her ears. She closed her eyes, fighting to control the spasms.

“Easy, lass.” Brynjolf’s voice was in her ear and she turned towards it, reaching out frantically. Warm hands took hers and she felt a brush of heat caress her cheek. “I’m right here.” Eonwe realized that he was cradling her in his arms, and she clung to his hands, drawing the warmth from them.

“I-I can’t s-stop… sh-shake…” words failed and she convulsed uncontrollably. Brynjolf’s grip tightened fractionally, and she felt him shift beneath her. “N-no, s-st…”

He moved regardless and she felt something drape over her, but it wasn’t very warm. Eonwe lifted her head a little, blinking to clear her vision, and saw the flickering flames of a small fire ahead of her, under the gap of the fabric wall above her. I’m in a tent, she thought weakly. Gods, I’m so cold. I can’t remember how it feels to be warm.

Brynjolf crouched over the fire, adding bits of twig and wadded paper slowly. Eonwe blinked like an owl, drowsy with exhaustion, but kept her gaze fixed on him – he was her anchor, her support, the only motivation she could find to keep herself awake. All she wanted to do was sleep but part of her screamed in fear at the clutching darkness; somehow, she knew that if she lost consciousness, she might never wake up again.

Eonwe focused on him with all of her concentration, unaware that warmth was gradually returning to her body. She looked at the scar on his cheek and reminded herself of the story he’d told her; the rugged set of his jaw made her think of his temper and how often she’d evoked it, and how much he’d done the same with her; the way his thick lashes hid the sharp green of his eyes, downcast as they looked into the flames, turning his skin to the colour of honey. A soft smile curved her lips. Her core didn’t feel so terribly frozen anymore and she could breath deeper.

Brynjolf looked up suddenly, eyes meeting hers. Eonwe reached out, beckoning him, and he came to kneel beside her.” Are you alright, lass?” She nodded. “Warmer?”

“A little,” she croaked. “How did you find me?”

“You can thank Karliah for her good eyes later,” he smiled, stroking a strand of hair behind her ear and lightly fondling the faint pointed tip – one of the few traces that hinted her elven heritage. “This cave is above Irkngthand. It was sheer luck there was a hole connecting them.”

That’s because I made it, she thought privately.

“And… and what about Mercer?”

Brynjolf’s brows sloped in confusion and Eonwe felt her innards constrict.

“He has the Key. Is he…” her throat tightened. “W-where is he?”

The thief passed a hand over his face and exhaled sharply; his gaze was noticeably averted and he looked as though he’d rather be anywhere than there.

“Bryn, is he dead?” she cried, trying to sit up. He grasped her arms and gently forced her to lie back; her breath was coming faster and she recognized the symptoms of hysterics cloying her mind.

“Lass, it’s for the better-”

“No, you don’t understand!” Eonwe struggled against him. “L-let… let me go!”

“I had a choice between him or you, and there is no bloody way you can convince me I made the wrong choice by leaving that traitor!” he growled, rendering her silent. “How many times are you going have a scrape with death before you’re actually taken from me? How many, Eonwe?” Pent-up anger spiked his accent and she flinched, frightened by him.

“Does your life mean nothing to you?” Brynjolf demanded. “Did anything I say to you the other night matter? Gods, lass! I almost didn’t reach you in time!”

“I’m sorry-”

“No, you’re not!” he thundered; his proximity nearly blasted her eardrums and she shrank back as far as she could, wishing she could sink into the ground. “You aren’t sorry at all! What do you think you are – immortal? That nothing can harm you? You’ve put yourself in danger over and over, and one of these times you’re going to end up dead!”

“You asked me for honesty,” he continued viscerally. “And you wonder why I don’t trust you? I nearly lost you again and it doesn’t seem to fucking matter to you!”

Enraged, Eonwe shoved Brynjolf, hard. She sat upright, nose to nose with him, the Thu’um nearly choking her as it fought to break free. “I am sorry! Don’t you dare tell me I’m not!”

The low cough nearly went unnoticed, but both Eonwe and Brynjolf lifted their heads to the sound. Eonwe’s jaw dropped open and Brynjolf wavered as the equivalent to a ghost appeared before their eyes, slumped against the wall for support, dripping water and blood: A ghost with eyes full of mirth.

“I hope I’m not interrupting your lover’s quarrel,” Mercer said with a smile.

<> 

Mercer dropped heavily next to the fire and began to lazily unbuckle his vest; he was thoroughly soaked and looked a little worse for wear, but otherwise he seemed… alright. Brynjolf stood between him and Eonwe, dagger in hand and regarding him with a cautious glare.

“How are you alive?” Brynjolf asked.

“The same way she is,” he nodded in Eonwe’s direction. “Someone wants to keep us that way.”

He has a point, she agreed grimly.

Mercer reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and drew something forth; he threw it to Eonwe and it rolled in the dirt to rest on the ground before her. It was a gold-coloured object with an obsidian knob on one end; the Skeleton Key. Eonwe looked up in surprise and asked, “Why are you giving this to me?”

“You could call it a change of heart,” Mercer answered, brushing his wet hair from his eyes. “Actually, Nocturnal and I had a little talk. I haven’t suffered enough, as far as she cares.”

“We could arrange that,” Brynjolf snapped. Mercer met his glower with a smirk, but Eonwe had had enough.

“No more fighting.” Both men looked down at her. “We’ve done nothing but fight and tear each other apart ever since we all met. I’m tired of it.”

“Lass, we can’t pretend there’s nothing wrong-”

“And what is wrong, Brynjolf?” Mercer asked. He gingerly peeled off his vest and set it aside; one entire side of his soaked tunic was scarlet with blood. “You have Eonwe, and she has the Skeleton Key. I’m not putting up a fight. What could possibly be wrong?”

Brynjolf stared at him for several long moments, while the Breton plucked at the fabric clinging to the gaping wound through his flesh. The thief didn’t seem to have the ability to conjure words. Instead, he sheathed his dagger and bent, retrieving the Key off the ground.

Eonwe saw the visible ripple of darkness as his hand closed around it, and despite her recent state, she leaped to her feet and tackled him, knocking the Key from his hand. It rolled into the corner, pulsing with a magnetic green light that was at once unworldly and threatening. Brynjolf’s eyes were very large.

“Did you feel that, lass?” he whispered blankly. “So much greed, power…”

Eonwe had felt the power he described and it had left an eerie feeling of supressed guilt behind. The moment of pure malevolence and cruelty had been brief, but she had experienced it and it left her feeling almost nauseated. Why had she felt it? It reminded her of the Thu’um but only it was… it was wrong. She rubbed her palms together, trying to wipe the connection from her skin, but it had crawled all over her and within in only a breath. She eyed the Key warily, afraid to go near it in case it latched to her and flooded her with the darkness it held. “No one should carry it,” she heard herself saying and, to her surprise, Mercer nodded.

“I’ve carried that thing for over twenty-five years and it’s ruined me,” he professed. “It unlocks something in the mind. The Daedra tempt us with their artefacts but they aren’t meant for us.”

“Or they are,” Brynjolf murmured. “They’re dangled in front of us to test us.”

