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Shadow and Steel - a Skyrim fanfiction

FF.net

Archive of Our Own

Prologue

The tunnels beneath Riften were not a place most people would willingly enter. It was a dangerous maze of dark corridors lit only by the occasional flickering candle, cold and damp and unforgiving. Those foolish enough to descend into the Ratway are often found floating in the canals in the days following, if they are found at all, having fallen prey to the traps set for the unwary, stripped of valuables by the desperate inhabitants of the treacherous halls. The single entrance to the tunnels was a rusty gate, nearly obscured by the ivy that climbed the stone foundations of the city along the canals.

Yet for those who knew the tunnels and had the skills to survive them, this place was a haven, away from the prying eyes of the guards above. The wretches and traps of the maze served as a defense for those that didn’t wish to be found.

The city itself had long been deemed unpleasant, despite its favorable location in the Rift. The once prosperous city had fallen on hard times, and the reputation of the city’s most famous inhabitants scared away many travelers. Those with the money moved to better prospects, and those that didn’t did the best with what was left.

The city on the lake was quiet, clouds obscuring the sister moons in the sky. A few flickering torches illuminated the streets of Riften, a few hardy torchbugs and moths fluttering quietly around the dim light of the hanging lanterns. Long past midnight, the guards no longer patrolled the streets, instead leaning against the wooden walls of the buildings, trying to stave off sleep as they stayed close to the warmth of the fires against the early autumn chill.

The guards of Goldenglow Estate were no exception. They still patrolled the winding paths and small bridges with swords ready – they had been too well paid not to – but their eyes were clouded with sleep, ears dull against the peaceful lull of crickets

They didn’t notice when in the middle of the lake, something disturbed the calm surface, ripples shattering the moons’ reflections into a thousand glittering points. A moment later a lone figure crawled up the bank, slowly as to not draw attention with errant movement. In the shadow of the dock she pressed herself flat against the rock wall, trained ears listening to the sounds of the night, picking out the quiet shuffle of feet, the clank of armor, an occasional cough from torch smoke.

She scaled the craggy rock wall after a moment’s pause, nimble fingers easily finding purchase in the tiny crevices, keeping her steady even as her worn leather boots slipped on the wet stone. She scrambled up to the wooden bulwark, risking a quick peek over the ledge. With no one in sight she ducked back under the dock. The thief whistled, long and low, the sound merging with the other noises of the night.

A guard in a nearby watchtower started at the sound, peering into the dark with tired eyes for the source. “Did you hear that?” He asked lowly, putting down his cards uneasily as he stood.

“It’s just an owl.” The other man grumbled, far more interested in trying to get a peek at his partner’s cards while he was distracted. “Relax, kid.”

The younger guard paused, looking back out into the dark uneasily. He was no fool; he knew what an owl sounded like, and that wasn’t it. Not quite. But if his partner wasn’t worried…

He shrugged, turning back to the game in time to see the other man pull an ace out of his sleeve. The indignant yell drowned out the low sloshing of water as two more figures scrambled out from under the dock.

Rune looked up towards the sound of fighting and smiled behind his mask. “Couldn’t have asked for a better distraction.”

“Could’ve asked for a bit less time in the lake.” Dar’Ranir grumbled, wrinkling his nose in distaste as he shook the water out of his fur. “This one will smell like green water for days.”

“You’ll get used to it.” Rune replied cheerfully, craning his neck to get a better look at the quickly growing brawl above them.

“Will you two shut up?” Vex hissed from her perch. “That won’t keep them busy for long.”

“You sure about that?” Rune grinned, mock wincing as the table crashed to the ground. Heavy footfalls thudded on the dock above them as the fight drew the attention of more guards. Rune chuckled lowly as he fell into step behind the two other thieves.

The three crossed the now largely abandoned island quickly, the wet sand of the beach muffling their light footsteps. Still, even with the guards occupied, the thieves didn’t dare let their guard down. Complacency would cost them dearly tonight. The Guild’s entire future rested on this heist. Every breath of wind, every creak of the wooden docks set them on edge. They clung to the shadows, their mottled grey gear merging with the shifting patterns of moonlight and cloud on the rocky shores of the island.

“You’d better be sure about this sewer, Rune.” Dar’Ranir hissed lowly.

“I wouldn’t have brought it up in the Flagon if I wasn’t.” the Imperial snapped back, the nerves chipping away at his regular cheer. The Guild’s reputation might’ve not had the same weight it used to, but money still talked; the right amount to the right guard, and the records hall in the Jarl’s keep would be unattended at just the right time. Finding and copying the map of the estate had been unbelievably simple. “It’s just ahead.”

Dar’Ranir huffed, his answering quip silenced by the creak of footsteps on the dock above them. The three thieves froze, years of training clamping down on the base impulse to dart for cover. They scarcely dared to breathe as the guard paused overhead, tired senses reaching out into the dark at the feeling that something wasn’t right. But seeing nothing, hearing nothing other than the sound of waves and the last crickets of fall, he shrugged and moved to the welcoming warmth and light of the nearby guard tower.

Dar’Ranir was the first to move, navigating the craggy wall with a speed and grace the two Imperials simply couldn’t match. At the top he paused, sensitive ears trained for the slightest hint of danger. Sensing none, he hauled himself onto the ledge and darted under the dock where, as promised, the sewer entrance waited, hidden by the wooden dock and set in the moss covered exposed bedrock of the island. He grinned, sharp teeth flashing, as he motioned for his accomplices to join him.

The ancient lock, not even worth picking, was easily pried off with a sharp twist of Vex’s dagger. Rusty hinges protested sharply as the old grate swung open. Dar’Ranir gagged as the offensive smell of raw sewage and rot assaulted his sensitive nose, and he pulled the bandana around his neck up in an attempt to shield himself from the smell.

“Meet back here in an hour.” Vex ordered as she and the grimacing Khajiit climbed into the sewer. “Hit the hives just before then to clear out the guards.”

Rune nodded, easing the grate shut behind them as the two disappeared into the murk of the sewer. He glanced at Masser’s position in the sky above him before settling against the cold stone wall under the dock to wait.

Time crawled at snail’s pace, the half hour, then three-quarter hour seeming to last an age as Rune sat waiting for his fellow thieves. The island was dark and quiet, the guard rotation having passed and the torches burning low. No crickets chirped, only wind sighing through the trees, waves softly lapping against the stones.

Yet to the Imperial, the silence was deafening. His strained nerves flinched at the barest whisper of a sound, searching for the echo of footsteps in the tunnel next to him, the running of guards above him, anything to tell him what was happening. He was a good thief; he knew how to be patient, to listen and wait. But too much was riding in this heist, and too much could go wrong.

He rose, stifling a groan as his muscles protested the action, stiff from sitting in the cold and wet. His leather armor itched and clung to his lean frame uncomfortably as he crept back cross the island. A lone thief moved faster than three, and he circled the main island quickly, nearly soundless on the sandy shore. A quick glance to the bridge above him showed no sign of guards, and he carefully stepped into the dark water under the bridge, gritting his teeth as his boots filled and his feet instantly numbed. Timing his steps with the low crashing of waves on the shore, he waded the short distance to the smaller island through the knee deep water, peering up through the gaps in the planks for some sign of the guards.

The island housing Aringoth’s precious hives rose higher above the lake than the main island, the bank steeper and less rocky, muddier. He scrambled up, biting back a curse as a few stones fell free of the mud and into the lake below, the splashes painfully loud in the stillness of the night. He froze, heart in his throat as he dangled from the ledge, ears straining for the sound of footsteps and yelling guards. Seconds passed, and he risked a quick movement, hauling himself up and darting behind the wall that protected the hives from the elements. He waited, fighting to steady his breath and racing heart. Nothing came for him, and he sent a silent prayer of thanks to whoever was listening before crawling out from behind the wall towards the hives.

Sparks danced between his fingers as he summoned what little magic he had – barely more than a parlor trick, but it would do the job. The tiny flames licked harmlessly over the leather of his gloves, the heat a welcome relief to his cold-numbed hands.

The tiny hairs on the back of his neck rose suddenly, and a chill that had nothing to do with the autumn night crept down his spine. It was a feeling honed from years of living on the edge of a blade, an innate sense trickling into his brain and blood from his animal hindbrain.

Something was wrong.

Something was very wrong.

Rune’s head snapped up at yelling from the main island, the flames dying in his hands as his concentration broke. Dying torches flared to life suddenly all at once - a guard gifted with magic? - as outside the grand house dogs bayed in alarm, the hired mercenaries shouted orders from inside. The island exploded into action, and a crushing weight settled over the Imperial.

Vex and Dar’Ranir had been caught.

The sharp shattering of glass caught Rune’s attention in time to see a figure come crashing out of a second story window. It landed gracelessly, and Rune’s trained eyes could barely make out the dark figure in the gloom as it rose and lurched desperately toward the shore.

Above it, still inside the house, a second figure struggled in the grip of another, two dark silhouettes against the light inside. The thief - Dar’Ranir, Rune realized, as the Khajiit turned and the shadow of his tail showed - broke free of the guard and fell heavily out the shattered window, landing with a painful thud, and didn’t get up.

Vex paused at the shore, looking back towards her partner. She turned, a second’s hesitation, her own fear and self-preservation warring with her loyalty to her Guildmate.

The decision was made for her as the hounds reached him first.

Rune watched in horror as the dogs descended on his friend, the Khajiit’s harsh screams rising over snarls and barks. The hounds were ruthless, trained to kill on command, without hesitation or mercy. Rune could barely make out Dar’Ranirs’s struggling form under the mass of dogs. Time seemed to slow as they tore at the Khajiit, teeth and claws ripping through leather and skin. Dar’Ranir’s screams cut off sharply as blood sprayed, some of it splattering on an illuminated window above him.

From the corner of his eye Rune saw Vex dive into the lake, but he stayed rooted in place, watching the guards surround what was left of Dar’Ranir.

A yell from far too close jarred his instincts into action even as his mind was still frozen. Rune barely registered the steps that carried him to the water’s edge, the jump that sent him into the murky water. The shocking cold finally dragged his senses back to the present as he dove beneath the surface, practiced stealth pushed aside for survival. He cried out, mouth filling with water, spasming at a stabbing pain in his shoulder. He kept going, lungs burning and arm in agony, struggling to the far side of the lake, not daring to break the surface until his fingers brushed the gentle rise of sand at the shore.

Rune dragged himself onto the muddy shore, the movement jostling the imbedded arrow and sending fresh white-hot flares of pain through his shoulder.  A thin trail of blood followed him up the shore. The exhausted thief collapsed on his uninjured side with a groan, pulling off his mask and allowing himself a moment to catch his breath.

Rocks clattered down around him from the ledge, and Rune was immediately on his feet in a low crouch, dagger in hand.

“Crows, Vex.” He breathed, relaxing slightly as the blonde Imperial skidded down the bank next to him. Vex didn’t respond, wordlessly folding herself down onto the sand next to him. She raised a brow at the arrow, her fingers barely brushing the exposed shaft in his back in a silent question. Rune nodded, and winced when the wood snapped just above the skin, jostling the bit still in his arm painfully. Rune fell back on his haunches next to Vex. An uncomfortable silence stretched between them as they stared out over the lake, heavy with the weight of what had just happened.

Dar’Ranir was dead. The Goldenglow heist had failed.

A silent question crept into the air between them, one they were both afraid of: What happens now?

The sun was starting to rise over the Velothi Mountains, the eastern sky lightening to blue and grey behind the jagged peaks. The lights of Goldenglow seemed almost mocking in the south, and past the estate, Riften started to wake, a single column of smoke rising from the Keep’s kitchens.

Deep in the Ratway, Rune stared at the floor of the Ragged Flagon, watching water slowly drip from his soaked gear into a growing puddle on the filthy stone floor. He sat frozen in his chair, too scared to even flinch as Delvin’s calloused hands brushed over the wound as he nearly wrapped Rune’s shoulder, the bandages gradually covering the now stitched, jagged hole the arrow had torn through the muscle in his upper arm.

Distantly he could hear Vex’s shrill yelling, and the lower bass of Brynjolf’s voice. In the pauses between them Rune could only imagine Mercer’s words, glacial tones he couldn’t hear, but swore he could feel through the layers of stone and wood between them.

In the two years since he’d joined, Rune had never seen Mercer so angry. Neither had Brynjolf in his time, if the older thief’s stony expression upon their arrival was any indication. The Guild’s second-in-command had quickly ushered Vex into Mercer’s office, muttering a low warning to the blonde before calling Delvin to patch Rune up before putting himself in front of Vex like a shield as she headed into the office. A low command, a growl that made the hairs on the back of Rune’s neck stand, from the smaller room cut him off. Brynjolf’s lips pressed in a thin line and he shook his head at Delvin before turning to Rune.

Rune hadn’t heard a word Brynjolf had said to him. He’d watched Mercer the whole time through the open office door, like a deer caught in the eyes of a wolf.

Mercer didn’t say anything, not at first. He didn’t have to. His rage was palpable, raising already high tensions. The gathered thieves cleared out immediately; they couldn’t read Mercer’s moods like Brynjolf could - no one could, save for one other Guild member - but they knew the actions of the Guild Second. When Brynjolf moved toward the two battered and exhausted thieves, the others quickly found somewhere else to be.

The main door of the Cistern slammed shut behind Sapphire, and a harsh silence settled over the remaining thieves. Mercer stood at his desk, utterly still and silent. His face was a mask, the only outward indication of his fury blazing in his grey eyes, cold and dark and unforgiving as the Sea of Ghosts.

The tension in the room had been suffocating. Vex kept her head raised high, back ramrod straight as she met Mercer’s gaze. Her entire frame trembled with rage or fear or cold, Rune couldn’t tell. The younger Imperial just stood frozen, his mouth drier than sand, wishing the gates of Oblivion would open beneath him and swallow him.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

Rune flinched when Mercer’s low voice cut through the silence and over their nerves like a rusty blade, barely more than a whisper, ground cadences hissing from behind clenched teeth.

That was when Brynjolf had cut in. “It’s not their fault.” He said sharply, briefly drawing the Guildmaster’s venomous glare away from the two younger thieves. “There’s no way we could have known -”

“I don’t need you to make excuses, Brynjolf.” Mercer growled, and Rune flinched even though it wasn’t directed at him. He froze when Mercer’s attention turned back to Vex. Divines, the man looked predatory. “You overestimated your ability.” He hissed. “You should have known, but you got careless and sloppy. A rookie mistake from one of our supposed best.”

Vex didn’t respond. Rune wasn’t sure she could – she didn’t even seem to be breathing. Then Mercer turned his glare to him.

The young man had finally moved then, jarred by a flaring pain in his shoulder, allowing Delvin to all but drag him out of the Cistern.

A door slammed somewhere, causing Delvin to look up warily. The younger thief didn’t move, still numb from their return. Rune didn’t know how much time had passed since then, only that Vex hadn’t come back, and the loss of another thief was the least of their problems.

“What do you expect me to tell them? This isn’t what we asked them to do.” Brynjolf snapped. He’d stopped trying to remain neutral, and now scowled openly at the Guildmaster, his usually warm green eyes hard, arms tightly crossed against his chest.