“…but what are they testing?” Eonwe asked quietly. A certain hush had fallen over them and she felt uncomfortable to speak louder than necessary; it was as though several ears had turned to listen.

Mercer broke the expectant silence with a disappointed sound. “Well, this arrow wound Karliah was so wonderful to give me isn’t bleeding any less, and this cave isn’t getting any warmer as far as I’m concerned. Nightgate Inn is a five minute’s walk from here.” He got to his feet and folded the vest over one arm, glancing pointedly between the two. “Unless you want to continue your little spat…?”

<> 

It was midafternoon when they emerged from the cave, blinking against the bright gleam of the sunlight on white snow. Eonwe at once shrank into the protective warmth of her cloak. Brynjolf noticed but was uneasy about touching her; their interrupted disagreement still hung in the air between them, and he could see her tense visibly whenever he stepped too closely to her. Brynjolf didn’t blame her for giving him the cold shoulder; in fact, he wasn’t feeling very forward himself and lingered distantly, unable to provide an apology or accept one. He was still too angry that she was so ignorant, and Eonwe knew it. He instead preoccupied himself with searching for the rooftop of Nightgate Inn; he vaguely knew the area and suspected that it should be within the near vicinity of the cave, considering where Bronze Water Lake was located.

Mercer leaned on his good shoulder against the outer wall of the cave. “I don’t think I’ve seen the sky in a fortnight,” he said with a note of wistfulness.

“Try eight months,” Eonwe told him, a hint of mock-anger in her tone. She glanced at Brynjolf wordlessly and began walking up a trodden path, arms tucked tightly around her middle. He sighed and ran his fingers through his still-damp hair; despite his need to cool his shifting temper, part of him wished they’d finish shouting it out instead of letting the silence drag on. He remembered the last time they’d stopped talking and the ache that spread in his chest whenever he looked at her, realizing that they had quickly shot past friendship to mutual interest. Mercer was studying him with a keen eye.

“I’m leaving the Guild in your hands,” he proposed. “As second in command, you have to decide whether or not you’ll take the role of Guild Master or name a successor. Delvin would be my next choice, although... your ‘lass’ would make a fair leader.” He smiled in a way that could only be described as a sneer. “She has it in her to defend the Guild.”

“She’s far from capable.”

“Is that you or your anger speaking?” Mercer shook his head. “Brynjolf, the fighting within the Thieves Guild has to end. Eonwe is right about that much. Her heart belongs in that cistern more than mine ever did.”

Brynjolf couldn’t deny Mercer’s words; despite his dishonesty for all the past years, he had always been blunt and observational, and he had taken his role as a leader figure as seriously as any flawed individual might.

Eonwe’s compassion couldn’t be denied. She cared about the Guild; she had suffered and endured more than any promising young thief needed in order to apply for leadership. She had a close relationship with several of the thieves; she had built strong bonds and friendships with nearly all of them, and was on good terms with the remainder.

Well, for the most part, Brynjolf thought darkly.

Mercer straightened slowly; he appeared as though he were waking from a deep sleep. “Once this heals, I’m headed for High Rock to find whatever’s left of my family. I doubt they’re still alive but…” he hesitated as he contemplated that, “if anyone is to judge me and decide my fate, it’s going to be them.”

“That might be for the best,” Brynjolf agreed, then offered a hand in farewell. Mercer grasped it firmly.

“Take care, and keep an eye on her,” he said, meaning Eonwe, just as she reappeared at the top of the path with a slight bounce in her step; Mercer smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling deeply. “She might have the temper of a dragon, but you can handle her fire.”

<> 

Brynjolf was shaking hands with Mercer.

Eonwe had seen Nightgate Inn roughly half a mile into the northwest and was returning to tell them so when a shadow moved at the top of the rocks above the cliff. She picked up her pace, hand dropping to the hilt of her blade, an urgency in her step; something felt wrong. She was running when she rounded the corner, and the blade was a quarter from its sheath when she saw the figure drop down behind Mercer and jab the dagger they carried into his back.

“No!” Eonwe screamed. Brynjolf wasn’t moving; he wasn’t even making to defend himself against the attacker. Focused solely on protecting Brynjolf, the Thu’um swelled in her throat and she released it with all her might.

“FUS RO DAH!”

The force knocked the attacker off their feet and cannoned them into the rocks, and they hit the ground rolling, powdery snow cloaking the black clothes they wore. Brynjolf had lifted his arms in defense against the Thu’um and was looking up now, and his face drained of colour as he was confronted with the truth – the truth she had hidden for innumerable months.

Eonwe came to a dead halt, mortified as she realized what she had done.

Now… everything changes.

Chapter Text

The cup of cider had cooled, and yet Eonwe hadn’t taken a single sip of it.

The cooking hearths snapped and popped as they chewed with jagged flames through the split logs lain in stacks and piled with dried sticks and old brush, sending up a pleasantly heady spice into the upper beams of the inn. The smell of rich meat dribbling with juices seared over the open flames, splashes of fat sizzling as they fell amongst the ashes. The tang of spirits drifted in the air as thick as any perfume, nauseatingly sweet and bitter at the same time. A bard strummed his lute quietly at one of the bench tables lining the walls, stacked with loaves of crusty bread and wheels of fragrant cheeses. The song the bard played was idle, hardly paid attention to from the faraway gaze resting on a cracked flagstone; to Eonwe, it sounded like the love song as sung by a broken heart.

Dusk had fallen. The sun’s blazing orb had sunken into the distant horizons, cloaking the world in shadowy lavenders and azures. The wind whipped off the mountains, streaking across the road and howling outside of the inn, rattling the tree branches so they scratched the wooden walls like fingernails. Eonwe curled tighter in the chair by the fire, eyes sightless pools brimming with an endless flow of tears, afraid that those fingers would snatch her, and accuse her of carrying no trust for him, and without trust there was nothing.

Honesty is hard to come by, when you’re a thief. That was what he’d said to her. On that night they’d lain side by side, wondering if they had what it took to be honest to one another and trust in each other. We found out after all, Eonwe thought bleakly. He doesn’t trust me because he’s afraid he’ll lose me again, but how can I promise him I’ll never be in danger? It’s a promise I can never make, and it’s one he can never make me if I asked for it.

She wished someone would bring her the answers and tell her how to make it easier; she wished it so fervently that she startled at the opening of the door, but it was a mere customer, red-cheeked and bundled in a thick hood and cloak. They hardly paid her any mind; just a curious glance as they walked to the counter to buy a bed to rent.

The Skeleton Key was heavy in her pocket, swinging lightly in a reminder of her duty; a duty she could not perform, not now. Perhaps not ever – not when this was the fate she had been promised, the fate she had been given, the fate she herself had chosen. I brought this upon myself. Every… single… moment.

Wretched with confusion and grief, Eonwe helplessly plunged into renewed misery and began to cry in earnest.