“They knew the risks coming into the Guild.” Mercer replied coolly, staring down at the map on his desk, a blackjack imbedded in the wood squarely in the middle of Lake Honrich, as if he could force an answer to appear from the parchment by force of will alone, tension written in every line of his body.

Brynjolf’s grim scowl, if possible, deepened. “Not like this. The Guild hasn’t tried a job like this in years, and we don’t have the resources –“

“Which is why we cannot abandon this.” Mercer bit out, looking up at Brynjolf for the first time since Vex had stormed out of the room. “We must find a way. We’ve already lost too much.”

“You think I don’t know that? Those are my people you’re sending out there – “ And now we’ve lost another. Fuck. Dar’Ranir had only been with the Guild for three months, assigned as Vex’s partner just a few weeks ago. He’d shown real promise, more than the last four initiates combined. He’d mentioned a sister once that traveled with one of the merchant caravans; maybe he could convince Delvin to send word.

“My people,” Mercer snapped, a dangerous gleam in his grey eyes, “and I will do with them as I see fit.”

“Sending them on suicide missions?” Brynjolf stared at Mercer incredulously, his voice growing harsher. “Even you wouldn’t –“

“Are you questioning me?” Mercer’s voice was like ice, and Brynjolf’s words immediately dropped. As second-in-command, the limits he could push with Mercer were higher, but he knew he was dangerously close to crossing that line. “I will do whatever it takes to restore this guild. My people,” Mercer emphasized, “including you, swore to do the same. Whatever it takes.” He repeated. Brynjolf didn’t respond, but met the Guildmaster’s eyes coldly. The two men stared at each other wordlessly, the tension mounting like a storm.

“And what do we have to show for it? Another dead thief.” Brynjolf forced out. “How many bodies are you going to throw at this before you admit that you might be wrong?”

Something flashed in Mercer’s cold eyes, something dark and very dangerous, and suddenly Brynjolf was afraid he’s pushed too far. Neither thief moved for a long moment.

Finally something shifted, and Mercer sighed, running a hand through his greying hair as he straightened. He still barely came up to eye level of the burly Nord across from him. “If we had a choice, this wouldn’t be my first.” His expression didn’t change, the hard planes, weathered by age and the stress of years of trying to hold together a dying Guild, still set in a permanent grim scowl, but his voice softened by a fraction of a degree. It wasn’t an apology, but he sounded almost regretful. “But you know that this job is the Guild’s only option. We cannot abandon this.”

Brynjolf’s shoulders sagged in resignation. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What do we do now?”

“Reach out to our contacts in the garrison. I want this kept quiet for as long as possible.” Mercer said immediately. Brynjolf nodded. He’d expected as much; the last thing they needed was news of this getting out. “Then send word to Windhelm.” Realization dawned quickly on Brynjolf’s face, and the tight knot in his stomach loosened slightly. “Since Vex has proven herself incapable,” Mercer ground out, turning back to the map, “We’re going to try a different approach.”

[myszkina]

People's reaction to the emporer's death in Oblivion: Freaking out, wondering if the end times are near, who will take his seat, generally logical reactions from loyal citizens of a monarchy.

People's reactions to the emporer's death in Skyrim: "oh shit lmao"

[myszkina]

[myszkina]

THE FALLOUT SERIES (on PC) > War, war never changes…

[myszkina]

Get To Know Me Meme: [1/5] Favourite Video Games » Dragon Age

“…for I have seen with my own eyes what lies upon the horizon. Maker help us all. ”

[myszkina]

170522  5h

何千年も利用されてポイな可哀想なお人だなと思いながら描いてたょ

[myszkina]

Shadow and Steel - a Skyrim fanfiction

FF.net

Archive of Our Own

Prologue

The tunnels beneath Riften were not a place most people would willingly enter. It was a dangerous maze of dark corridors lit only by the occasional flickering candle, cold and damp and unforgiving. Those foolish enough to descend into the Ratway are often found floating in the canals in the days following, if they are found at all, having fallen prey to the traps set for the unwary, stripped of valuables by the desperate inhabitants of the treacherous halls. The single entrance to the tunnels was a rusty gate, nearly obscured by the ivy that climbed the stone foundations of the city along the canals.

Yet for those who knew the tunnels and had the skills to survive them, this place was a haven, away from the prying eyes of the guards above. The wretches and traps of the maze served as a defense for those that didn’t wish to be found.

The city itself had long been deemed unpleasant, despite its favorable location in the Rift. The once prosperous city had fallen on hard times, and the reputation of the city’s most famous inhabitants scared away many travelers. Those with the money moved to better prospects, and those that didn’t did the best with what was left.

The city on the lake was quiet, clouds obscuring the sister moons in the sky. A few flickering torches illuminated the streets of Riften, a few hardy torchbugs and moths fluttering quietly around the dim light of the hanging lanterns. Long past midnight, the guards no longer patrolled the streets, instead leaning against the wooden walls of the buildings, trying to stave off sleep as they stayed close to the warmth of the fires against the early autumn chill.

The guards of Goldenglow Estate were no exception. They still patrolled the winding paths and small bridges with swords ready – they had been too well paid not to – but their eyes were clouded with sleep, ears dull against the peaceful lull of crickets

They didn’t notice when in the middle of the lake, something disturbed the calm surface, ripples shattering the moons’ reflections into a thousand glittering points. A moment later a lone figure crawled up the bank, slowly as to not draw attention with errant movement. In the shadow of the dock she pressed herself flat against the rock wall, trained ears listening to the sounds of the night, picking out the quiet shuffle of feet, the clank of armor, an occasional cough from torch smoke.

She scaled the craggy rock wall after a moment’s pause, nimble fingers easily finding purchase in the tiny crevices, keeping her steady even as her worn leather boots slipped on the wet stone. She scrambled up to the wooden bulwark, risking a quick peek over the ledge. With no one in sight she ducked back under the dock. The thief whistled, long and low, the sound merging with the other noises of the night.

A guard in a nearby watchtower started at the sound, peering into the dark with tired eyes for the source. “Did you hear that?” He asked lowly, putting down his cards uneasily as he stood.

“It’s just an owl.” The other man grumbled, far more interested in trying to get a peek at his partner’s cards while he was distracted. “Relax, kid.”

The younger guard paused, looking back out into the dark uneasily. He was no fool; he knew what an owl sounded like, and that wasn’t it. Not quite. But if his partner wasn’t worried…

He shrugged, turning back to the game in time to see the other man pull an ace out of his sleeve. The indignant yell drowned out the low sloshing of water as two more figures scrambled out from under the dock.

Rune looked up towards the sound of fighting and smiled behind his mask. “Couldn’t have asked for a better distraction.”

“Could’ve asked for a bit less time in the lake.” Dar’Ranir grumbled, wrinkling his nose in distaste as he shook the water out of his fur. “This one will smell like green water for days.”

“You’ll get used to it.” Rune replied cheerfully, craning his neck to get a better look at the quickly growing brawl above them.

“Will you two shut up?” Vex hissed from her perch. “That won’t keep them busy for long.”

“You sure about that?” Rune grinned, mock wincing as the table crashed to the ground. Heavy footfalls thudded on the dock above them as the fight drew the attention of more guards. Rune chuckled lowly as he fell into step behind the two other thieves.

The three crossed the now largely abandoned island quickly, the wet sand of the beach muffling their light footsteps. Still, even with the guards occupied, the thieves didn’t dare let their guard down. Complacency would cost them dearly tonight. The Guild’s entire future rested on this heist. Every breath of wind, every creak of the wooden docks set them on edge. They clung to the shadows, their mottled grey gear merging with the shifting patterns of moonlight and cloud on the rocky shores of the island.

“You’d better be sure about this sewer, Rune.” Dar’Ranir hissed lowly.

“I wouldn’t have brought it up in the Flagon if I wasn’t.” the Imperial snapped back, the nerves chipping away at his regular cheer. The Guild’s reputation might’ve not had the same weight it used to, but money still talked; the right amount to the right guard, and the records hall in the Jarl’s keep would be unattended at just the right time. Finding and copying the map of the estate had been unbelievably simple. “It’s just ahead.”

Dar’Ranir huffed, his answering quip silenced by the creak of footsteps on the dock above them. The three thieves froze, years of training clamping down on the base impulse to dart for cover. They scarcely dared to breathe as the guard paused overhead, tired senses reaching out into the dark at the feeling that something wasn’t right. But seeing nothing, hearing nothing other than the sound of waves and the last crickets of fall, he shrugged and moved to the welcoming warmth and light of the nearby guard tower.

Dar’Ranir was the first to move, navigating the craggy wall with a speed and grace the two Imperials simply couldn’t match. At the top he paused, sensitive ears trained for the slightest hint of danger. Sensing none, he hauled himself onto the ledge and darted under the dock where, as promised, the sewer entrance waited, hidden by the wooden dock and set in the moss covered exposed bedrock of the island. He grinned, sharp teeth flashing, as he motioned for his accomplices to join him.

The ancient lock, not even worth picking, was easily pried off with a sharp twist of Vex’s dagger. Rusty hinges protested sharply as the old grate swung open. Dar’Ranir gagged as the offensive smell of raw sewage and rot assaulted his sensitive nose, and he pulled the bandana around his neck up in an attempt to shield himself from the smell.

“Meet back here in an hour.” Vex ordered as she and the grimacing Khajiit climbed into the sewer. “Hit the hives just before then to clear out the guards.”

Rune nodded, easing the grate shut behind them as the two disappeared into the murk of the sewer. He glanced at Masser’s position in the sky above him before settling against the cold stone wall under the dock to wait.

Time crawled at snail’s pace, the half hour, then three-quarter hour seeming to last an age as Rune sat waiting for his fellow thieves. The island was dark and quiet, the guard rotation having passed and the torches burning low. No crickets chirped, only wind sighing through the trees, waves softly lapping against the stones.

Yet to the Imperial, the silence was deafening. His strained nerves flinched at the barest whisper of a sound, searching for the echo of footsteps in the tunnel next to him, the running of guards above him, anything to tell him what was happening. He was a good thief; he knew how to be patient, to listen and wait. But too much was riding in this heist, and too much could go wrong.

He rose, stifling a groan as his muscles protested the action, stiff from sitting in the cold and wet. His leather armor itched and clung to his lean frame uncomfortably as he crept back cross the island. A lone thief moved faster than three, and he circled the main island quickly, nearly soundless on the sandy shore. A quick glance to the bridge above him showed no sign of guards, and he carefully stepped into the dark water under the bridge, gritting his teeth as his boots filled and his feet instantly numbed. Timing his steps with the low crashing of waves on the shore, he waded the short distance to the smaller island through the knee deep water, peering up through the gaps in the planks for some sign of the guards.

The island housing Aringoth’s precious hives rose higher above the lake than the main island, the bank steeper and less rocky, muddier. He scrambled up, biting back a curse as a few stones fell free of the mud and into the lake below, the splashes painfully loud in the stillness of the night. He froze, heart in his throat as he dangled from the ledge, ears straining for the sound of footsteps and yelling guards. Seconds passed, and he risked a quick movement, hauling himself up and darting behind the wall that protected the hives from the elements. He waited, fighting to steady his breath and racing heart. Nothing came for him, and he sent a silent prayer of thanks to whoever was listening before crawling out from behind the wall towards the hives.

Sparks danced between his fingers as he summoned what little magic he had – barely more than a parlor trick, but it would do the job. The tiny flames licked harmlessly over the leather of his gloves, the heat a welcome relief to his cold-numbed hands.

The tiny hairs on the back of his neck rose suddenly, and a chill that had nothing to do with the autumn night crept down his spine. It was a feeling honed from years of living on the edge of a blade, an innate sense trickling into his brain and blood from his animal hindbrain.

Something was wrong.

Something was very wrong.

Rune’s head snapped up at yelling from the main island, the flames dying in his hands as his concentration broke. Dying torches flared to life suddenly all at once - a guard gifted with magic? - as outside the grand house dogs bayed in alarm, the hired mercenaries shouted orders from inside. The island exploded into action, and a crushing weight settled over the Imperial.

Vex and Dar’Ranir had been caught.

The sharp shattering of glass caught Rune’s attention in time to see a figure come crashing out of a second story window. It landed gracelessly, and Rune’s trained eyes could barely make out the dark figure in the gloom as it rose and lurched desperately toward the shore.

Above it, still inside the house, a second figure struggled in the grip of another, two dark silhouettes against the light inside. The thief - Dar’Ranir, Rune realized, as the Khajiit turned and the shadow of his tail showed - broke free of the guard and fell heavily out the shattered window, landing with a painful thud, and didn’t get up.

Vex paused at the shore, looking back towards her partner. She turned, a second’s hesitation, her own fear and self-preservation warring with her loyalty to her Guildmate.

The decision was made for her as the hounds reached him first.

Rune watched in horror as the dogs descended on his friend, the Khajiit’s harsh screams rising over snarls and barks. The hounds were ruthless, trained to kill on command, without hesitation or mercy. Rune could barely make out Dar’Ranirs’s struggling form under the mass of dogs. Time seemed to slow as they tore at the Khajiit, teeth and claws ripping through leather and skin. Dar’Ranir’s screams cut off sharply as blood sprayed, some of it splattering on an illuminated window above him.

From the corner of his eye Rune saw Vex dive into the lake, but he stayed rooted in place, watching the guards surround what was left of Dar’Ranir.

A yell from far too close jarred his instincts into action even as his mind was still frozen. Rune barely registered the steps that carried him to the water’s edge, the jump that sent him into the murky water. The shocking cold finally dragged his senses back to the present as he dove beneath the surface, practiced stealth pushed aside for survival. He cried out, mouth filling with water, spasming at a stabbing pain in his shoulder. He kept going, lungs burning and arm in agony, struggling to the far side of the lake, not daring to break the surface until his fingers brushed the gentle rise of sand at the shore.

Rune dragged himself onto the muddy shore, the movement jostling the imbedded arrow and sending fresh white-hot flares of pain through his shoulder.  A thin trail of blood followed him up the shore. The exhausted thief collapsed on his uninjured side with a groan, pulling off his mask and allowing himself a moment to catch his breath.

Rocks clattered down around him from the ledge, and Rune was immediately on his feet in a low crouch, dagger in hand.

“Crows, Vex.” He breathed, relaxing slightly as the blonde Imperial skidded down the bank next to him. Vex didn’t respond, wordlessly folding herself down onto the sand next to him. She raised a brow at the arrow, her fingers barely brushing the exposed shaft in his back in a silent question. Rune nodded, and winced when the wood snapped just above the skin, jostling the bit still in his arm painfully. Rune fell back on his haunches next to Vex. An uncomfortable silence stretched between them as they stared out over the lake, heavy with the weight of what had just happened.

Dar’Ranir was dead. The Goldenglow heist had failed.

A silent question crept into the air between them, one they were both afraid of: What happens now?

The sun was starting to rise over the Velothi Mountains, the eastern sky lightening to blue and grey behind the jagged peaks. The lights of Goldenglow seemed almost mocking in the south, and past the estate, Riften started to wake, a single column of smoke rising from the Keep’s kitchens.