The chair beside hers creaked and a light hand patted her shoulder; she looked up and into the face of an elderly woman, so old that her mouth and eyes nearly disappeared in the soft sagging skin pooling on her face; her silver hair held white streaks, all pulled back into a tight knot at the back of her head, and she sat with a hunched spine, gnarled fingers clutching a leather bag on her lap. The elderly woman wore several layered homespun dresses, ranging from crushed snowberry to burlap brown and a dusky blue, with a thin leather jerkin overtop. A large hooded wolf skin cloak completed the ensemble, as well as a kind smile. “Do not cry, my dear,” the old woman told Eonwe gently. “They are wasted tears.”

“I can’t help it,” Eonwe murmured, lip wobbling dangerously. The old woman reached into her sleeve and withdrew a handkerchief, and handed it to her. Eonwe made a gracious enough word of thanks and dabbed her eyes; the handkerchief smelled familiar, despite her stuffed nose.

“You may choose all that happens in your life, dear one,” the elderly woman smiled, deepening the lines around her eyes and mouth. A light twinkled in her shielded eyes.

“But that’s what’s wrong,” Eonwe professed fretfully, fingers kneading the handkerchief. “I chose to… to do something and this is the consequence of not following my fate.”

“Fate is not predestined,” the elderly woman assured, her tone hardening. “It is created.”

“Oh, not me,” she laughed hollowly, looking away into the flames. The firelight’s glow reminded her of the coppery-bronze of his hair. “Definitely not me. And now that he knows about me…”

The old woman was burrowing around in her leather bag, barely heeding Eonwe any attention. She made a soft “Aha!” and drew something forth, beckoning to Eonwe to hold out her hand. She did, cautiously, and a silver ring was placed in her palm; Eonwe recognized it immediately, but didn’t understand.

“He loves you.” Eonwe lifted her head sharply in surprise. The elderly woman straightened with a sound of discomfort and nodded to her, smile sympathetic but encouraging. “Do not be afraid of what is already certain. Your path will be long, but together you will endure its hardships. Farewell, dear one.” A brief hint of sadness crossed her face then, and she turned away to the door, shuffling with her leather bag held in front of her. She squeaked in complaint as the door refused to open, and Karliah bobbed into view, prying it aside and holding it for the woman to leave.

“Why, how kind!” the elderly woman exclaimed, and shuffled out into the growing darkness. Eonwe stared after her in silent astonishment, feeling as though she had missed something crucial. What on Nirn just happened…?

Karliah let the door close and she started towards the counter, but swiftly changed her mind and crossed the inn, limping from the bruised ribs, and stopped beside Eonwe. She gazed down at her with uncertain eyes, and her eyes shifted to the chair, then back.

Eonwe sighed. “Go ahead. No one’s claimed it,” she offered dully.

Karliah sat with some effort, favouring her side, and folded her hands in her lap; the action reminded Eonwe so much of herself when she had been younger and in trouble that she managed a chuckle. It surprised Karliah as much as it surprised herself. She and the elf looked at each other, both standing on a precipice neither of them wanted to jump off, even though the big scary creature was gaining on them from behind.

“I cannot take back what I’ve done,” Karliah began faintly.

“I know,” Eonwe answered.

“And I feel no joy or peace – only the weight of remorse.”

“You did what you thought was necessary.” Even now, Eonwe found the energy to make an excuse on her behalf, but she didn’t know why. “No one can blame you for making an honest mistake.”

“But what I did…” Karliah broke off. Was she hesitant or just uncertain of how to word what she wanted to say? “You and Brynjolf…”

“Are finished,” Eonwe concluded sharply, recoiling from the sound of his name.

“Did he say that?” Karliah asked sharply.

“It doesn’t have to be said. I just know it,” Eonwe felt the tears well up again, followed by a rush of impatient anger; hadn’t she sobbed pitifully enough? The Dragonborn, rendered to a sniffling ball of mush over a broken heart. What a legend to be inspired by, she thought with vile sarcasm.

Eonwe wondered when she’d begun referring to herself as the Dragonborn.

“Have you spoken to him since?” Karliah asked in a gentle way that made Eonwe’s skin prickle with annoyance. I don’t need sympathy, especially not hers!

“The Key,” she said, changing the topic quickly. “All I have to do is return it to the Sepulcher and luck will be restored to the Guild?”

“Yes,” Karliah nodded. “Except you will have to take the Pilgrim’s Path. It was a series of trials made for those who worshipped Nocturnal but were not officially Nightingales. It’s a maze full of dangers, as far as I know.”

“You’ve never seen it?”

“No. Nightingales used a portal-” Karliah frowned. “When you get there, you’ll see. What I want to know is if you’ve talked to him.”

Eonwe buried her face in her arms childishly, refusing to speak. The ring pressed the palm of her hand, and a sudden rush of feelings enveloped her, but no tears accompanied it. She opened her eyes and looked at the ring; was it the exact same one? Was it still locked away in the drawer of her bedside table in the cistern? The trinket of “ill luck” or so she had thought – how could it bring her such clarity now? But more importantly, who was the woman? Perhaps some kind of seer?

The woman had given it to her for a reason, and she mindlessly slipped it onto her finger.

“Eonwe, go to him,” Karliah encouraged. “Don’t let me be the reason you and he fell apart. He cares too much about you to live with something like that. I saw it on his face when we lost you in Irkngthand. Please, salvage the one thing I haven’t butchered. Please.”

The wind howled outside, the lonesome song of a wolf.

<> 

The wind was blowing across the surface of the water, rippling and making small waves on the far shore. Snowberry bushes rustled, dropping beads of red that looked like blood on the snow – an all-too-familiar sight and much too soon to be looked at without being mercilessly reminded.

Brynjolf stood at the end of the dock, hands in his pockets and gazing out as he had done for the rest of the day until the cessation of daylight. He tried not to focus on the cold; if he did, he wasn’t sure if he had the nerve to walk into the inn and have to see her face.

Right now, for the life of him, he didn’t think he could handle it.

Eonwe climbed down the steps and followed the little path, trimmed with snowberry bushes, until her boots thudded on the boards of the dock. She kept walking, keeping a determined stride, refusing to lose her confidence. If she stopped now she would never be able to turn back. You earn nothing unless you give a little, she told herself again. I need to be willing to make sacrifices. That’s what it means to be human – that’s who I know I can try to be.

Brynjolf didn’t turn to face her when she reached him. Eonwe took a calming breath and stepped around in front of him, and very slowly looked up at his face. He didn’t look at her, but his jaw tightened as he clenched his teeth, clearly fighting to hold himself together. Eonwe felt her heart yearning for relief in the knotted tension but she centered herself, forcing herself to stay calm.

Tell the truth.

“I’m the Dragonborn,” she said. “I learned who I was after I survived Helgen. I was forced to work with someone who wanted to make me a weapon, and I defied my destiny. I chose to make my own fate, and that fate led me to the Thieves Guild and…” her voice broke but she pushed on with all her courage. “And to you. I was scared to tell you who I was because everyone had judged me by a destiny I never wanted, one I never chose, and I wanted you to see me for who I want to be, not what fate decrees. I’m sorry for all of the promises I could never make you; that I didn’t tell you the truth about me; that I wasn’t honest with you.”

Eonwe stopped and took another calming breath.

“I don’t deserve your trust,” she added softly, an afterthought.

“Aye,” he answered emotionlessly.

Eonwe swallowed. Is that it? Is that all he can say?

But part of her knew it wouldn’t have been some happy reunion, with them paving over the past eight months of mutual suffering only for it to be them who tore each other apart, further than any prison or ruin could.

Eonwe struggled to control the desperate urge to talk more, to shout and scream, to hit him and make him move or talk – to do anything more than just stand there, gazing out past her head. But she couldn’t open her mouth other than to breathe, and she couldn’t speak with her lips; words she longed to say echoed in her head, never coming out, never sounding right enough to come out.

Backtracking a little, she cleared her throat and said, “I’m headed for Falkreath at dawn. I’ll take the Skeleton Key to the Twilight Sepulcher and… afterwards I’ll… go.”

Eonwe didn’t miss the small twitch of his brow and he looked down at her, puzzlement and suspicion darkening his face. Their gazes held, binding them together briefly, and it was Eonwe who had to look away from the magnetizing pull of his stare. There was too much revealed there, more than she could face bravely.

“I… I figured I should let you know, if you couldn’t find me in the morning,” Eonwe stammered nervously, retreating within herself. “I just wanted to tell you what you deserve to know. I… um. G-goodnight.” Too wound up to speak anymore without making a complete fool of herself, or losing all control of her emotions, she dodged around him and began walking up the boardwalk as fast as she could without breaking into a run. The boards hammered like her heart.

I’m leaving and never returning. That’s what I’ve told you. It’s the only thing I can do, to stop the pain. I can’t force you to understand, and I won’t make you suffer one moment longer. Brynjolf… I-

The final board was passing under her foot when she stopped, stomach lurching. One more step and it was over. One more pace forward and she gave up everything she fought to come back to, everything she loved with all her heart. One more step… could she do it?

“Lass?”

Eonwe teetered where she stood, trapped between a rock and a hard place, her breath hitching in her throat. Planks thumped lightly then stopped, only a few paces behind.

“I only see you,” he told her. “You might be the Dragonborn, but I don’t see anyone but you. I can assure you that has not changed.”

With those words, Eonwe found the strength to turn around and meet his eye. He kept a safe distance and made no move to come any closer, but she understood; some wounds needed time to heal.

“Be safe in Falkreath,” he said, “I’ll be in Riften, waiting for your return.”

Eonwe nodded and wordlessly walked away.

Chapter Text

A lone dragon flew, cupping the currents of wind in its wings, soaring high above the lake towards the northern peak of Shearpoint. Far below, a field of rubies and garnets sparkled with a dark luster on a bed of shimmering white diamonds, but the dragon heeded it little mind.

Blood gushed up between Eonwe’s fingers as she pressed her hands over the gaping wound, fervently struggling to stop the bleeding. She swept back an irritating stand of hair longer than the rest, leaving a line of crimson from temple to cheek, and looked up back and forth between Brynjolf and Karliah with crazed eyes, standing rigidly as they observed her futile efforts, stiller than stone. “Do something!” she screamed. “Do something, dammit!”

A hand closed over hers, its grasp weak and slippery with blood. She looked down at Mercer, his face drawn with unimaginable pain, but an intense concentration flared deep in his sea-green gaze. Fumbling awkwardly, with his other hand, he withdrew the Skeleton Key and closed her fingers tightly around it. Eonwe realized he’d must have retrieved it when she left the cave.

“R-return… it…,” Mercer choked, blood bubbling on his lips, his breath coming raggedly. Eonwe nodded; face streaming, she watched helplessly as death seized him painfully. Brynjolf and Karliah stood silent vigil, equally stricken and pale.

With a final staggering gasp, Mercer Frey drew his final breath and died.

<> 

Reining the grey mare to a stop, Eonwe looked down the dirt track leading to the door in the face of the mountainside. It shivered in and out of focus, losing its tangibility and at once becoming solid again. An illusion; a trick of the eye; a shadow seen by those who walked in their shade.

Dismounting and leaving the horse to graze, Eonwe approached the door and held up the Skeleton Key. The door solidified and slowly swung open in welcome, and Eonwe descended into the Twilight Sepulcher.

The temple was suitably and perpetually dark all the way through the Pilgrim’s Path, guarded by the inhospitable shades of Nightingales separated from the Ebonmere and left to dwindle, forever lost in mind and spirit, their sacred duty forgotten to time as they prowled the dim gloom for the beginnings of an eternity. Eonwe was not alone in her trek; once or twice, something flickered at the corner of her eye, or a corrupted sentinel collapsed with a shrieking wail, pooling into a puddle of dark mist and ectoplasm. A sense of foreboding rocked Eonwe and she travelled cautiously, feeling a presence walking in her footsteps, expecting the shadows to jump alive.

But was her accompaniment friend or foe, real or an illusionary? She didn’t know, and they didn’t tell her. Deciding they were a figment of her imagination, she carried on.

At last she stepped into a large cylindrical room, its roof open to the sky and revealing the stars. Night had fallen and the moonlight lit up the space, chasing away the shadows and casting away any company. It was a narrow, claustrophobic room, stone-walled and held the feeling of a prison. The door had vanished when she turned to it again.

In the center of the room a circular disk had appeared. Pewter and edged with a spiralling engraving, each loop holding a tiny gem that reflected the starlight, a slit was in the very middle. Eonwe crouched over it and realized it was a lock – a keyhole. Eonwe looked down at the Key in her hand, ebbing with power, and a piece of her rejoiced to hold it. Visions of domination and glory flooded her mind, and she closed herself to it quickly. No, I will not be tempted by your corruptive power, she thought fiercely.

Fitting the Skeleton Key into the lock, she twisted it once and into place.

The floor cracked and the split divided out several times, a diamond pattern breaking the floor into several sections; dark smoke rose from the hairline splits and the floor fell away, becoming everlasting darkness. Eonwe fell into it, screaming, but her plummet stopped almost as soon as it had begun; she bounced off a hard surface and rolled, a throbbing soreness in her elbow from landing on it. Lifting her head with a muffled curse, she could see purplish glow in the center of the floor, where a bottomless gap plunged even deeper, and the sound of rustling wind reached her ears.

The rustling grew louder and Eonwe watched in surprise as a flock of black birds erupted from the pit, cawing and screeching as they beat their wings with furious speed. Eonwe shielded her arms around her head as they dove down, spiralling maddeningly, wings beating against her sides. A glimpse of their round purple eyes told her they were not ordinary birds.

“And so you return my artefact. I ought to congratulate you for your… triumphs,” a worldly voice intoned, and Eonwe jerked her head up to see the figure that had abruptly appeared from the pit.

It was a wraith, wrapped in the darkness of night. She was not human, not even humanoid; she was fleshless, an entity of swarming black mist coalesced into a vaguely feminine form, but she continuously shifted and reformed for her resulting figure to be truly described. Her robes billowed around her, silver and black, a molten cloth of mercury, trailing around her form in an almost snakelike manner; but it was her eyes Eonwe latched onto it. Glowing indigo and slit pupiled, they were fixed on Eonwe’s face in immense interest and boredom, somehow all at once.