Deep in the Ratway, Rune stared at the floor of the Ragged Flagon, watching water slowly drip from his soaked gear into a growing puddle on the filthy stone floor. He sat frozen in his chair, too scared to even flinch as Delvin’s calloused hands brushed over the wound as he nearly wrapped Rune’s shoulder, the bandages gradually covering the now stitched, jagged hole the arrow had torn through the muscle in his upper arm.

Distantly he could hear Vex’s shrill yelling, and the lower bass of Brynjolf’s voice. In the pauses between them Rune could only imagine Mercer’s words, glacial tones he couldn’t hear, but swore he could feel through the layers of stone and wood between them.

In the two years since he’d joined, Rune had never seen Mercer so angry. Neither had Brynjolf in his time, if the older thief’s stony expression upon their arrival was any indication. The Guild’s second-in-command had quickly ushered Vex into Mercer’s office, muttering a low warning to the blonde before calling Delvin to patch Rune up before putting himself in front of Vex like a shield as she headed into the office. A low command, a growl that made the hairs on the back of Rune’s neck stand, from the smaller room cut him off. Brynjolf’s lips pressed in a thin line and he shook his head at Delvin before turning to Rune.

Rune hadn’t heard a word Brynjolf had said to him. He’d watched Mercer the whole time through the open office door, like a deer caught in the eyes of a wolf.

Mercer didn’t say anything, not at first. He didn’t have to. His rage was palpable, raising already high tensions. The gathered thieves cleared out immediately; they couldn’t read Mercer’s moods like Brynjolf could - no one could, save for one other Guild member - but they knew the actions of the Guild Second. When Brynjolf moved toward the two battered and exhausted thieves, the others quickly found somewhere else to be.

The main door of the Cistern slammed shut behind Sapphire, and a harsh silence settled over the remaining thieves. Mercer stood at his desk, utterly still and silent. His face was a mask, the only outward indication of his fury blazing in his grey eyes, cold and dark and unforgiving as the Sea of Ghosts.

The tension in the room had been suffocating. Vex kept her head raised high, back ramrod straight as she met Mercer’s gaze. Her entire frame trembled with rage or fear or cold, Rune couldn’t tell. The younger Imperial just stood frozen, his mouth drier than sand, wishing the gates of Oblivion would open beneath him and swallow him.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

Rune flinched when Mercer’s low voice cut through the silence and over their nerves like a rusty blade, barely more than a whisper, ground cadences hissing from behind clenched teeth.

That was when Brynjolf had cut in. “It’s not their fault.” He said sharply, briefly drawing the Guildmaster’s venomous glare away from the two younger thieves. “There’s no way we could have known -”

“I don’t need you to make excuses, Brynjolf.” Mercer growled, and Rune flinched even though it wasn’t directed at him. He froze when Mercer’s attention turned back to Vex. Divines, the man looked predatory. “You overestimated your ability.” He hissed. “You should have known, but you got careless and sloppy. A rookie mistake from one of our supposed best.”

Vex didn’t respond. Rune wasn’t sure she could – she didn’t even seem to be breathing. Then Mercer turned his glare to him.

The young man had finally moved then, jarred by a flaring pain in his shoulder, allowing Delvin to all but drag him out of the Cistern.

A door slammed somewhere, causing Delvin to look up warily. The younger thief didn’t move, still numb from their return. Rune didn’t know how much time had passed since then, only that Vex hadn’t come back, and the loss of another thief was the least of their problems.

“What do you expect me to tell them? This isn’t what we asked them to do.” Brynjolf snapped. He’d stopped trying to remain neutral, and now scowled openly at the Guildmaster, his usually warm green eyes hard, arms tightly crossed against his chest.

“They knew the risks coming into the Guild.” Mercer replied coolly, staring down at the map on his desk, a blackjack imbedded in the wood squarely in the middle of Lake Honrich, as if he could force an answer to appear from the parchment by force of will alone, tension written in every line of his body.

Brynjolf’s grim scowl, if possible, deepened. “Not like this. The Guild hasn’t tried a job like this in years, and we don’t have the resources –“

“Which is why we cannot abandon this.” Mercer bit out, looking up at Brynjolf for the first time since Vex had stormed out of the room. “We must find a way. We’ve already lost too much.”

“You think I don’t know that? Those are my people you’re sending out there – “ And now we’ve lost another. Fuck. Dar’Ranir had only been with the Guild for three months, assigned as Vex’s partner just a few weeks ago. He’d shown real promise, more than the last four initiates combined. He’d mentioned a sister once that traveled with one of the merchant caravans; maybe he could convince Delvin to send word.

“My people,” Mercer snapped, a dangerous gleam in his grey eyes, “and I will do with them as I see fit.”

“Sending them on suicide missions?” Brynjolf stared at Mercer incredulously, his voice growing harsher. “Even you wouldn’t –“

“Are you questioning me?” Mercer’s voice was like ice, and Brynjolf’s words immediately dropped. As second-in-command, the limits he could push with Mercer were higher, but he knew he was dangerously close to crossing that line. “I will do whatever it takes to restore this guild. My people,” Mercer emphasized, “including you, swore to do the same. Whatever it takes.” He repeated. Brynjolf didn’t respond, but met the Guildmaster’s eyes coldly. The two men stared at each other wordlessly, the tension mounting like a storm.

“And what do we have to show for it? Another dead thief.” Brynjolf forced out. “How many bodies are you going to throw at this before you admit that you might be wrong?”

Something flashed in Mercer’s cold eyes, something dark and very dangerous, and suddenly Brynjolf was afraid he’s pushed too far. Neither thief moved for a long moment.

Finally something shifted, and Mercer sighed, running a hand through his greying hair as he straightened. He still barely came up to eye level of the burly Nord across from him. “If we had a choice, this wouldn’t be my first.” His expression didn’t change, the hard planes, weathered by age and the stress of years of trying to hold together a dying Guild, still set in a permanent grim scowl, but his voice softened by a fraction of a degree. It wasn’t an apology, but he sounded almost regretful. “But you know that this job is the Guild’s only option. We cannot abandon this.”

Brynjolf’s shoulders sagged in resignation. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What do we do now?”

"Reach out to our contacts in the garrison. I want this kept quiet for as long as possible.” Mercer said immediately. Brynjolf nodded. He’d expected as much; the last thing they needed was news of this getting out. “Then send word to Windhelm.” Realization dawned quickly on Brynjolf’s face, and the tight knot in his stomach loosened slightly. “Since Vex has proven herself incapable,” Mercer ground out, turning back to the map, “We’re going to try a different approach.”

[myszkina]

Shadow and Steel - a Skyrim fanfiction

FF.net

Archive of Our Own

Chapter 4 - The Powers That Be

Two weeks after the Goldenglow heist, it was very late in Riften. Or perhaps it was very early. It was nearly impossible to tell in the thieves' underground hideout. The training room echoed with a deadly melody; the barest whisper of a footstep, the solid thud of the blows finding their mark.

Ssk… Thud

Sleep had not come easy, or stayed long, and like many such nights before, the thief had found herself in the training room, empty at this hour.

Thud

Zarja’s movements were easy and unhurried, the slow, deadly dance against the pounding starting in her head, practiced so many times that it had become instinctive. The room faded away into shadow and torchlight, the distant roar of water in the Cistern tuned out so her deep, even breaths the only disturbance in the quiet. Each motion flowed smoothly into another, quickening as she lost herself in the trance of imagined battle.

Ssk. Thud.

Backbend. Twist. Dodge. Strike. She weaved around the training dummy like a snake, nimble hands and quick feet striking with brutal efficiency at gaps in armor. This was an art, as much as a bard with his lute, or a weaver with her cloth. This was a dance of balance and focus and lethal intent.

SskThudSskSskThud

The Cistern is the only place she felt truly secure. She can lose herself in the state that comes with the training. Her focus narrows, and the whirlwind in her head gradually fades into background noise.

Thudthudthud

A mighty kick sent the pumpkin head of the dummy flying across the room and it splattered against the far wall. Most of her blows had been specifically concentrated in areas meant to wound, not to kill. A guard with a broken leg is much less likely to give chase, or focus on anything besides the mess of twisted bone and flesh. A dead guard, on the other hand, raised alarms, and sets far more on a thief’s tail.

A few had found marks in more lethal places: a dagger in the belly, a slash across the jugular, a pin in one of the two neat circles painted to represent eyes now lost somewhere in the mess of pumpkin guts.

Zarja sighed, muscles quivering as she relaxed, the thoughts that brought her here already returning. It was going to be a long night.

Hurried footsteps echoed from the hall, and a nervous looking Rune appeared in the doorway. He relaxed slightly when he saw she was done; her fellow thieves knew she didn't like an audience, and usually preferred to train alone.

Zarja had always wondered why Rune had decided to accept her invitation into the Guild. A year or two younger than her own twenty-six, he had a mischievous streak and was a decent thief, and in the few times they had trained together over the past months proved to be quick and skilled with a dagger. But he was quiet and honest, and despite his talent and mischief was a kind soul.

"What is it, Rune?"

"Mercer said he wanted to talk to you." That explained the Imperial's fidget.

Zarja nodded, pulling her leather gear on over her sweat-soaked lined shirt against the chill of the underground.

The door to Mercer’s office was open. Zarja didn’t bother knocking before entering.

The Guildmaster had only just returned from whatever rare business had taken him out of the city, judging from the heavy traveling cloak draped carelessly on the shelf behind him and the sword belt he still wore. The Dwarven blade at his hip gleamed dully in the torchlight.

“You smell like a bar.” He said in greeting.

“Not surprising, given we live behind one.” Zarja replied, fighting the urge to wince against the brighter light of the office.

Over the years Zarja had gotten good at differentiating between the many versions of Mercer’s scowl. This one was more disapproving than annoyed.

“What is it?”

"Maven... requested," Mercer bit out the word, "a meeting at her manor immediately." he said as soon as the door closed behind the Nord. "With you. By name."

Zarja's brows rose. "And you agreed?" After all the trouble we went to -

"I think it's high time you two met." Mercer said simply, but something in his voice left no room for argument. “Brynjolf will be going with you on my behalf.”

Zarja nodded once. "I'll leave within the hour."

"Good, but first we have business of our own to discuss." Mercer said, offering her a folded note. "We have a chance to reestablish a foothold in Whiterun." He continued as Zarja read over the letter. So that's where he went. "The Battle-born family has offered their support in exchange for a favor."

Zarja nodded absentmindedly, still reading over the letter. "The favor being...?"

"Breaking his friend Arn out of prison and getting him out of Whiterun with a new identity." Mercer said easily.

"Oh, is that all?" Zarja drawled.

"He wants it done within the week."

Zarja almost laughed, except she knew he was completely serious.

"Then why come to us?” She asked. “Surely there are mercenaries in Whiterun itself who would be more than happy to be owed a favor from Clan Battle-Born and could get it done in half the time."

"He wants a professional, and he's willing to pay. That's all that matters."

"So the fact that his friend is the most wanted man in Haafingar has nothing to do with this?" Zarja said, tossing the letter onto the desk.

Mercer's brow quirked fractionally. "You know him?"

"I know his crime." Solitude had talked of little else in the past two months – a merchant family, right down to the dog, found dead in their home, the only survivor the mysteriously missing head of the family. King Torygg himself had gotten involved, demanding the man’s capture. "And if I refuse?"

The mood in the room shifted almost imperceptibly at the question, making the hair on the back of Zarja’s neck rise. "Now why would you do that?"

"Because his friend deserves to die." Zarja said simply.

"And you're the one who gets to decide that now?” Mercer sneered. “Your opinion of the man doesn't matter here. Your job and your ability is all that matters because that's what is being paid for. This,” he gestured at the letter, “Arn is a valuable asset for an important political ally."

“He’s a murder. He butchered his entire family!”

Mercer raised a brow, and Zarja grit her teeth in frustration. He'd always let her choose her assignments before without question. What in Oblivion was he playing at now? "I didn't agree to this." Zarja snarled.

"You did, actually, when you chose to be my agent." He cut off her protests with a sharp glare. "So long as you work for me, you will do whatever jobs are assigned to you to the best of your... considerable ability." Zarja's eyes narrowed fractionally. "Despite the freedoms I've allowed you, you are not your own agent. I bought you, I taught you, I own you. And if you have a problem with that, then you can go back to that corner of Oblivion I found you in."

The two thieves didn’t move, the tension in the room rising as they glared daggers at each other. It finally broke when Zarja spun on her heel and left, slamming the door behind her and cutting off the smirk she felt following her.

"You want me to what?"

"Convince Mercer to keep Rune in the Guild." Brynjolf repeated. "He needs someone to blame for Goldenglow, and he can't get rid of Vex." Zarja's incredulous expression turned dubious. "He listens to you." Brynjolf pressed.

Zarja snorted. "He indulges me. Occassionally. There's a difference." She took a swig from the mead bottle she'd discreetly grabbed on the way in. "If he didn't listen to you, what the fuck makes you think he'll listen to me?"

Brynolf gave her a grim, pointed look, and Zarja groaned and rubbed her temples. She highly doubted Mercer would be willing to listen to a word she said at thus point. She opened her mouth to say as much just as the clock on the mantel chimed seven, proclaiming that Maven Black-Briar was late.

So were Zarja and Brynolf, but Maven had no excuse. They were, after all, meeting in the office of her manor. At her request.

Zarja sighed, picking at her manicured nails. “This is ridiculous.” She grumbled. “How long is she going to keep us in suspense at this ungodly hour?”

“Maybe if you weren’t out all night drinking, you wouldn’t be so miserable.” Bryjolf said mildly, pulling out one of his daggers, toying with it idly.

Zarja scowled at him, but judging by the low chuckle that it earned her, it had clearly been more wilting than withering against the sunlight streaming in through the window next to him, so she dropped the expression, instead going completely deadpan.

They both knew this was a power play on Maven's part. It was hardly necessary; she already essentially owned the Guild.

But two could play at that game.

“Well,” she said matter-of-factly, pushing off of the wall she’d been leaning against, “the least Maven can do now is cover my tab." She said, picking up a sparkling glass paperweight.

“Don’t you dare.” Brynjolf warned, green eyes narrowing at Zarja, his hands briefly pausing their toying. “The last thing we need now is to start trouble with Maven." He didn't sound happy about that.

Zarja shrugged, even less pleased with the Guild's situation. She walked around the massive desk, gloved hand toying with the paperweight.

“What are you doing?”

Zarja raised her brows, replacing the glass bauble and picked up a piece of paper at random. “Her Ladyship really should know better than to leave two thieves unattended for so long.” Her eyes skimmed over the paper in her hand. A note from someone named Mallus Maccius in Whiterun about Honningbrew Meadery. Interesting.

“She could be here any second,” Brynjolf warned lowly. Zarja brushed her hand over the leather-bound tomes on the bookshelf behind her, disappointed at what she found. For someone of Maven’s wealth to have a lesser edition of Hanging Gardens than a common – well, certainly not common – thief? What did she spend her money on if not books?

“Unlikely,” Zarja said, turning a small golden box over in her hands interestedly. It was dusty, clearly forgotten about, hiding behind some larger trinkets. She opened it and, finding a curious pink jewel inside, pocketed it. “Oh, Brynjolf, relax!” She continued, smiling easily at the harried red-head.