“You impress me, Nightingale,” Nocturnal continued, but sounded as though she were not impressed at all. “There are few mortals who ever do, but you and I both know you are no ordinary woman.”

“I am here to complete our contract,” Eonwe snapped. “And to relinquish my status as a Nightingale. I have returned your Key; now give me back what I ask for.”

“Such demands,” Nocturnal sighed in displeasure. “It is all you mortals ever do.”

“I asked for nothing until now,” Eonwe argued. “None of this was my choice.”

“And you were born with the blood of dragons,” Nocturnal pointed out sharply. “It is your birthright to claim power, to demand subjugation under your rule. With my Skeleton Key you could unlock your potential, Eonwe Jorgiis. It could be yours, if only you asked me for such.”

“No,” Eonwe answered firmly. “I don’t want it.”

“Is that so?” Nocturnal smiled. “If you wish, I will heed your words and renounce my gifts to you. But another asked something of me, and I can only obey their request for their service unto me.” Holding out one hand, she gestured to something behind Eonwe, but a voice spoke before she could even fully turn around to look.

“I’m glad you finally learned how to follow my orders,” came a brusque retort.

Mercer.

Spectral in form and wearing a familiar distempered scowl, he leaned against the wall with his arms folded across his chest. Beside him stood a second Nightingale, this one middle-aged, straight and skinny as a beanpole, a scholarly authority emanating from the curious set of his brow. He had a pleasant if vaguely strict face, long and slender, features narrow and sharp, beginning with the angular nose to the blunt jawline. Handsome and approachable, he looked like the sort of individual who’d talk for hours about his favourite area of field but would be bored or impatient with lesser minds. Eonwe somehow suspected that this was Gallus.

Eonwe coughed to hide her laugh. “It was your dying wish. How could I ignore that?” Mercer narrowed his eyes but it was only mock-annoyance and he stepped forward, his expression changing to real anger as he regarded Nocturnal.

“I suffered years of torment under your hand,” he growled. “She asked you to let her go. Do it.”

Nocturnal bristled visibly for the briefest of moments and Eonwe thought she would deny Mercer. There was no telling what a Daedric Prince could do, with all of the power she could want at her fingertips, and Eonwe drew back a step.

Gallus suddenly stepped in front of her, shielding her, and glared up at Nocturnal. “Nocturnal, you have no claim on her soul. She had completed her appointed quest. It is done.”

Eonwe felt a faint shudder up her spine, and the feeling of a collar around her neck that she’d not noticed before suddenly lost its tightness. She didn’t need to be told; she was free from the Daedra’s grasp. She breathed a mute sigh of relief and made a slight nod of gratitude to Mercer.

Now, it was done.

“Gallus?”

Everyone turned to the high-pitched gasp and Eonwe saw Karliah step through a dark passage ringed in purple. The elf looked astonished, and Eonwe jumped slightly as the predecessor Guild Master passed through her form; a rapid series of memories rushed through her head as he waked through her body, glimpses of an older Thieves Guild and his love for Karliah, and darker memories centered around his grief for Mercer and enduring, tormenting loneliness afterwards, trapped in an cold infinity evermore. It was all within the blink of an eye that she experienced these things, and she had lean against the wall to regain herself.

“Karliah,” Gallus went to her but stopped up short, one hand raised as though to caress her face. An age of misery swept between them and Eonwe understood their grief, and retreated from the privacy of knowing Gallus’ remembrances. She looked away from the Nightingales as they made their farewells proper, and Mercer joined her with a knowing look.

“Ghosts, spirits, shades,” he said. “It’s why the living fear them. Many are turned against themselves and become shadows of the people they used to be, and so they haunt the living, leaving traces of their memories behind to keep others at bay.”

“No one else was supposed to die,” Eonwe told him, meeting his gaze. “All of the death and loss… it was supposed to have ended. It wasn’t meant to be this way.”

Mercer nudged her, his hand brushing through her arm, and she suddenly relaxed with the makings of a smile. The end of his life was a clean slate, bright with certainty and tranquility. There was no fury in his heart, only quiet contemplation. In the end, he had finally found peace, and the knowledge was enough for Eonwe to know it was alright.

“The Evergloam calls. I’ll keep Nocturnal on her toes,” he chuckled and turned away, approaching the rippling blue pool that had formed where the pit had been. He climbed the steps surrounding it and looked into the dark waters, then at Karliah and Gallus in softness, then finally at Eonwe. She tilted her head to one side in question as he offered his last words of advice.

“Protect them.”

Eonwe knew the weight of his request; nevertheless, she made her promise with a nod.

Mercer stepped into the Ebonmere and disappeared in a ripple of shadow.

“And now I must leave you,” Gallus’ voice reached her.

“I know,” Karliah whispered, clenching her fists at her sides. Eonwe’s heart ached; she suspected she knew the grief the elf was suffering.

“He doesn’t blame you,” Gallus assured. “And neither do I. Trust your wits, and walk in the shadows. I will be there to guide you. Soon, my love, we will embrace once again.”

Gallus glanced Eonwe’s way before he departed. “You have the makings of a fine young thief, Eonwe,” he addressed her kindly. “And I believe the Thieves Guild will never fall under your leadership. But even I am aware that your destiny belongs elsewhere,” he frowned, brows stooping above his eyes; Eonwe must have imagined it, but she thought that if they were any colour they would have been the pale grey of dawn’s first light. “Thievery is not the way of a hero.”

“I’m no hero,” Eonwe argued. “Don’t judge me by that-”

“Ah, but you are. It is those who do not seek power or leadership that make the greatest rulers. And all great rulers question their lead. It is in you to guide those who seek a sovereign; your heart is strong, but your faith in yourself is where your weakness lies.

“I suggest that you listen to the voice within,” Gallus concluded with a knowing smile. “Sometimes, it is not the words of others who can decide when it is time to be brave and do what’s right. I bid you farewell, Eonwe. May darkness guide your path, and not burden it.”

Karliah came to her side and Eonwe took her hand, squeezing the slender grey fingers as they squeezed back tightly. Gallus strode to the Ebonmere and spoke words neither of them heard, then he stepped into the pool and he too vanished. Karliah turned to Eonwe with a hitching sob, and she wrapped her arms around the elf as she cried.

<> 

A dragon was circling over a column of smoke rising from the remains of a lumber mill somewhere in the heart of the Rift.

Eonwe swung out of the saddle of her grey and led the mare into the trees, concealing them as they kept out of the sight of the flying serpent amongst the gold-and-white branches. As she passed the lumber mill and returned to the road, she passed a small patrol of guards wearing dark purple sashes and carrying shields with the Riften emblem emblazoned in paint on them.

Passing them, she saw a woman sitting at the roadside, covered with soot stains, and a young boy younger than ten with his arms wrapped around her. He looked up at Eonwe with moist eyes and filthy cheeks, and she held his gaze for a moment, perturbed. A family driven from their home, destroyed by fire. It was all too familiar.

Less than half a mile up the road, she had to dismount again to vomit into the bushes. Her hands shook profusely and she sat on a rock, breathing calmingly as her horse fumbled at her short hair with soft velvet lips. Eonwe stroked the soft neck and stared sightlessly ahead.