Brynjolf gave a long-suffering sigh, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. "Put it back."

Zarja cocked her head but did no such thing, taking another swig of mead.

“How are still drinking after last night?”

“Why, I’m fighting fire with fire, Brynjolf, in the old Nord way.” Zarja breezed, raising her mead in punctuation.

Brynjolf snorted. “Right, because you’re a true Nord, lass.”

Zarja shrugged, and smiled in spite of her current condition as she replaced the decanter. “And what’s this about 'trying'? Last I checked, Mjoll was passed out at the bar of the Bee and Barb, and I was walking out with my winnings.”

“If that’s what you want to call it.” She had hardly been walking last night. It was more like stumbling around like a newborn deer while Brynjolf half carried her to her bed.

Zarja made an indelicate noise, waving a dismissive hand at his grin. “It’s not as if there’s much else to do in Riften. You must be bored if you’re coming up with lines like ‘make love like a sabre cat’.” Zarja said, in a very poor attempt at Brynjolf’s unique accent, and grinned.

“Say what you will, lass,” Brynjolf smiled unconcernedly back and shrugged. “But that little scam was my best yet. Shame I’m almost out of the elixir.”

“What was in it anyway?”

“Eh, probably better if you don’t know.” Zarja raised a brow at him, and he shrugged again. “We can’t all be master alchemists, lass.”

“You still haven't told me why we're here." Brynjolf’s smile faded and he muttered something that sounded suspiciously like oh for fuck's sake when Zarja perched on the edge of the desk and set about rifling through all of Maven’s papers and ledgers, sipping her mead nonchalantly. Considering what she knew Maven got up to, Zarja found the contents to be unbearably dull. Maven’s handwriting was unsurprisingly neat and ordered, her signature an easy to forge set of loops. She picked up a trinket at random – an ornamented gold brooch in the shape and size of an oak leaf – hidden under some papers and tossed it at Brynjolf, who caught it easily and disappeared it into his pocket. His expression didn’t change.

“Maven has an assignment for you.” Brynjolf said matter-of-factly, smiling innocently at Zarja's deadpan stare.

“Yes, I gathered that.” Zarja tossed the parchment onto the desk after memorizing Maven’s signature for later use. “Somehow, I don’t think she called me here to thank me for Goldenglow.” She crossed her legs, and gazed out the window at the towering peaks past the estate buildings. “How did she take it?”

He let out a long breath, running a hand through his auburn hair. "About as bad as you'd expect. Aringoth sold Goldenglow to an unknown buyer under our noses. Neither Maven nor Mercer took the news well." He replied. Zarja felt a pang of sympathy for her friend for having to listen to that latest tirade.

“Do we know anything about them?”

"Still nothing." He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose and creased forehead. "I've reached out to all the Guild's contacts in the area, but so far no one knows anything. Or just won't talk." He added as a bitter afterthought. "What I don't understand is why. What could have made him turn on Maven?"

Zarja smiled thinly, without an ounce of humor. "Same thing it always is, Bryn. Someone offered him enough gold to make him forget how scared he is of her. She was his biggest supporter, after all."

Before Brynjolf could speak, the door opened.

Zarja only inclined her head in greeting as Maven Black-Briar entered the study, Maul following close behind. The tall, dark-haired woman shut the door behind her. She knew Maven by reputation mostly, having rarely worked with her, and even then it was usually through Mercer. She'd seen her passingly around Riften over the years, but for the most part she'd remained the Guild's notorious benefactor, quietly observing from the sidelines, getting involved only when her business required a lighter, cleaner touch than what her usual brutish mercenaries were capable of.

“So you're the one.” Her voice was smooth and cold as ice, and cultured. "You don't look particularly impressive.

Maven was exactly as Zarja had expected, from the sharp features to the air of superiority that wrapped around her like a cloak. Her sharp, calculating gaze studied the younger woman. This was the first time the two were meeting face to face, despite years of running in the same circles, and it was only at Mercer's insistence - Zarja didn't like the feeling of Maven, or anyone else for that matter, having any sort of leverage against her. Being one of the very few outside the Guild who could put the name to the face was very dangerous leverage indeed.

Zarja shrugged carelessly. She kept her features carefully neutral, keeping any telling emotions out of her voice. “Wouldn’t really do for a thief to stand out in a crowd, would it?” She said evenly.

Maven crossed the room to the end of the desk. "And you're a firebrand." She said, sounding almost interested. "I'm glad to see you've made yourself comfortable."

"It’s always good to start a business transaction on a positive note." Zarja smiled up at Maven.

"Get off of my desk."

Zarja clicked her tongue. "Well, that's no way to speak to a guest." Zarja crooned. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Maul and Brynjolf exchange a look before Maul moved toward them. Brynjolf crossed his arms, looking like he wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh or strangle the blonde. Maven's face was stony, and Zarja wondered vaguely what the older woman would do if pushed further.

"Zarja." Brynjolf warned.

Maul reached for her shoulder, and Zarja was on her feet before his fingers brushed the leather of her pauldron.

She sighed loudly, and easily stepped around the mountain of a man, paying him about as much attention as to the desk. She took her old position at the wall across from Brynjolf, who was very pointedly not looking at her. She noted the dagger buried point down in the wood of the windowsill next to him, and the corner of her mouth twitched.

“Now,” Zarja looked up to steadily meet Maven’s gaze. “You called us here on business, so perhaps we should finally get to it.”

Maven's eyes narrowed fractionally as she sat in her armchair, but other than that she showed no further sign of irritation. She dismissed Maul with a nod. "Yes." She said imperiously, turning through her ledger as the man left. "Assuming your Guild doesn't botch this like the last job I gave you."

It was Brynjolf who spoke this time. "The job was done the way you asked - minimal damage, maximum effect, and the contents of Aringoth’s main safe retrieved." He said, all business. "You left the details up to us, as per our usual agreement."

"Clearly a mistake on my part." Maven's voice snapped like a whip. ”I believe I told Mercer that I wanted Aringoth alive." Brynjolf and Zarja glanced at each other quickly, both confused. This was the first either had heard that little detail. Maven looked up, missing the shared look, her dark eyes dangerous as she leveled a glare at Zarja. "Care to explain why he is currently at the bottom of the lake?”

Zarja paused, her mind racing. This was exactly why she didn't want Maven knowing who she was; one wrong move, and she'd ruin her.

”He was a liability.” Brynjolf said smoothly, his sudden words cutting through the tension. “I think we can agree on that.”

”Do you?” Maven challenged, turning toward him. ”And why is that?”

”He betrayed you.” Zarja continued in a voice like silk. “Endangered your business. And since he was no longer an asset, he was simply in the way. You couldn’t have allowed him to remain where he was after such a public defiance. And now that he’s gone,” she inclined her head respectfully. ”You’re free to replace him with someone more…loyal. ”

There was a long, uneasy silence. Zarja kept her demeanor schooled to neutrality while Maven considered her words.

Finally, the older woman’s lip curled. ”Interesting. ” Maven said softly, but the dangerous edge in her voice was gone, replaced by a faint, but distinct, approval. Her voice returned to tones of clipped civility. "Then I believe we have much to discuss after all."

[myszkina]

Shadow and Steel - a Skyrim fanfiction

FF.net

Archive of Our Own

Chapter 3 - Smoke on the Water

The whole city knew that the Thieves Guild made their home in the Ratway. But those who had attempted to find them often died trying, lost in the maze. The thief's tools of deception and misdirection kept their home safe; the Ratway was a patchwork of old sewers and tunnels dug as escapes by lords and smugglers alike, layer upon layer deep underground. The remnants of the old city, burned to the ground by fire many years ago, boarded up and forgotten, had been absorbed into the maze. The stone lower levels of houses that had sunk beneath the waves, buried under the lake. Basements, underground warehouses, treasuries, cells from days past... All had become part of the City Beneath the City, sprawling under Riften. Not even the thieves knew the full extent of the tunnels.

As for the Cistern, it's location was a closely guarded secret, one that had to be earned, and one that the thieves had been tasked and trained to keep. But even if they did break, no one was likely to believe that it lay hidden under one of the finest manors in the city. Over the years it had been built into an odd mix of side rooms and tunnels off the original hall. The office was a fairly recent addition to the ancient Cistern added by Mercer’s predecessor, discovered by accident much like the senior members’ rooms and the larger dormitory, when the aging walls separating them from the main Cistern had weakened and started to collapse.

No one really believed Delvin’s rantings about signs and curses, but they could all see what this meant: Their headquarters was dying, falling apart along with the Guild, and it was going to take a lot more than bricks and mortar to save it. They were going to need a miracle.

Light footsteps echoed softly through the empty Cistern as Zarja stalked down the stairs from the city above. Her cloak billowed behind her as she swept through the tunnels, her wet, filthy boots trailing mud. The bag in her hand bounced against her leg as she walked, the cloth stained a deep crimson from its contents.

The door to Mercer’s office lay at the other end of the massive room, and was currently shut. But she knew he was in there, and that he was waiting for her.

Zarja also knew that this meeting was important. The letter she had received in Windhelm had given nothing but orders to return, but being called back from an assignment was almost unheard of. Ordinarily, after so long an absence, she would’ve taken the long route through the city to catch up on what she had missed. Today that wasn’t an option; no one kept the Guildmaster waiting. Not even she was exempt from that rule. The wooden door creaked on rusty hinges as Zarja flung it open.

She knew instantly that something was wrong. The tension in the room was stifling. The other senior members of the Guild were already gathered. The only one who acknowledged her was Brynjolf, who gave her a quick nod in greeting, a tight smile that didn't reach his eyes.

Zarja stalked across the room, her eyes locked on Mercer. Without a word, she strode right up to the desk and tossed the sack onto the scuffed wooden surface. It slid the last few inches across the papers.

Mercer finally moved, straightening slowly. He undid the knot keeping the sack closed with a sharp tug and pulled out its contents - a severed hand, golden flesh grey and stiff. The sickening reek of decay filled the room.

“It's done, then?” Mercer finally said lowly.

“Did you expect anything else?” Zarja replied, bronze eyes distant. She could feel Brynjolf’s eyes on her; after eight years of this, she knew the grim set of his face even when she didn’t see it.

Mercer didn’t respond, turning the grotesque trophy over in his hands, studying it. Finally, after a too long moment, he nodded his approval, throwing it carelessly back into the sack.

Zarja turned and stepped back, leaning against a bookshelf. “So what's so important that you couldn’t say in a letter?”

Vex snorted derisively, but didn’t say anything, didn’t even look at Zarja.

Zarja ignored the Imperial, schooling her features into neutrality as she studied the other thieves, taking in every detail in a matter of seconds - Vex’s white-knuckled grip on her leather gear, the high, defensive cross of her arms; the almost painful-looking set of Delvin’s jaw; the way every thief refused to meet her stare. Mercer, infuriatingly, remained impassive. Zarja hated that unreadable mask, the absolute mastery of his expressions and temper that Zarja had never quite been able to match.

“Anein was caught in Markarth.” Mercer said finally.

Zarja sighed through her nose, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. This was why he’d called her back.  “If you had another assignment for me,” she drawled, pushing back a strand of golden hair. “You could have just said so.”

She had never liked the Dunmer. Well over a hundred years old, the former member of the Morag Tong - as he constantly liked to remind them, as if it somehow made him better - had tried to undermine her at every turn since he’d joined several years ago, hungry for her position in the Guild.

“I’ll head out in the morning.” She continued. “Though the mine will likely take care of him for us.” Or perhaps she’d drop a hint to Nazir, she mused privately. A debt owed by the Brotherhood held all sorts of possibilities.

“You aren’t going to Markarth.” Zarja’s brows shot up at the sharpness of his voice, and she blinked in surprise.

Then the Nord thief shifted, bronze eyes narrowed. The other thieves focused on anything but her. Whatever had happened, they knew.

“You're going to finish the Goldenglow job.”

Zarja froze, her stomach twisting and a roaring noise filling her ears. “‘Finish’?” She demanded, straightening away from the bookshelf. Her lips pulled back into a snarl. “What do you mean ‘finish’?”

Suddenly everything made sense - the strange silence, not even the barest shred of a rumor from here to Shor’s Stone, the tenseness of her fellow thieves.

Zarja bit down hard on her shock, fighting to keep a hold on her temper. Mercer had gone ahead with Goldenglow without her? They had barely started planning when she’d left for Windhelm.

“Yes,” Vex snapped, and Zarja’s head whipped toward the other woman, realizing she had spoken aloud. “We actually went ahead and did our jobs without the great Zarja Goldshadow.”

“And yet, here I am.” Vex’s brown eyes flashed when Zarja gave her a little smile that she knew made the Imperial’s temper flare. Zarja turned to Mercer. "You should have waited for me." She growled lowly, so only Mercer could hear. The Guildmaster's eyes turned thunderhead dark, and Zarja's words died in her throat. She clenched her jaw, not flinching from his gaze, but taking a quiet step back. She crossed her arms. “What else aren’t you telling me?”

“Dar’Ranir is dead.” Her former mentor said indifferently, twirling a blackjack point down on the desk.

“What?” Zarja demanded. Dar’Ranir, the grinning thief she had trained and trained with as often as Rune and Brynjolf since the Khajiit had joined, who’d somehow managed to fit in despite all reservations, coaxed laughs from her with horrible jokes or lewd anecdotes, had impossibly made a home under the lake he’d hated. Even Vex had liked him. “How?”

“Aringoth hired an army of thugs.” Brynjolf bit out. Zarja turned toward him, and under her rage felt a pang of sympathy for her friend; she knew how much responsibility he felt for the thieves in the Guild. He looked like he’d aged five years in less than a month. “Threw out whatever guards we might’ve had on our side. Almost like he knew.”

“They caught us on the second floor.” Vex forced the words out. “Rune by the hives. Dar’Ranir didn’t make it out.”

"You're a thief." Zarja hissed. Her voice, usually the cultured tones of Cyrodiil, roughened into the harsher lilt of the north. Her voice was a low growl; every word rasped past her lips like it had been dredged in gravel. "And he was your partner. You're supposed to be able to get in and out of places without being seen and make sure he does the same, and failing that you're supposed to watch his back!" Her fists clenched and unclenched, barely inching to the dagger on her hip as she took an unconscious step forward. She heard Brynjolf’s low warning, saw out of the corner of her eye Mercer tense dangerously and the blackjack freeze. She ignored both of them. “You had two thieves with you to carry the weight and you still managed to fuck it up, and on top of that you left him there.” “You would’ve done the same!” Vex snapped, matching Zarja’s step and refusing to back down from her glare.

Zarja slammed her hands onto Mercer’s desk, rattling the glasses. “I would’ve killed them all to get him out of there!”

“Enough.” Mercer snapped. Zarja and Vex didn’t move, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop. “Stand down,” he murmured, and Zarja wasn’t sure if the warning was for her or Vex. She unconsciously tensed at the order out of habit either way. “Her patience has limits.” For Vex then. “As does mine.”

A muscle feathered in the Imperial’s jaw, but she wisely retreated back against the wall, averting her eyes.

Zarja rolled her neck, brushing a stray hair behind her ear. “Is Rune all right?”

“He’ll live.” Brynjolf said. “Nothing that’ll keep him down for long.”

"What happened to Dar’Ranir’s body?"

"They burned it, from what we can tell. Didn't want any evidence floating around of a break in." Delvin finally spoke for the first time since Zarja had walked in.

"And a warning to anyone who would try again." Brynjolf added darkly.

"Because they know we're going to.” Zarja stated, speaking to all of them but watching Mercer, who merely toyed with the knife. “But this time, we will not fail."

A watery sun sat shone dimly from behind the clouds, the last remnants of the storm that had settled over the countryside for the past two days. The brilliant colors of the Rift were muted, reduced to dull greys and browns in the fog.

On the northern bank of Lake Honrich, the dark shape of the thief was indiscernible. From her post under a ledge near the road in a hollow between two boulders, wrapped in her cloak against the cool autumn air, Zarja surveyed the island, keen eyes watching the distant, ant-sized figures of the mercenaries.

It seemed like Aringoth knew very well the danger he was in. Zarja had rarely seen this kind of security outside of a Jarl’s palace. She counted roughly a dozen outside, patrolling over the bridges and around the main building, all heavily armed and armored and some leading dogs. She assumed there would be just as many inside the house. An increase in security, from what Brynjolf had told her before she left.

Then there was the island itself. The estate composed of three main islands, connected by bridges high over the water. A high wall wrapped around one of the smaller islands, protecting the beehives from the elements on all sides but one. Sharp rocks and high ledges surrounded most of the islands. The main house sat on the largest island, two stories high in the fashion of most houses in the Rift, on a rise in the middle of the island. Boulders and a few trees broke up the landscape, along with a few low watchtowers, with plenty of open ground between them.

Zarja rose with a quiet groan, stiff limbs aching in protest as she carefully hauled herself onto the ledge above her. Even with the bits of information she had gathered over the course of the morning and the day before, as she made the short trek back to Riften, her mood was grim.

The moons were sinking behind the western mountains when the thief returned, hidden behind a thick covering of clouds. The islands and the estate were dark shapes against the water. The torches were burning low, dim light struggling against the rain.

The swim in the freezing waters of Lake Honrich had not been pleasant, and the trek through the sewer even less so. Zarja’s damp armor clung to her body uncomfortably as she crouched at the entrance of the sewer, listening through the gaps in the wooden grate for any sign of the guards.

Hearing none, she scrambled up the ladder, damp and slippery with moss. The scrape of wood against stone seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet night as she eased the cover open, but didn’t seem to draw attention as Zarja hauled herself out of the sewer.

The sewer let out at the rear of the house, as promised, but it was further away than anticipated.

Merging with the shifting patterns of light and shadow thrown by the moon, the thief blended into the dark, matching the rhythm of trees and clouds as they stirred in the breeze. Slowly, as to not draw attention with errant movement, she crossed the distance to the door.

Zarja was grateful for the rain, even if it meant foregoing her usual mask to not further impair her already weather-limited senses. Thankfully, the downpour also meant that the guards outside of the house didn’t notice her slipping right past them. The second floor was fairly high up, but the window was darkened, and the latch was easily unlocked from the outside. She’d mapped the house already, in the days she had spent watching the island. If she was correct—and she was certain she was—that window led right into the second-floor Aringoth’s room.

Listening carefully, she waited until the guard was looking the other way, and began to climb. Her boots found their grip on the slick wood between logs, hands wrapped in a white-knuckled grip on the gutter.

Zarja kept her eyes and ears open, but no guards rounded the corner of the house. In a few moments, she was at the sill of the study window. The guard below didn’t even look up at the house towering behind him. Top-notch guards indeed.

One glance inside showed a darkened room—a desk littered with papers with a dimming candle at the far side of the room, a wardrobe, and a four-poster bed.

The thief hauled herself onto the ledge, and the slender knife from her boot gleamed dully as it wedged into the slight gap between the window doors. An angled jab, a deft flick of her wrist, and—

She eased the window open. One of the hinges creaked quietly, but the other swung away without a sound. Carefully, holding her breath, she eased the windows shut again.

Zarja landed in a crouch, her leather boots soundless on the ornate rug. The dim lanternlight showed a comfortably furnished home of a wealthy merchant; tastefully decorated, the walls were adorned with glittering decorations and colorful tapestries, and the wooden floors were covered with soft rugs.

The tiniest creak of floorboards under Zarja's feet as she moved, loud as thunder to her sensitive ears, was lost in the myriad of sounds around her. The house was alive around her; the sharp whistle of wind outside, snaking inside through tiny gaps in the outer walls and the patter of rain on the roof, the bear-like snoring of at least one guard of the house, the footsteps of another just outside the door. She pulled her mask up over her nose and started her search.

A quick sweep of the room showed no sign of a safe or keys. Papers were scattered on his desk, a ledger opened to yesterday’s date covered in the elf’s messy scrawl. Zarja doubted he would leave whatever she sought out in plain sight, but with no clear idea of where this thing even was, it was a good place to start.

A faint glitter at the far side of the room, caught her attention. It was a small bee statue, solid gold from the look of it, and it had a satisfying weight in her hands. Her mouth quirked into a small, satisfied smile as she tucked it into a pouch on her belt, and she crept towards the door soundlessly.

She moved through the room to the door, only to pause, fingers barely brushing the handle as her ears pricked at a muffled sound from the hall. She instinctively rolled out of the way, ducking behind a wardrobe just as the door was thrown open hard enough to bounce off the wall, and Aringoth stormed in.

"Useless mercenaries." He ground out. His hands clenched and unclenched as he walked, not even registering the silent, unmoving shape just a few meters away, or the wet footprints on the floor. His muttering hid the whisper of the thief's boots on the polished wooden floor as she turned back to the door.

The floor creaked under her.

Zarja's head snapped up as Aringoth started. Too far from the window to run, a guard outside the door, and no cover to hide her, Zarja could only watch with her heart in her throat as Aringoth turned toward the sound. They both froze, watching each other for too long a moment, both too shocked to respond.

Zarja moved first, the world snapping back into place around her. She dashed across the room, crossing it in three long strides. She didn't think, simply acted in a fraction of a second, drawing the blade on her hip. A half formed yell died on Aringoth's lips as a gloved hand clapped over his mouth, and the blade sliced across his throat.

Zarja emerged from the sewer back where she started, on the northern side of the island. A faint lightening in the eastern sky signaled that dawn was fast approaching.

She started to climb up to the wooden walkway above her. Her leather boots, while supple and supportive, felt traitorous on the slick stone surrounding it. She carefully navigated the rocks, staying as low as she could to avoid detection. Her boots slid, but her gloved fingers grappled onto the wooden supports. She managed to scramble her way up, risking a peek over the bulwark, and was greeted by a pair of boots directly in her line of vision. She immediately ducked back down, biting her lip to contain her curse. Above her the guard paused, suddenly alert. But in the early hour and the fatigue that accompanied it, and with nothing apparently wrong, he relaxed, slumping against one of the nearby crates. Zarja let out a quiet breath. She'd come this far; failure wasn't an option.

Gloved fingers gripping the rough wood above her, her feet carefully moved along the slanted support beams as she climbed further down the dock. Further down the bulwark, she pulled herself up and behind some stacked crates with little difficulty and took her bearings. On her left was the main house, surrounded with mercenaries who patrolled the walkways. On her right were the hives, which seemed unguarded.

The sound of creaking wood and thudding footsteps announced the presence of another patrolling guard on a nearby walkway. Zarja waited for him to pass before she climbed out from her hiding place. She headed toward the bee hives, carefully dodging guards as she went.

A distant shout from the other side of the island briefly drew her attention. There was commotion near the house, and it was slowly starting to spread across the estate as an alarm was raised. Stealth now a secondary priority, she quickened her pace.

The buzzing sound of the insects grew louder as she neared the center of the six hives. The combined drone of the bees and the patter of rain on the lake drowned out all other sound, and settled uncomfortably on her already frayed nerves. She tossed a quick look over her shoulder and, satisfied that no one had seen her, knelt down and pulled out her flint and steel.

The sparks crackled and died in the rain, costing her precious time. When the fire finally came to life, it leapt eagerly to the little wooden fortress. The fire made quick work of the hive and jumped to the next, the flames greedily devouring the hay and wood.

Shouts of alarm mingled with the crackle of the flames as mercenaries realized the hives were ablaze, and her satisfaction quickly turned to alarm.

Shielding her eyes against the smoke, Zarja searched for a way out. With the walkways blocked by the incoming guards, and with no time to navigate the rocks, she turned to the fence. But her boots couldn't find purchase on the smooth wood, and the wall was too high to jump. Behind her, the mercenaries were getting closer, and the sickeningly sweet smoke was blinding.

She sensed the attack a heartbeat before it happened. Zarja whirled and ducked, and the swing that would've cut her in two sailed harmlessly through empty air over her head and embedded itself in the wood above her, throwing the guard off balance in a shower of splinters. She came up with fast blow to the point of the man’s jaw; the guard was out before he hit the ground. She pivoted out of the way of a second guard's swing, and let her momentum carry her into a spin, bringing her leg up and delivering a solid kick to the man's side. Not an incapacitating blow by any means, with the brute protected by his thick leather armor, but it wasn’t meant to be, and it served it's purpose. He staggered and wheezed, and it took little effort for Zarja to grab his shoulders and force him down as her knee came up. There was a sickening crunch as the man's nose shattered, and he collapsed with a groan, blood trailing sluggishly down his face.

The entire sequence took less than four seconds.

Yells from the bridge reminded her that she wasn't out of danger yet. She turned, and the dull glint of the sword still buried in the wall just above waist height caught her attention. She took a few steps back and drew her elven dagger, paused briefly to make sure the contents of the safe were still secure in a pocket of her armor and the bee statue was undamaged, then ran at the wall, bracing one foot against it and pushing herself up so the other rested on the hilt of the sword. The blade shifted, threatening to give out under her weight, but she was already moving further up, sinking her own blade higher up on the wall. She grit her teeth against a lash of white-hot pain in her arm as she scrambled higher.

Her other hand gripped the edge above her, her dagger providing the added leverage she needed to pull herself up. She made it to the top just as the mercenaries reached the hives, ripping her blade free of the wood.

"There!" Too late, one of them spotted her through the thick smoke, but she was already gone, diving into the dark, frigid waters of the lake.

Zarja swam hard for the shore, letting the current carry her away from the island. She was nearly blind in the murky water, but she didn't dare swim on the surface in case the mercenaries were smart enough to carry bows.

Finally, lungs burning and muscles aching, she hauled herself up onto the muddy bank. She collapsed onto her back with a groan, staring up at the dark clouds above her. The only sound was her ragged breathing, and in the distance the faint yelling of panicked guards.

After a few moments a dull throb reminded her of its presence in her left arm. Her right hand came up, feeling for the source of the discomfort, and it came away red and sticky. Looked like the guard had managed a lucky hit after all; he had nicked her just under her leather pauldron. The cut wasn't too deep, but it burned beneath her hand, and was starting to itch. Lying in the mud probably wasn't doing it any favors either.

Zarja forced herself up against her complaining muscles. But it didn't stop the satisfied smirk that curled under her mask as she watched the distant figures of the mercenaries scurrying like ants around the burning hives. Despite their incompetence, she wasn't worried. With no wind, and the steady rain, the fires were already going out and remaining hives were in no danger, but two were already past saving, and the third was unlikely to survive.

She pulled the letter she'd found in the basement safe out of her pocket, thankfully undamaged from the swim, staring at it before a wicked grin stretched over her features. The letter clutched in her hand was proof that she had done it.

Within hours the entire city knew that Goldenglow had been hit. Half of the estate’s hives had been destroyed, the house stripped of valuables. The island and the lake were being searched for whatever was left of Aringoth; his room had been found in chaos, a bloody mess on the floor. No one expected him to be found.

The door to the Ragged Flagon flew open with a crash, drawing the attention of the few in the bar.

Delvin looked up with no small degree of surprise. No one had heard from the Nord woman in almost three days, and most had started to assume the worst. “You’re back! How did –“

“It’s done.” She said simply, giving him a crooked smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. The mood in the bar lightened considerably, the patrons throwing curious questions at her, but she didn’t stop to elaborate.

In the Cistern, she headed straight to Brynjolf, acutely aware of Mercer’s gaze following her across the room as soon as she entered.

Brynjolf grinned as she approached, relief washing through him and the tension lifting from his body as pulled her into a quick hug. She winced at the contact, and his relief quickly turned to concern. He pulled his hand away reflexively, and it came away red and sticky with blood.

“Lass –“

“Looks worse than it is, I promise.” She interrupted quickly, her lips curving into a faint smile. She pushed aside the torn, bloodstained sleeve of her shirt, revealing the hasty wrappings around her arm. “More importantly,” With her uninjured hand she pulled out the letter from the inner lining of her armor. “The contents of Aringoth’s safe.” She raised a brow at his surprise. ”You doubted me?” she teased, but there was a warning edge in her voice.

“Not for a second.” He grinned, unfolding the letter. He skimmed over the document quickly, his easy smile fading with every word. “What about the elf?” he asked, his voice suddenly very serious.

Zarja looked somewhat surprised by the question, but answered, “Dead.”

“Good.” Her brow inched higher in a silent question. “Whatever you did, lass, it was a kindness.” Brynjolf said darkly, his green eyes glittering in the torchlight. “Aringoth sold Goldenglow. Maven would’ve skinned the mad bastard alive.” He shook his head, examining the paper more closely. “There’s no name on the certificate, just this odd symbol. Any idea what it means, lass?”

Zarja took the proffered parchment. The symbol was strange, but there was something almost familiar about it. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it was a shadowmark.” She frowned, handing the letter back. “But it’s nothing like I’ve ever seen.”

“Blast. I’ll check my sources and speak to Mercer. In the meantime,” He said, folding the parchment and turning his attention back to Zarja, who was stifling a yawn. Hidden in the shadow of her hood, her eyes lacked their usual brightness above dark circles of exhaustion. “Get some rest, lass.”

"But I still need to-"

"Whatever it is, it can wait. You're a wreck." Brynjolf said bluntly. "Go get some sleep. You've done your part. I'll take care of the rest." When she didn't move he added, "That's an order, lass." With as much authority as he could muster.

Zarja snorted – they both knew he didn’t have any actual authority over her - , but inclined her head slightly. "Yes, sir." She said dryly to the Guild Second. Brynjolf waved off her teasing, shaking his head, and Zarja headed for her room, but sleep was the last thing on her mind. She pulled off her armor, gingerly maneuvering her injured arm out of the leather curiass and the sleeve of her tunic, and tossed it into a pile at the foor of her bed before heading to the improvised bathroom separated from the rest of her room by a wooden screen.

While not as advanced as Solitude or Markarth, The Rift had its share of dwemer ruins, and over time the hold's inhabitants had managed to replicate some of their more simple technologies - most importantly, the ability to heat and carry water through endless meters of pipes. The thieves simply tapped into the pipes installed by the nobility.