Your destiny belongs elsewhere. Listen to the voice within.

Eonwe took a cleansing breath and looked out at the Treva River, blue and sparkling in the late early morning sun. The trees rustled, whispering words to a song only they understood. The grey mare snorted and trailed away a bit, dropping her head to crop at the grass. And Eonwe looked within and thought.

I’m the Dragonborn, she reasoned. I know that much. I know I have the ability to speak in dragon tongue and swallow their souls. And prophecy dictates that I’m supposed to defeat Alduin, and stop him from destroying the world.

The dragons would never stop. They would burn every settlement and village, and in larger numbers they would decimate the cities. She thought of the lumber mill mother and her son. Countless more would die. They would die because of her, because she was afraid.

Why am I afraid? Eonwe wondered, closing her eyes. Why was I given this power? Why was I chosen to be the saviour; the legend from the stories? Why… me?

She supposed that whoever the Dragonborn was, they might ask that same question. It wasn’t necessarily who she was; it was the fact that she had been chosen to save the world. The Gods had looked at her and picked her, deciding her fate before she’d even taken her first breath.

My life has been for one purpose alone: What if I denied it? What if I kept turning my back to it and let the dragons destroy everything? Eonwe knew it was selfishness and greed. To do nothing meant condemning every living soul to a future of endless torment and terror. How could she even contemplate such a thing? It wasn’t like she could stick her head in the sand or hide in the cistern for the rest of her-

All of a sudden, it became clear. Eonwe opened her eyes with a jolt as the answer she was searching for came to her, brighter than the sun: The Guild.

Everything she had worked for, everything she had fought to protect. It would be gone, all of it… just gone. There would be no Guild – no Delvin chasing after Vex; no Vex turning down every single one of Delvin’s pleas; no Rune with his happy smile when any of the thieves returned; no Sapphire with her dignified stance; no Vipir telling his ridiculous stories that he told over and over; no Thrynn to tell Vipir to get some new damn stories; no Etienne wishing Eonwe a kind welcome or goodbye; no Cynric and Niruin challenging each others’ marksmanship skills; no Tonilia and Vekel in The Ragged Flagon.

No Brynjolf.

Eonwe felt her heart crush in her chest, and suddenly a very dark thought crossed her mind.

How are you any different than the Thalmor who burned your home and slaughtered your family? You let that happen to another child today. They have no home, and no future, because you’ve denied what you are meant to do.

What would your parents say, to see their daughter is a coward?

She had made a promise, and she kept her promises. She slid off the rock; gathering the reins and swinging back into the saddle, she turned the mare towards Riften.

Eonwe knew what she had to do.

<>

It made it that much worse that Riften had to be beautiful when she walked through the gates.

Walking through the city quickly, she reached the secret entrance and pressed her thumb into the amber button in the center of the diamond – the mark of the Thieves Guild. Descending the steps, she left the chain untouched and climbed down the ladder, knowing it would be brief.

Eonwe reached the foot of the ladder and stepped off carefully; it was exceptionally slippery and she’d nearly fallen coming down it. She made for her bed on the other side of the cistern, forcing a smile and saying a quick word of greeting when the thieves welcomed her back with shining eyes. They must be happy he’s dead, she thought glumly. But they wouldn’t understand.

Hauling a spare backpack from the chest, she began packing her belongings until it was stuffed to the top and could barely close. She let it slam shut and went to the side table, and yanked open the drawer.

Madesi’s silver ring slid forward.

Eonwe picked up the ring and wiped the thin layer of dust from the forged silver. It gleamed, as new as the day it had been crafted, and she looked down at the one on her finger. It was aged and marked, carried in rough conditions for years, and yet it was a perfect replica; that much could not be denied.

Pulling the ring from her finger she held them in each palm, trying to decide what it meant. Was it a sign? Why had the elderly woman – whoever she was – given it to her?

Placing the first ring back in the side table, Eonwe slipped the worn one back onto her finger and closed the drawer; she rested her palm on the table surface for a moment. It was a mystery she could puzzle out another time. Swinging her pack onto one shoulder, she made for the ladder and paused, allowing herself one final look around the cistern. In her mind’s eye, she saw herself in another time, entering the secret underground establishment for the first time, beginning the story anew.

Eonwe felt a hard lump in her throat and her nose pinched with fresh tears, and she looked away. Goodbye, everyone. I’ll remember you, always.

Walking out of the graveyard entrance and pressing the button to seal it again, she was brushing through the wilting petals of the nightshade flowers when she heard a low cough behind her. She whipped around, startled, thinking that she was alone.

Brynjolf leaned against the wall, watching her with a very keen and troubled look.

The pack slid from her shoulder and she took several steps back until she was outside of the graveyard, confronted by the one terrifying demon she couldn’t face. Brynjolf pushed away from the wall and every sense screamed to flee, and she staggered backwards; not fast enough, he wrapped his arms around her and drew her close, holding her to him.

“I saw it on your face the minute you walked in. Lass, I know you,” he murmured in her ear, his voice rumbling in his chest. “You’ve done this before.”

The dam splintered and the river crashed through, relentless. Brynjolf held her as she sobbed, shaking so hard that he had to hold her upright. Eonwe abandoned herself to her fear, clinging to him with fingers like claws, imagining destiny sinking its fangs into her from behind and trying to pull her away, while a little voice taunted her and told her it was alright to stay... and hide… and let the world burn.

For a moment she nearly let it win.

“I have to do this,” she forced out between her teeth. “I can’t evade it any longer. I saw a family at the roadside, Bryn. A dragon destroyed their home.” She pulled back to see his face, to make him understand the same battle she was fighting. “How many more children will lose their homes, their families, their lives?”

Her legs gave out and she collapsed, and Brynjolf went with her, catching her before she could hit the ground. He pulled her into his arms, shushing her as he rocked her gently. “I know, lass. I know.”

“Do you?” she asked meekly. “Have you had everything taken away that mattered? It’s in my blood to not let that happen. I have to slay Alduin, and I have to do it alone.”

Brynjolf jerked and his eyes went wide. “No,” he said firmly. “I won’t let you face this destiny alone. All you’ve done for me, for the Guild… how could I stand by when you don’t have to be alone in all this? I’ve stood by long enough while you’ve dealt with so much.”

“Bryn,” her throat closed as renewed tears welled up in her eyes, leaving her speechless with the rushing of feelings. “Oh, Bryn.” He smiled lopsidedly, in the way he knew she loved, lifting his hand from her knee to rub his thumb below her eye, where the pooling tears had spilled over. Eonwe raised her hand quickly, catching his and holding the warmth of his roughened palm to her cheek.

“I want you to be safe,” Eonwe whispered, swallowing to clear her throat. “I need you to be safe.”

“Do you think I want you to run headlong into danger without me?” he challenged. “To sit and worry, waiting forever for you to come back to me? I’ve had but a taste of it and it’s poison. Is that what you want for me, lass?”