The old pipes groaned, only releasing a short trickle of water into the tub. Zarja frowned, urging the piping along with an impatient kick. After an unnerving shudder and one final loud complaint, water sputtered forth, growing into a steady stream. The water smelled of a faint metallic tang from the endless feet of piping, but it was still infinitely better than the freezing green waters of Lake Honrich.

Zarja soaked until the water was tepid, letting the heat and sweet smelling soaps soothe her aching muscles and growing headache, and changed into a fresh tunic and breeches - dark colored like most of the things she owned. She started on the chore of repairing her armor. It was slow, methodical work, but relaxing.

The peaceful silence didn’t last long. News of her return had spread quickly. By the time she’d finished caring for her water-damaged armor, half the Guild had come to her for the story. She’d given them enough details to satisfy their curiosity, but for the most part remained tensely silent.

She paused her task to talk to Tonilia about materials for repair. Returning to the Cistern, she saw the door to Mercer's office open, and Brynjolf leaning over the desk, his back towards her as he spoke to the Breton. She knew him well enough to recognize the tense set of his shoulders, and the cause wasn't hard to guess. The Guildmaster was furious over the news of Goldenglow’s sale. He glanced over at Zarja once, the unreadable expression sending a chill down her spine. There was something almost like approval in the look, but there was also something very dangerous that she couldn't name.

Zarja kept her face carefully neutral, turning back to her room and her chore. She pushed the uncomfortable feeling from her mind as she set to cleaning her weapons. The cleaning rag came away stained red with blood.

She stared at it for a moment, chewing the inside of her cheek. She roughly shoved the Aldmeri blade back in its scabbard, throwing it onto the pile of gear at the foot of her bed. Pausing only to throw a change of clothes, and some coin, she stalked across the Cistern, strapping on her weapons belt and her cloak as she went. No one stopped her when she slipped out of the hidden entrance and into the city streets.

[myszkina]

Shadow and Steel - a Skyrim fanfiction

FF.net

Archive of Our Own

Chapter 2 - Necessary Evils

Far outside the city, the wind whistled over the tundra, kicking up the first fall snows that had just barely settled. Tall pine trees bent and groaned against the wind. A single torch flickered in the dark, out of place on the dark plains. It was a beacon, calling stray travelers to the promise of safety. More than one had fallen prey to the trick.  

Crouched in the shadow of one of the massive trees, Zarja watched the flickering torch and the hidden door it signaled. By the light of the moons she could just barely make out the dark forms of two guards. She sighed, her breath misting in front of her face, and pulled her mask more securely over her mouth and nose, her scarf over that. Zarja loathed the cold. The sooner she returned to Riften, the better.

She sensed more than heard the movement behind her, a pricking on the back of her neck that accompanied the barest crunch of snow.

“It seems we hunt the same prey, Goldshadow.” A deep voice rumbled from the shadows. “Pity.”

Zarja cast an almost bored glance out of the corner of her eye. Anyone else would’ve missed the figure leaning against the trunk of the nearby tree, but her eyes had been trained from years of working in the dark, and she could easily make out the black and red armor. She fiddled with her fur-lined glove, unconcerned by the sudden appearance of the assassin. This one was no threat to her. “You didn't know he was one of ours? Getting sloppy, Nazir.” She drawled as she rose.

“Not until you came looking.” Nazir admitted, his voice cool and diplomatic. “He's yours of course, as per our agreement.” Zarja inclined her head in acknowledgement; this wasn’t the first time she had crossed paths with the Brotherhood on an assignment, and the result had been the same: Guild business stayed in the Guild. Less messy for everyone that way. “The last thing we want is to be tangled in your Guild's unfortunate affairs. Though Astrid won’t be pleased.” He sighed.

“Astrid really should take better care of which contracts she accepts. This is becoming a habit.” Zarja said matter-of-factly.

Nazir calmly ignored the quiet jab in Zarja’s voice. “If you don’t mind my asking, what did he do exactly?”

“You don’t know? My point proves itself.” This time she felt a subtle rise in the tension in the air from the assassin, and she smirked slightly behind her mask. It didn’t show in her voice as she responded, “He used to work for us, running a brothel in the Grey Quarter. The bastard killed a client of ours and ran off with a handful of his agents when we found out he'd been cheating us.”

“Yes, we were called by the client's family.” Nazir said indifferently, but there was a hint of a smile in his voice as he continued. “Your organization seems to be having the worst luck as of late.”

Zarja laughed once lightly through her nose. There was no humor in the sound. “You’re not one to talk. When’s the last time you had a contract on anyone politically higher than a serving girl?” She turned to face Nazir fully, crossing her arms and cocking her hip. She raised a brow, now all business. “In any case, Astrid should be thrilled. You’ve already been paid, Linwe will be dead by the end of the night, and you didn’t even have to lift a finger. All the reward with none of the risk.”

“Provided you don’t fail.”

Zarja’s smile was predatory under her mask, a dark light in her eyes. “I never fail.”

Two guards stood watch, huddled beneath an overhang to escape the icy winds. Long past midnight, they leaned against the wooden supports of the gate, trying to stave of sleep as they stayed close to the warmth of the small fire.

One started, yanked out of his dozing, suddenly alerted by some small sound or movement, or simply the intuitive sense that something wasn’t quite right. A warning prickled along the back of his neck as he elbowed his partner awake roughly. The other elf grunted, glaring bleary eyed at him.

"What is it now, Carelian?"

"I heard something." Carelian said lowly, drawing his dagger as he rose.

The other elf scoffed. "Probably just a fox." He said, shifting slightly and pulling his threadbare cloak more tightly around himself.

"Shut up, Raviel. I'm trying to listen." Tired eyes peered into the dark, not even registering the silent, unmoving shape just a few meters away.

He had the brief impression of something flashing towards him, a low whistle in the still night air. A fraction of a second later it all went dark as a black shafted arrow buried itself in his eye, punching clean out the back of his skull and into the wooden support beam behind him, pinning him there.

Raviel scrambled to his feet with a panicked yell, clumsily drawing his own blade. As he turned toward where the arrow had come from, a dark figure stepped out from the shadow of a pine tree. But to the startled bandit, it seemed as if the darkness had simply melted away, leaving this living shadow in their wake. Even now the shadows seemed to cling to their form, the strange, mottled cloak they wore merging with the flickering patterns of light and shadow, making it near impossible to focus on them.

Another arrow sped towards him. It clanged against the cheap steel of his sword, the force knocking it from his loose grasp. Stunned, Raviel was too slow to see the dark figure racing towards him. He raised his hands instinctively in a useless defence as his attacker ducked under his wild swing, sweeping his legs out from under him in a swift kick. Raviel had the brief impression of weightlessness before he slammed into the body of Carelian. Dazed, he looked up just in time to see a dark boot come whipping at his face. There was a sickening crunch as his nose was crushed, and he collapsed with a low groan.

The thief stepped over the two Altmer, pausing to wrench her arrow from the wood. It squelched as it was pulled through bone and brain. No longer held up, Carelian collapsed in a boneless heap against his partner.  

Zarja knelt next to the unconscious elf, lightly turning his head and giving him a quick once. She nodded to herself, satisfied he would wake in a few hours. He would spread the word of what happened here tonight.

She drew the dagger sheathed at her thigh, twirling it in her hand as she stared deadpan at the elf.

One way or another, he would spread the word.

The tip of the dagger dragged through his skin, carving the shadowmark into the pale gold of his face like a painter with canvas. Blood ran hot down his jaw and dripped onto the snow, which melted away from the warmth. Two triangles, joined by a circle – the warning mark to anyone who would challenge them, the only one those outside the Guild understood.

Blood-splattered walls marked Zarja's passing through the frozen warren, a grisly trail for her to follow back out. None of the elves saw the blade that killed them. One by one the Altmer thieves fell, the light fading from their eyes before shock had even registered. Twin blades found homes in necks and between ribs with brutal, long-practiced efficiency, quick hands twisting bones until they snapped.

She paused when ice gave way to stone and mortar. Zarja had pressed herself against the rough stone wall of the buried fort and pulled off her cloak, leaving it in a pile with her bow and quiver; they would only be in the way from here on in the close quarters. She moved like a wraith, past the empty upper level and down the stairs, staying close to the wall where the shadows were deeper. She listened as she moved, counting voices and echoes of movement. At the bottom of the stairs she paused, and sheathed one of her swords with a soft hiss of steel on leather, bracing the other against her forearm.

She nearly tripped on her first victim as she pivoted around the corner into the main hall; the elf sat on the floor, legs sprawled in front of him. He hadn't even registered her presence before his throat was cut, blood spurting out in a crimson gush. He dropped to the floor, gurgling and clutching at his throat feebily, as Zarja rounded on the remaining bandits.

She whirled and ducked under a swing, drawing the dagger sheathed on her thigh with her free hand. In the same fluid movement she cut through the exposed flesh of her attacker's upper arm as it sailed harmlessly past her. The axe hit the floor with a harsh clatter, its owner joining it a second later with Zarja's dagger in his ribs.

Three more came at her, and three more fell in a handful of moments, felled by precise, lightning fast strikes at gaps in armor, blade and feet and elbows striking at exposed throats and temples as she moved through their headquarters. Zarja danced out of reach and through their defenses with a grace that belied the viciousness of her attacks. No malice - their deaths were quick - but no mercy. Not for them.

As she pivoted through her finishing blow, the air next to her was split by the vicious crackle of a fireball the flashed past Zarja's ear and exploded against the wall. She dove to the floor, instinct taking over before she'd even consciously recognized the shot, and rolled into a small side room.

Zarja crouched low, blade in hand as she listened for movement from the dining room. Zarja grit her teeth in frustration, cursing herself for underestimating the elf. They now stood at an impasse, both waiting for the other to move.

There was the barest scuffle of a footstep, a crackle of flames casting shadows on the open door, and her eyes unconsciously flicked towards it. "I knew someone would come for me." A nasally voice called. Zarja's eyes narrowed at the smirk in it. "But I never would've thought it'd be Mercer's bitch."

"I know, it must be shocking for a glorified whoremonger to be held at such importance." Zarja breezed as she sheathed her sword, slowly to hide the faint rasp of steel on leather. "You should be honored; Mercer doesn't send his best out for just anyone."

The shadows flickered, the scent of burned magicka drifting into the room. "You've got a pretty smart mouth for someone with nowhere to go."

"And yet, you're still hiding in there." Zarja said nonchalantly, but still glaring at the door. Linwe was in a better position than her, and they both knew it. If she moved from this room, the elf would incinerate her. It was only luck she'd survived his first shot.

Zarja forced her breath to settle into a calm, slow, unhurried rhythm and she rose slowly, soundlessly, and leaned against the rough stone wall behind her, and closed her eyes.

"I've got all night." Zarja called. "But you?" She let out a harsh bark of laughter. "You really think I'm the only one after you?" He can't keep that spell up forever. She hadn't seen any potions in her dance through the main room, and heard no telltale clink of glass now. "I'm only the first. While you're sitting here," she eased the small throwing knife out of her bracer. She knew she would only have one shot at this, "Others are coming. You couldn't outrun me, and you won't outrun the Dark Brotherhood." Another scuffle of a boot her at that – the elf shifting his weight nervously. The light outside the room flickered and started to fade.

She flipped the knife in her hand. This was going to have to be an instinctive throw. She pictured the dark figure of the Altmer, a shadow against the torchlight across the room. She remembered his position, setting it in her mind's eye. She pictured the flight of her dagger as it tumbled end over end through the air, over and over again until it seemed real.

"All this, and for what? A handful of gold and -"

Mid-word, in an almost trancelike state, she moved.

Smoothly. Rhythmically. Two steps out into the clear, turning in a fluid motion around the wall so that her left hand brought her knife up as she moved. She let instinct take control of her hands, aiming and throwing from memory, not even seeing the dark figure until the blade was already gone, splitting the air on its way to the target. By the time she consciously saw him, the knife found its mark in his neck. Linwe fell backward and hit the wall with a dull thud, the dying spell in his hand finally flickering out of existence.

Zarja lowered her arm, and with deliberate slowness moved across the room to the dying elf. Her expression was feral, the cold, predatory glare of a sabrecat.

Her boots stuck in the pools of blood on the floor as she walked, already congealing in the cool air. She knelt and ripped her throwing knife out of Linwe’s neck with a wet squelch that sent blood spurting out weakly, dragging it through his flesh in one quick motion as she did to end his struggling. She wiped the blade clean on his leather armor.

Zarja flipped the tiny knife in her hand pensively as she stood. After a moment she sighed resignedly and sheathed it, replacing it with one of the blades crossed on her back. Her orders played over in her mind as she raised her sword.

Send them a message they can't ignore.

Rumors spread like wildfire in Windhelm. It started at the docks, in the slums where the shadowy underbelly of the city held sway. It spread through hushed whispers in the tavern, exchanged like gold in the market. The story of a bandit clan destroyed in a single night, their underground fortress burned to nothing. Their bodies had been carted into the Hall of the Dead for examination that morning, but the side gate and the cloth coverings couldn’t hide them from prying eyes.

They didn’t look like people anymore. Silda had claimed to anyone who listened. Just bones and ash.

Within days the whole city knew. People talked of the one survivor, now hiding on the docks trying to barter passage out of Skyrim. No one knew what was beneath the bloodstained rag covering half his face; people talked of a bandit war, that this was retaliation from the group in Morvunskar. But some of them – the smugglers and mercenaries, the independent thieves and the whores, the corrupt nobles - knew. A message that few among Windhelm’s people realized, but all in Skyrim's underworld would soon hear: Don't cross the Thieves Guild.

Their leader’s head had been found mounted on a crudely sharpened spike at the entrance to the tunnels. Glassy green eyes bulged out of a face frozen in shock, the greying flesh barely starting to thaw in the sunlight. There was little blood on the ground beneath it; it led off in a trail into the underground hideout, into the bloodstained halls where his group had been brutally and effectively destroyed. The Cruel-Sea family locket hung above him from the stake that protruded from the top of his head.

Was he The Butcher? People whispered hopefully. Did this mean the threat was over?

Or was something worse coming?

Zarja left the Cruel-Sea house that night, pockets significantly heavier and the Guild two contacts richer. The support of Clan Cruel-Sea was the best prize the Guild had gotten in years, and Zarja couldn’t wait to see the look on Vex’s face when she found out that Zarja had one-upped her. Again.

The barest crunch of snow marked her passing, her footprints erased within moments by fresh flakes. Well past sunset, the city was empty, the streets eerily quiet.

Zarja froze for the barest moment, ears pricked, eyes wary. Something was wrong, something she couldn't place. The night was silent around her, not even a wisp of wind disturbed the banners above her. But something, some primal sense pickling along the back of her neck, had her dropping to the ground and diving behind a stack of crates..

Just as an arrow streaked past her, straight through where her head had been a heartbeat before.

The black shaft stuck quivering to the wooden wall behind her as Zarja spun on her toes, staying in a low crouch as she whipped out her blades. She dared a glance around the edge of a crate, keen eyes searching the night for her attacker.

There was nothing; the night was still. It was as if the shadows themselves had struck at her. But the arrow was very solid and very real, as was the intent behind it.