“No. No!” Eonwe clutched his hand harder, eyes searching. “Please, Bryn. Don’t make this harder for me. Leaving you… it’s the last thing I want to do but… I can’t do everything.” Her tone was final, absent at the realization. Brynjolf’s eyes echoed the same blankness, but the stubborn set of his jaw told her all she needed to know.

“I can’t have everything the way I want it,” she added softly. “And neither can you. I have to make sacrifices, but you… I will never sacrifice you. If I know you’re safe, then I will be, too.”

Brynjolf grasped Eonwe’s face in his hands and kissed her. It was startlingly urgent and warm, and Eonwe sank into the feel of his lips, her fingers clinging to his sides. Her senses were full of him and the top of her head was beginning to spin, but she’d never felt so alive, so euphoric. Eonwe felt like she was drowning in Irkngthand all over again but this time, she didn’t mind. Brynjolf could drown her all he cared; there was nothing more that she wanted in that moment.

He drew back and grinned. “Have I ever told you that you’re the most stubborn, arrogant, defiant lass I’ve ever met in the thirty-six years I’ve lived?”

“No, you haven’t. Not out loud, at least,” she kissed him lightly and he took her hand.

“I wouldn’t have you any other way. I wouldn’t change you for the world, Eonwe,” he looked into her eyes and she saw a flash of something that made her breath catch, “because it’s you I’ve fallen in love with.”

He loves me.

Brynjolf loves me.

Do I love him?

Eonwe barely had to consider the question; it’d not even fully crossed her mind before she knew the truth. It ran deeply through her, as rich and potent as her blood, igniting her flesh and setting her heart ablaze. She seized him by the collar and pulled him close, pressing against him as she sought the warm fullness of his mouth. He reciprocated with a half-controlled hunger, driven almost mad by the desire to have all of what she could give and take whatever more he could, knowing she would have him all if possible.

Brynjolf tasted and felt like everything Eonwe knew and remembered, yet he was foreign, a mystery, still new to her and invigorating on a level that was deadly. Stubble scraped her chin as she put all of her heart into the kiss, pushing her heart and soul into the thief’s hands, breathing in his scent and savouring every moment of their last seconds. Brynjolf responded fiercely, his hands digging into the back of her jacket and clinging to her like a life vessel. Her teeth scraped his lower lip, drawing a low moan of response from him. Hot desire struck and lulled Eonwe, shaking and shattering her until she felt like nothing would be right unless it was nothing but skin on skin, flesh on flesh. The idea must have crossed his mind because his hands began to reach for buckles, and hers sought belt loops.

Time is running out.

The words brushed through Eonwe’s mind and she recoiled from them, fighting them away, but they instantly forced themselves back, becoming a clear focus in the midst of selfish desire filling her mind. She broke away and heaved for breath, but couldn’t bring herself to let Brynjolf go.

“I’m not making this any easier,” he rasped hoarsely. Eonwe found herself shaking her head.

“No, you aren’t. Neither am I.”

He laughed softly and lifted her head with a press of his finger under her chin to kiss her lightly. “Go, lass.”

Eonwe blinked in surprise. “Really?”

“Aye, but the only way I’ll let you is if you promise me something,” he stroked her cheek in the way he had come to do so often, and she leaned into his touch, enjoying the roughened pad of his thumb. His eyes met hers, bright in the morning sunshine and as hard as emeralds.

“Come back to me, Eonwe.”

Chapter Text

Most decide their own fate, and make their own destinies. But my fate was decided for me, and my destiny is one I did not choose. But I chose him, and if following the path laid out for me will save everything I've gained, everything I've fought so hard to protect... then I do have a choice in choosing my destiny and deciding the fates for the ones I love.

But if there was anything I regretted, it was that I never told Brynjolf I loved him before I’d left. Three months ago, I’d thought I would be able to keep my promise to him and return home. I’d kissed him on the cheek and laughed, telling him not to worry and that I’d be back soon. He’d believed me – or at least he’d tried to – and I’d forced myself to not look at him once I’d turned away.

It killed me now to know I’d lied to him.

Alduin struck me full across the middle with his tail, sending me hurtling backwards. I bounced and rolled, vision whirling unsteadily, and I felt flames streaming out over my head. Looking up, orange fire danced in my vision all around me and the World-Eater loomed, head tilting to one side. The flames reflected in his eyes and he drew back his lips, revealing a double row of ivory teeth, and lunged.

The teeth crunched around me, sinking into my flesh and tearing as his jaws worked. I screamed, pushing fervently at the dragon’s mouth. I could feel myself being shredded apart, and I tasted blood in my mouth as my spine was severed. My agonized screams stopped and I died.

<> 

Eonwe’s eyes flew open.

The lake stretched out before her, a smooth mirror of perfect silver. The sky above was pale pink, filled with luminous pearly clouds. Masser was a red orb hanging above, Secunda close beside in its shadow but bright with a light of its own. There was no breeze and no sounds; it was perfect silence.

Eonwe looked down. She was naked, protected by only her skin but it had done little to save her. Deep scores raked across her body, across her chest and back, giant ribbons with uneven edges, large diagonal scars that bled and oozed down, dripping onto the small flat rock on which upon she perched with bare-toed feet. Perhaps the sky was pink, a reflection of the water stained by her blood?

Between her breasts was the amulet.

“I have dreamed of this before,” she spoke aloud, reaching up to touch the dangling pendant. It was dark bronze, splattered with her blood. The amulet was hot to the touch when her fingers brushed it and she jumped. A faint ripple stirred the water and she looked out at it, curious at the infinity stretching vastly ahead and beyond.

“Geh, Eonwe.” A deep sundering voice rang above her and she lifted her head. Her pupils enlarged in astonishment as she beheld the ivory dragon hovering above her. His wings moved fractionally, slowed as though he were trapped in time. He was a regal beast, two horns curling inward at the top of his triangular head, and his wings, much to Eonwe’s surprise, were feathery scales, the colour of sun-lightened bone.

“Zu’u Akatosh, rah se tiid. Zu’u him bormahu. I am your creator, dovahkiin. I have frozen tiid and brought you to my suleyksejun.”

Eonwe looked upon the dragon – Akatosh, the God of Time – in awe. He was the definition of magnificence and she felt the strange urge to bow, but remained standing. “What is it you… want of me?” she queried curiously.

Akatosh breathed a cloud of mist and it cloaked Eonwe in its heady softness, heavy with the smell of wind and time; the cloud soothed her injuries and she watched in fascination as her skin knitted closed, leaving fresh pink scars on her body. They were grotesque and bizarre, but they no longer ached. Eonwe suddenly understood.

“Dovahkiin, it is your vennesetiid – your destiny,” Akatosh answered for her. “Go now. Kriin Alduin and bring an end to his thur - his tyrannical lordship. You have only begun to walk the miiraad of your dez. Take this ofan – this gift – dovahkiin. Use it well.”

Akatosh opened his jaws and roared, and Eonwe launched backwards, crashing into the waters and sinking to its bottom. She made no effort to fight, nor could she; the closer to the bottom she reached, the more she could feel herself becoming heavier, and the realm of Akatosh faded as she was restored to life.