"I've heard of a thief that plays like an assassin. Though I can't think what the Sword of the Thieves Guild would be doing so far from home, running through the city of Jarl Ulfric."

The voice that broke the silence was like velvet. Zarja's eyes focused on the source and saw nothing. Not until the shadows moved, melting away to reveal a small, lean figure carrying a bow almost as tall as its wielder.

"Nothing to say? Surely you don't think I'll let you pass without an explanation."

The figure shifted slightly, the moonlight ghosting over sharp, prominent features beneath her hood.

"You're a Dark Elf." Zarja’s eyes narrowed fractionally above her mask, which warped her voice beyond recognition into a low growl.

"Perceptive, aren’t you?"

"Enough to see that you don’t have a clear shot.” Zarja snapped, unconsciously flipping the shortswords in her hands. They shone in the light of the moons.

The Dunmer didn't miss the action. "Do you really think you'll reach me before my arrow reaches your heart?"

Zarja's lips curled back in a snarl. If she'd brought her bow, the Dunmer would already be dead, but she’d gone and left it at the stables with the rest of her gear like a damned fool. Zarja shifted her weight and faked to her right, sliding forward in the same step, testing. In that split second the Dunmer's hand was already level with her shoulder, inches from the feathered ends of the arrows peeking over her shoulder. The Dunmer was very good.

"Who are you?"

"That's none of your concern." The Dunmer replied coolly. "What is, is that you don't find yourself in my path again. And if I were you, Goldshadow, I wouldn't dig into the matter further."

A chill that had nothing to do with the frost ran down her spine. The Dunmer knew who she was. Had she seen the meetings with Niranye and Torsten? What else did she know?

Common sense told Zarja to kill her. She was already gauging the distance between them, the terrain and the possible cover she could use.

Snow crunched behind her, and Zarja whipped back behind the crates toward the noise, her expression murderous. The edge of her blade stopped a hair’s breadth from Niranye’s throat.

Niranye yelped indignantly, throwing up her hands in a placating gesture.

“Do you greet all of your business partners like this, or just me?” She scowled at the Nord.

Zarja raised a brow. “What do you want? You said we were done.” She asked indifferently as she sheathed her blades. Her eyes flicked back to the shadows, and wasn't surprised  to see the Dunmer was already gone, like she had never been there at all.

“A message came for you. The courier arrived at the manor not five minutes after you left.”

So much for ‘Your hands only’. Zarja snatched the letter from Niranye’s hand and headed back towards the city gates without another word.

She frowned at the parchment as she broke the wax seal. If this is another damn museum pamphlet…. She stopped in her tracks as she got to the end of the message. She reread it. Once. Twice.

And bolted for the stables.

[myszkina]

Shadow and Steel - a Skyrim Fanfiction

FF.net

Archive of Our Own

Chapter 1 - Gone Fishing

Candlehearth Hall was full to bursting, crammed with townsfolk eager to escape the first snows of early Frostfall. Smoke swirled around the rafters, disturbed occasionally by cool winds sneaking in alongside the coming and going townsfolk, its odor mixing with the stench of cheap mead and clung to every stone and patron. Merchants and smugglers, farmers and soldiers alike swapped stories and called for their favorite songs. Here everyone was equal as they drank themselves into oblivion and gambled on rigged games of cards. Light-footed serving girls easily maneuvered the chaos, rushing to fill orders as they dodged flailing hands and drunken gropes that the circling whores fell into with coy smiles. The innkeeper eyed the room, seeing only damages to be dealt with in the morning and patrons who wouldn’t pay their tab.

Nearly all of the patrons were familiar to Luaffyn, having made her home here for the past five seasons. But as she strummed the first notes of a raucous tune, her inquisitive red eyes rested on a newcomer.

She had arrived day before last just before sunset, alone. After a quick conversation Elda gave her the best room at the Hall - the one usually reserved for the rare visiting noble or merchant not important enough to stay at the Palace - and didn’t seem at all bothered by either the heavy, hooded cloak the stranger wore or the many weapons on her long, lean body. Not when the pouch she'd tossed onto the bar with a casual flick of her gloved hand had landed with a heavy, clinking thud.

Luaffyn had been watching the enigmatic woman from the hearth - if only because strangers were rare in Windhelm this time of year, and this one had arrived with an air of something nearly imperceptible, easy brushed off by the less intuitive; something under her charming smiles and honeyed words, something dark and dangerous as the forests by night that she wore as easily as her cloak.

The bard had seen all kinds in her travels, and she knew how to put together a story, even with so little to work with. A Nord, with hair the color of honey that snaked over her shoulder in a long braid. She wore close-fitting, worn leather armor under a fur-lined cloak, both well maintained under the fresh dirt. The cloak was strange, dark but mottled with shades of grey. An adventurer, a hunter perhaps, hired by a noble and headed into the mountains before the snows settled? Or a mercenary, judging by the comfort with which she carried her weapons.

Luaffyn shrugged to herself. Whatever her line of work was, it had better pay well enough to cover her monstrous tab, or Elda was going to kill her.

Zarja Goldshadow slammed her mug on the table hard enough to make the gold on it rattle, letting out a satisfied “Hah!” and wiping her wet mouth on her sleeve as the gathered crowd roared. She grinned at her dumbfounded challengers as she swept her winnings across the table towards her. Gold changed hands around them, and more than a few, now richer, patrons clapped her on the back. Her smile grew, pulling at the scattering of old scars on her nose and right cheek, and she half rose from her chair in a shaky bow.

With how often drinks were spilled and splashed in the tavern, and that half of the patrons were already well into their cups, no one thought anything of the puddle around Zarja’s mug, and the tiny hole she’d drilled into the bottom of it went unnoticed. She knew how to play the part of a drunk having the grandest time in the world. After nearly ten years’ practice in the Ragged Flagon, she played the part very, very well.

No one knew that the woman falling giggling back into her seat was the most notorious thief this side of the Jerall Mountains. She couldn't imagine anyone would believe her even if they did know - the woman who was half legend and half ghost story was here in the middle of a crowded bar, drinking herself into a stupor with the rest? Half of Skyrim didn't even believe she existed, that she was just a rumor conjured up by the struggling Guild to maintain some semblance of their once fearful reputation. The rest knew her reputation, but not her face.

She’d been here for two days now—two days spent in either one of the city’s drafty inns that stank of sweat, stale mead, and foul smoke, or out in the miserable, freezing city, searching for her mark, a former Guild contact who'd broken the rules and gone rogue.

Considering their collective occupations, that was sinking very low.

But finding one man in miles and miles of forests and mountains was difficult, even for her. After losing days chasing false leads halfway across the province and almost two weeks to travel alone, and with her last solid lead only getting her as far as Kynesgrove, Zarja had been forced to resort to petty rumors and half-blind guesswork to pick up his trail.

Sitting through two agonizing evenings of listening to farmers complaining about skeevers getting into their stores and petty rumors from the local guards ("I’m tellin’ you, some strange shit’s been going on by that old greyskin shine.") for some shred of useful information had gotten her nothing but a headache and a foul mood. She deftly cut the purse of a passing well-to-do patron with a quick flick of her wrist. It and her tiny punch dagger disappeared into the folds of her cloak before it fell an inch, and she felt marginally better.

The crowd dispersed, and Zarja raised her hand, signaling for the barmaid.

"Another round, gentlemen?" Zarja cried, reshuffling the deck. She fought a smirk as bets were made before the cards were even dealt, each man hoping to one-up the others and all trying to win back their gold - and dignity - from the smiling minx.

“And you’re sure it’s them, Haksvar?” A passing guard said lowly as he sat down at the bar behind Zarja.

“Third one with all their valuables stolen.” Another, Haksvar, answered. “Just like Torsten’s daughter.”

Zarja casually flipped the barmaid a septim as the woman refilled her mug. The thief's practiced ears focused on the muttered conversation as she dealt the cards. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the second guard look around. He paused, quieting almost immediately after one look at the dark-cloaked stranger closest to them. Zarja didn’t react, turning instead to the barmaid Susanna and resting her chin in her hand, her eyes heavy lidded and mouth easily curling into the practiced, innocent smile of a drunken flirt. Susanna fell into it instantly.

Deeming the apparently heavily intoxicated woman no threat, the second guard turned back to his partner.

“Think it’s the Thieves Guild?” The first man asked, signaling Elda for drinks.

“Those sewer rats? Even if they had the balls to come this far north," Zarja's grip tightened fractionally on her tankard as she eyed her cards, "it’s not their style." Haksvar leaned closer to his partner. "Apparently," he said in a conspiratorial whisper that Zarja strained to hear over the barmaid's babbling, "Torsten got something out of the one he caught. Knife-eared bastard gave up the name of his boss, said there's a whole group of them holed up in the hills in the south. Call themselves the Summerset Shadows."

His partner snorted disdainfully into his mug. "Damn elves. Should'a known they had somethin' to do with this."

The second guard nodded knowingly and took a swig from his tankard.

"Torsten's tryin' to get the Jarl to do something about it." Haksvar continued, motioning to Susanna for a refill.

The barmaid gave Zarja a coy wink and a promise to return before she sashayed off, not noticing the brief glint of her gold bracelet as it disappeared into Zarja's pocket.

"Problem is," Haksvar grumbled. "The bastard died before he told us where they are."

Perhaps you shouldn't have been so overzealous with your interrogation then. Amateurs. Zarja sighed through her nose as she rested her chin on the back of her card hand, tracing the rim of her mug with the other. She stared unseeing into the murky depths of it, racking her brain for a solution.

Someone had to know where the Shadows were. Every organization left a trail, a mess in their wake - something she knew all too well, as she was usually the one who had to clean up after the Guild.

The finger on her mug stilled as a thought struck her.

"Looks like it’s your lucky night, beautiful." Susanna smiled, leaning over Zarja's shoulder as the blonde played her winning hand.

Zarja smiled crookedly at the barmaid. "You have no idea."

The city on the frozen coast was alive with the hustle and bustle of the late morning, the first dark reaches of an incoming storm obscuring the watery sun not enough to scare its inhabitants back into their homes.

Niranye watched it all with a practiced eye. She knew the city and its people, and was comfortable in this land that had been her home for the better part of three decades. Around her, voices were raised in anger or amusement, calling to one another over the din, trading jokes and insults alike. Townsfolk milled through the main square as merchants and craftsmen, fishermen and farmers set up their stalls and called out their goods and prices. The air was heavy with the smell of the coming storm and smoke from the forge, the salt of the sea drifting over the stench of the lower city. Over the eastern wall she could see the docks were crowded with ships, their masts rising in a forest above the icy waters of the bay.

But even in the crowd of the market, the townsfolk kept to their own groups. All non-humans were uniformly distant to humans, who repaid the sentiment in kind. Neither group mixed among themselves. The Altmer looked down on the Dumner, who barely tolerated the Argonians. The resident Nords cared little for the Bretons and Imperials who also called the city home. The farmers and beggars looked at the nobility with open scorn, and the nobility acted as if the lower class didn't exist.

Niranye’s eyes passed over them all, Dunmer too poor and too proud to approach her and the Nords too distrusting, and she sighed. It wasn’t looking like a good morning for her.

“So what do you sell?” A voice, cool and cultured like her own, from very close by snapped her out of her reverie. Niranye straightened, startled by the sudden appearance of an unfamiliar Nord woman.

Niranye jumped immediately into her sales pitch, gesturing at the various items as she named them, and studied the Nord curiously. So this was the one Ambarys had talked about. She didn’t look like much. But there was something about her that seemed almost familiar.

“Is there something on my face?” The woman’s cool voice cut in suddenly.

“What? No. Why do you ask?” Niranye frowned, confused by the change in topic.

The woman raised a dark brow as she looked up from the arrows she was inspecting. “You’ve been staring at me since I walked over.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Niranye smiled awkwardly, silently kicking herself. Had she really been that unsubtle? “It’s just…. I swear you look familiar somehow.”

The woman relaxed and smiled crookedly. ”I seem to get that a lot." She said, replacing the arrow and reaching for her coin purse. "I have no idea why, since I usually work out of Riften.”

“Mercenary work?” That would make sense, considering her weapons and gear.

Just for a second, Niranye thought she saw a flash of something beneath the woman’s calm demeanor – something cold and dark as the Sea of Ghosts that turned her smile into that of a wolf and her eyes to amber shards – as she replied, “Of sorts.” Just as soon as it appeared, it was gone, so fast Niranye wasn’t sure if she imagined it or not.

“If you don’t mind my asking...” The Nord began, setting the purse on the table. It hit the wood with a satisfyingly heavy thud.

Intrigued and sensing an opportunity, Niranye leaned forward, her hands on the high wooden counter. “Not at all.”

Zarja recognized the gleam in the Altmer’s green eyes. Perfect. “It’s been some time since I’ve been in Windhelm, and I couldn’t help but overhear some rather ghastly rumors.”

“Ah yes,” Niranye nodded knowingly, suddenly very much in her element: gossip. Many mercenaries paid for information, and in her experience, they paid well. “It’s all anyone in the city’s been talking of as of late. ‘The Butcher’, I believe they’re calling him.”

Zarja grimaced. “Descriptive.”

“You don’t know the half of it.” Niranye glanced up, scanning the crowd for anyone who might overhear. Satisfied that everyone was occupied and utterly uninterested in them, she relaxed, and leaned on her forearms closer towards the Nord conspiratorially. “They found the poor girl not far from here.” She said lowly. “Hacked to pieces. I saw it myself.”

Bile rose in her throat at the mere memory of it -  the stench of blood and bile and the vomit of at least one guard; all the blood, so much she could hardly believe it came from only one person, shockingly red against the grey stones and white snow; the limbs – the ones still attached anyway – bent and broken at sickening angles; bloody bone piercing through the flesh where they were broken or scarred where the muscle and skin had been flayed from it; what was left of the woman’s face twisted into an agonized scream.

“They didn’t even find all of her.” Niranye breathed. “Some parts of her are still missing.”

“Holy Mother Mara.” Zarja didn’t need to fake her revulsion; she’d seen the bloodstains in the alley the other night, and with all she’d seen – and done – over the years, it wasn’t hard to imagine the scene. “Do they have any idea who’s responsible?"

“None at all. The guards are frantic.”

“Aren’t you worried?” Zarja asked, feigning concern.

Niranye scoffed, and Zarja raised a brow incredulously. “Of some prowler in the streets? Not at all.” She was no simpering flower like the victims; she could very well defend herself.

“No, I mean about the rumors coming out of the barracks.” Zarja said lowly. She turned her attention to the purse, fishing a coin out.

“What rumors?” A confused line appeared between the elf’s brows. Not much happened in this city that she didn’t know about. Her eyes unconsciously went to the glittering coin tumbling back and forth over Zarja’s gloved fingers.

Zarja leaned on the table, mimicking Niranye’s stance as she continued playing with the coin. “I overheard some of the guards in Candlehearth Hall last night." Zarja began, eyes locked on Niranye's face. "Some of them are saying it was a robbery gone wrong. They’re saying an Altmer was responsible."

"Now where would they get such a notion?" Niranye was good, Zarja would give her that; anyone else wouldn't have heard the slightest twinge of anxiety in her voice, and her face was still a mask of calm.