Blinking through the smoke, Eonwe climbed to her feet and freshly rejuvenated, she whistled sharply. The amulet was heavy around her neck, a reminder and a token of strength. Alduin swung around, a look of enraged shock crossing his face. “Hey, Alduin,” she called, preparing herself. “Akatosh has a message for you.”

Drawing in as much breath as she could, she used the power of Akatosh in a single mighty blow.

“FUS RO DAH!”

Alduin screamed as the force tore through him, grasping his very essence from his body and skidding it across the field. The scaly form dropped to the ground, lifeless as it burned to a crisp, an empty shell devoid of life and soul. Beyond, the black gooey formation convulsed, pooling into the river and draining away, the oily substance trickling over the waterfall and falling, scattering as droplets into the unknown.

Eonwe fell to her knees and gasped for breath, a lightness filling her head. It was done, it was over. Alduin was defeated. She had slain him. She had won. She laughed, marvelling at what she’d once believed would be impossible.

Destiny had not been so bad, after all.

The pain started and she collapsed.

Eonwe could see Tsun and the three heroes leaning over her worriedly as her vision returned. “What’s happening?” she asked, her voice much fainter than she thought it sounded.

“You’re dying,” Tsun said matter-of-factly. “I must return you to Nirn.”

“But Akatosh…” she was confused. Hasn’t he given me my life back? Or was it only… temporary? What about my destiny? Is this my fate – to die after all?

Brynjolf had been right: She had thought she was immortal… everyone does, until death comes knocking.

Oh, Gods. Don’t let me die, please don’t let me die. I promised him...

Her thoughts stopped as Tsun sent her back to Nirn in an explosion of sound and light.

<> 

Brynjolf knew from the moment he woke up that something was wrong.

He couldn’t put his finger on it for the entire day; everything seemed absolutely fine, except for the fact that today marked the third month since Eonwe had left to challenge and defeat Alduin. He missed her terribly but forced himself to remain busy, knowing the time would pass sooner if he focused on anything but her.

It was after a fortnight he’d given up drinking; the spirits did nothing but give him headaches and keep him awake at night. He still enjoyed a bottle or two occasionally, but he found it was easier to think and not lull in his memories of her without the stuff in him.

Come mid-afternoon, Karliah nearly fell down the ladder in her haste, shouting his name in a frenzy. The moment he was following she was back up the ladder and running out the mausoleum, and Brynjolf chased after her, suddenly worried. What had Karliah so agitated?

His worry became abrupt horror when he saw the enormous red dragon sitting at the edge of the lake, protectively hunched over a slender figure lying in the fresh fallen snow.

Brynjolf might have fallen if Delvin didn’t catch him in time, having followed with most of the other members of the Guild. He and Vex supported him until he’d regained his footing and he staggered forward, heeding the dragon little mind as he approached.

The dragon suddenly raised his head, yellow eyes trained on him intelligently. “You are Brynjolf?”

Brynjolf nodded and the dragon sighed. “Zu’u Odahviing. Thuri requested that I bring her to you.”

The dragon mantled his wings and launched himself into the sky, carrying himself away with a low roar. The Guild stared in shock. Brynjolf dropped to his knees in the snow and gently brushed the hair from her face.

All at once he was screaming and pulling her into his arms. “No! No, Eonwe!”

Her head dangled lifelessly on the end of her neck, rolling limply in his arms. Her eyes were closed, a grey cast beginning to drain the pale olive of her beautiful skin. He brushed her face with complete tenderness but she didn’t respond. She didn’t open her eyes.

Her promise whispered in his ears and he buried his face in her neck, pleading softly, whispering her name, breathing in the faint traces of her scent and clutching the limp, broken form of her body. Still, she didn’t move. She didn’t speak. She didn’t breathe.

Eonwe was dead.

<> 

The funeral pyre was built at the edge of the lake. All of Riften were gathered, and a housecarl from Whiterun had arrived as soon as she’d received word. She stood solemnly with the others beside a second housecarl. Young Sofie cried quietly in Orynn’s arms. Jarl Laila stood with Anuriel quietly.

Alessandra had finished preparing Eonwe’s body for the ceremony and it had been the Guild who’d carried her out. All of them had dressed in their finest for the occasion – and to hide the fact that they were thieves… all except Brynjolf. He still wore his Guild leathers. Karliah stood within the trees in her Nightingale uniform, having spent the last hour trying to communicate with Eonwe in the Evergloam, but to no avail. Nocturnal hadn’t taken her soul; she’d not even been aware that Eonwe had died. Mercer and Gallus lurked in the growing shadows, invisible to the eye, in silent grief.

Delvin and Thrynn laid Eonwe’s body on the top of the pyre, and Sapphire and Vex each placed small bouquets of flowers around her. Etienne came forward and placed a small object that no one saw by her shoulder and said a few quiet words.

Brynjolf was last.

It was an effort to move. He climbed the pyre slowly and looked down on Eonwe’s face. Reaching into his pocket for the ring he’d found in her side table, he lifted her hand and was surprised to see a similar ring already there. They were a perfect match. Without a second thought he pocketed the ring instead and lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a light kiss to her fingers. The faint smell of ritual oils reminded him of when he’d done the same gesture many months before, strangely in company of Alessandra in the Hall of the Dead again.

“The past repeats itself,” he whispered. “For the last time.”

Climbing down from the pyre, he accepted the torch and held it out. The packed straw caught and began to burn evenly, climbing to the top and concealing her in fire. Wood snapped and crackled harshly, and a few words were said by the occasional viewer. They began to disperse. Blackened sticks floated out into the lake.

All left, even Karliah, until only Brynjolf remained. He sat in silent vigil until the first light of dawn turned the sky a deep blue, and at last he shivered, remembering himself.

“I should have made you stay, lass,” he murmured, then turned and shuffled up the road to the gates, floating as if in a horrible, twisted dream.

The flames died down and the first rays of light touched the lake, turning it to crystal, dotted with the pale grey of ashes.

<> 

“And by the power invested in me I, Jarl Laila, do name you Thane of Riften. You are a woman of valour and courage, and I believe this is a time for warriors to defend this city. The vampire menace is devastating the holds as we speak,” she paused in breath, letting her words register among the court. “Gods go with you.”

“I assure you, my Jarl,” Mjoll raised her head, the light of battle in her eyes. “I will protect Riften from any and all threats. But I must insist; the crime and corruption of this city must be eradicated first. I will need a large force; we will drive out the Guild at once.”

Jarl Laila inclined her head. “You have it.”

<> 

At the edge of the lake, among the charred wooden timbers and ashes, a fire ignited to life. Though initially timid in nature, it grew brighter and engulfed the blackened wood floating in the murky waters. Gradually, the wood burned as white as ivory and blazed brighter, crackling and coalescing into a single solid shape. Dark hair pooled in the shallows and pale pink eyelids fluttered, waking as if from a dream. She coughed a puff of smoke and breathed deeply, chest rising and falling.

Boots crunched in the snow along the shore and a shadow passed over her face; snapping wide open, her green eyes immediately flared as fiery as the sun itself, and the pupils narrowed sharply to inhuman, dragon-like slits.

END OF VOLUME I