"They caught one. Very talkative he was apparently. He said there's more of them. A whole group of them in fact, calling themselves the Summerset Shadows.” The coin stopped moving. There was a dangerous edge to Zarja’s voice now, her act starting to slip away. "He even gave up the name of their leader. Linwe, I believe his name was."

Niranye’s blood ran cold, her heart in her throat. "Sounds like the guards making up stories again." She said, feigning nonchalance.

Zarja smirked. "You can drop the act now, Niranye. You're not very good at it." The coin started moving again. "Out of practice, I suppose.” Zarja cocked her head to the side. “Then again,” she drawled, “you've been very busy for a supposedly retired fence. Or is it just us you won’t work with anymore?”

Niranye swallowed nervously. “You’re from the Guild.”

“Got it in one. Give the woman a sweet roll.” That wolfish smile was back. It didn’t come close to reaching her eyes.

“What do you want?" Niranye glared at the thief, anger replacing her fear.

"I want to know what in Nocturnal's name you think you're doing." Zarja snapped.

"My job." Niranye shot back. "I have nothing to do with you people anymore, and since I'm free to do as I please, I owe you nothing."

Zarja barked out a humorless laugh. "If this was just about a little Guild debt, Mercer wouldn't have sent me."

Niranye's brows furrowed as she turned over the meaning in Zarja's words. It struck her suddenly, and she paled. "You... You're...." Oh Auri-El. She hadn't worked with the Riften thieves in almost two decades, but everyone in Skyrim's underworld knew of the Sword of the Thieves Guild.

"I could tell the guards who you are." Niranye straightened and crossed her arms. She now towered over the thief, whom she watched through narrowed eyes "The bounty on your head is worth more than half the city."

"Fine." Zarja snapped immediately. "Why don't we both go up to the Palace together? I'm sure the Jarl would be just as interested in your illegitimate activities as mine. Dealing in stolen goods, forgery, smuggling, aiding and abetting murderers and thieves in his own city. Perhaps we could add 'spying for the Thalmor' to that list."

Niranye flinched like she'd been struck. "You would dare accuse me of being one of those monsters? I've been here for years; no one would believe that!"

"They would, if they found the right evidence."

Niranye froze. This woman would do it, she knew, and she had no doubt it would succeed, even with the connections she had built over the years.

But that would also take time. Time she could use to escape with her life, which is more than she would have if Linwe found out she'd betrayed him.

Zarja watched the silent war raging in Niranye's eyes, and her own narrowed to dangerous slits.

She flipped the coin in her hand into the air with a quick flick of her fingers. The Altmer's eyes unconsciously followed the movement of it as it fell and hit the table with a dull rattle. Then, in the fraction of a second her gaze shifted, she heard a dull thud that went unnoticed by the raucous crowd around them. She looked for the source, and paled when she saw the point of the woman's dagger - where had that come from? - now embedded deeply in the wood of the counter. It had passed clean through the middle of the coin, shearing it in two.

Two thoughts occurred to Niranye at once: the gold must be very pure to cut so easily, and the blade must be frightfully sharp to do so. She looked up into the eyes of the woman in front of her.

The woman's deadpan expression hadn't changed, but there was an air of menace that surrounded her, radiated off her and cut deeply into the Niranye's animalistic danger sense. In her bright eyes there was no mercy, only fierceness and a spark of anger, a threat and a promise all in one. Niranye realized that she had grossly misjudged this woman, and why she had seemed so familiar. She had felt this sense before, this cold menace, years ago when she had still worked with the Guild. She swallowed, only to find her throat too dry to do so.

Zarja read the fear in her eyes, satisfied.

"I only fenced for them! Under threat!" Niranye cried, regaining her voice suddenly. Her head jerked up, searching the crowd for signs that her outburst had been heard. Thankfully, it seemed their entire exchange had gone unnoticed in the market chaos.

"You think Mercer cares?" Zarja said harshly, yanking Niranye's attention back to her. "You betrayed us and sided with a rival Guild. The details don't matter." If the Nord's voice was cold before, now it was glacial. "If I don't kill you now, Mercer will just send me right back here when I'm done with the Shadows" She paused. "Unless you give me a reason to let you live."

Niranye didn't answer, staring at the dagger still firmly embedded in the wood.

"Did you ever join in?" Zarja sneered. "Or did you just clean up their messes like the vulture you are?"

"I never killed anyone." Niranye glared at the woman across from her. “Which is more than I can say for you.”

Zarja coolly ignored the jab. "But you did fence for them." She straightened, releasing her grip on the dagger to put her hands on her hips. The blade didn't move.

"I didn't have a choice! They would've killed me otherwise."

"You could've sent word. You were one of us once; you would've been heard."

Niranye sneered. "And what would you have done?"

Zarja's deadpan expression didn't change. "Niranye, you know who I am." She said after a moment. "And you know what I do for the Guild."

Niranye's eyes dropped from Zarja's cold, steady gaze. "If I help you, you have to promise your protection. I'll rejoin the Guild, start fencing for you again."

Zarja nodded impassively. "Where are they?"

"Uttering Hills Cave."

"How many?"

"I don't know." The thief didn't answer, but the tension shifted dangerously. "I swear it! I only worked directly with Linwe, and never went to their hideout."

"Rough estimate, so I don't have to maim you." Zarja growled.

Niranye paused, considering. "A dozen." She said after a moment.

Zarja nodded again. She ripped her dagger free of the counter - Niranye's eyes widened slightly at the deep scar it left in the wood - and sheathed it in one smooth motion. She gathered up the handful of arrows she'd come for and tucked them into her quiver with a bright smile. Niranye gaped at the speed at which the Nord's mask fell back into place.

"Thank you so much for your help." Zarja said, before turning on her heel and disappearing into the milling crowd behind her, leaving the stunned Altmer feeling like she had just escaped the lion's den, and wondering vaguely if she hadn't been better off taking her chances with Linwe after all.

[myszkina]

Shadow and Steel - a Skyrim fanfiction

FF.net

Archive of Our Own

Prologue

The tunnels beneath Riften were not a place most people would willingly enter. It was a dangerous maze of dark corridors lit only by the occasional flickering candle, cold and damp and unforgiving. Those foolish enough to descend into the Ratway are often found floating in the canals in the days following, if they are found at all, having fallen prey to the traps set for the unwary, stripped of valuables by the desperate inhabitants of the treacherous halls. The single entrance to the tunnels was a rusty gate, nearly obscured by the ivy that climbed the stone foundations of the city along the canals.

Yet for those who knew the tunnels and had the skills to survive them, this place was a haven, away from the prying eyes of the guards above. The wretches and traps of the maze served as a defense for those that didn't wish to be found.

The city itself had long been deemed unpleasant, despite its favorable location in the Rift. The once prosperous city had fallen on hard times, and the reputation of the city's most famous inhabitants scared away many travelers. Those with the money moved to better prospects, and those that didn't did the best with what was left.

The city on the lake was quiet, clouds obscuring the sister moons in the sky. A few flickering torches illuminated the streets of Riften, a few hardy torchbugs and moths fluttering quietly around the dim light of the hanging lanterns. Long past midnight, the guards no longer patrolled the streets, instead leaning against the wooden walls of the buildings, trying to stave off sleep as they stayed close to the warmth of the fires against the early autumn chill.

The guards of Goldenglow Estate were no exception. They still patrolled the winding paths and small bridges with swords ready – they had been too well paid not to – but their eyes were clouded with sleep, ears dull against the peaceful lull of crickets

They didn’t notice when in the middle of the lake, something disturbed the calm surface, ripples shattering the moons’ reflections into a thousand glittering points. A moment later a lone figure crawled up the bank, slowly as to not draw attention with errant movement. In the shadow of the dock she pressed herself flat against the rock wall, trained ears listening to the sounds of the night, picking out the quiet shuffle of feet, the clank of armor, an occasional cough from torch smoke.

She scaled the craggy rock wall after a moment’s pause, nimble fingers easily finding purchase in the tiny crevices, keeping her steady even as her worn leather boots slipped on the wet stone. She scrambled up to the wooden bulwark, risking a quick peek over the ledge. With no one in sight she ducked back under the dock. The thief whistled, long and low, the sound merging with the other noises of the night.

A guard in a nearby watchtower started at the sound, peering into the dark with tired eyes for the source. “Did you hear that?” He asked lowly, putting down his cards uneasily as he stood.

“It’s just an owl.” The other man grumbled, far more interested in trying to get a peek at his partner’s cards while he was distracted. “Relax, kid.”

The younger guard paused, looking back out into the dark uneasily. He was no fool; he knew what an owl sounded like, and that wasn’t it. Not quite. But if his partner wasn’t worried…

He shrugged, turning back to the game in time to see the other man pull an ace out of his sleeve. The indignant yell drowned out the low sloshing of water as two more figures scrambled out from under the dock.

Rune looked up towards the sound of fighting and smiled behind his mask. “Couldn’t have asked for a better distraction.”

“Could’ve asked for a bit less time in the lake.” Dar’Ranir grumbled, wrinkling his nose in distaste as he shook the water out of his fur. “This one will smell like green water for days.”

“You’ll get used to it.” Rune replied cheerfully, craning his neck to get a better look at the quickly growing brawl above them.

“Will you two shut up?” Vex hissed from her perch. “That won’t keep them busy for long.”

“You sure about that?” Rune grinned, mock wincing as the table crashed to the ground. Heavy footfalls thudded on the dock above them as the fight drew the attention of more guards. Rune chuckled lowly as he fell into step behind the two other thieves.

The three crossed the now largely abandoned island quickly, the wet sand of the beach muffling their light footsteps. Still, even with the guards occupied, the thieves didn’t dare let their guard down. Complacency would cost them dearly tonight. The Guild’s entire future rested on this heist. Every breath of wind, every creak of the wooden docks set them on edge. They clung to the shadows, their mottled grey gear merging with the shifting patterns of moonlight and cloud on the rocky shores of the island.

“You’d better be sure about this sewer, Rune.” Dar’Ranir hissed lowly.

“I wouldn’t have brought it up in the Flagon if I wasn’t.” the Imperial snapped back, the nerves chipping away at his regular cheer. The Guild’s reputation might’ve not had the same weight it used to, but money still talked; the right amount to the right guard, and the records hall in the Jarl's keep would be unattended at just the right time. Finding and copying the map of the estate had been unbelievably simple. “It’s just ahead.”

Dar’Ranir huffed, his answering quip silenced by the creak of footsteps on the dock above them. The three thieves froze, years of training clamping down on the base impulse to dart for cover. They scarcely dared to breathe as the guard paused overhead, tired senses reaching out into the dark at the feeling that something wasn’t right. But seeing nothing, hearing nothing other than the sound of waves and the last crickets of fall, he shrugged and moved to the welcoming warmth and light of the nearby guard tower.

Dar’Ranir was the first to move, navigating the craggy wall with a speed and grace the two Imperials simply couldn’t match. At the top he paused, sensitive ears trained for the slightest hint of danger. Sensing none, he hauled himself onto the ledge and darted under the dock where, as promised, the sewer entrance waited, hidden by the wooden dock and set in the moss covered exposed bedrock of the island. He grinned, sharp teeth flashing, as he motioned for his accomplices to join him.

The ancient lock, not even worth picking, was easily pried off with a sharp twist of Vex’s dagger. Rusty hinges protested sharply as the old grate swung open. Dar’Ranir gagged as the offensive smell of raw sewage and rot assaulted his sensitive nose, and he pulled the bandana around his neck up in an attempt to shield himself from the smell.

“Meet back here in an hour.” Vex ordered as she and the grimacing Khajiit climbed into the sewer. “Hit the hives just before then to clear out the guards.”

Rune nodded, easing the grate shut behind them as the two disappeared into the murk of the sewer. He glanced at Masser’s position in the sky above him before settling against the cold stone wall under the dock to wait.

Time crawled at snail’s pace, the half hour, then three-quarter hour seeming to last an age as Rune sat waiting for his fellow thieves. The island was dark and quiet, the guard rotation having passed and the torches burning low. No crickets chirped, only wind sighing through the trees, waves softly lapping against the stones.

Yet to the Imperial, the silence was deafening. His strained nerves flinched at the barest whisper of a sound, searching for the echo of footsteps in the tunnel next to him, the running of guards above him, anything to tell him what was happening. He was a good thief; he knew how to be patient, to listen and wait. But too much was riding in this heist, and too much could go wrong.

He rose, stifling a groan as his muscles protested the action, stiff from sitting in the cold and wet. His leather armor itched and clung to his lean frame uncomfortably as he crept back cross the island. A lone thief moved faster than three, and he circled the main island quickly, nearly soundless on the sandy shore. A quick glance to the bridge above him showed no sign of guards, and he carefully stepped into the dark water under the bridge, gritting his teeth as his boots filled and his feet instantly numbed. Timing his steps with the low crashing of waves on the shore, he waded the short distance to the smaller island through the knee deep water, peering up through the gaps in the planks for some sign of the guards.

The island housing Aringoth’s precious hives rose higher above the lake than the main island, the bank steeper and less rocky, muddier. He scrambled up, biting back a curse as a few stones fell free of the mud and into the lake below, the splashes painfully loud in the stillness of the night. He froze, heart in his throat as he dangled from the ledge, ears straining for the sound of footsteps and yelling guards. Seconds passed, and he risked a quick movement, hauling himself up and darting behind the wall that protected the hives from the elements. He waited, fighting to steady his breath and racing heart. Nothing came for him, and he sent a silent prayer of thanks to whoever was listening before crawling out from behind the wall towards the hives.

Sparks danced between his fingers as he summoned what little magic he had – barely more than a parlor trick, but it would do the job. The tiny flames licked harmlessly over the leather of his gloves, the heat a welcome relief to his cold-numbed hands.

The tiny hairs on the back of his neck rose suddenly, and a chill that had nothing to do with the autumn night crept down his spine. It was a feeling honed from years of living on the edge of a blade, an innate sense trickling into his brain and blood from his animal hindbrain.

Something was wrong.

Something was very wrong.

Rune’s head snapped up at yelling from the main island, the flames dying in his hands as his concentration broke. Dying torches flared to life suddenly all at once - a guard gifted with magic? - as outside the grand house dogs bayed in alarm, the hired mercenaries shouted orders from inside. The island exploded into action, and a crushing weight settled over the Imperial.

Vex and Dar’Ranir had been caught.

The sharp shattering of glass caught Rune’s attention in time to see a figure come crashing out of a second story window. It landed gracelessly, and Rune’s trained eyes could barely make out the dark figure in the gloom as it rose and lurched desperately toward the shore.

Above it, still inside the house, a second figure struggled in the grip of another, two dark silhouettes against the light inside. The thief - Dar’Ranir, Rune realized, as the Khajiit turned and the shadow of his tail showed - broke free of the guard and fell heavily out the shattered window, landing with a painful thud, and didn’t get up.

Vex paused at the shore, looking back towards her partner. She turned, a second’s hesitation, her own fear and self-preservation warring with her loyalty to her Guildmate.

The decision was made for her as the hounds reached him first.

Rune watched in horror as the dogs descended on his friend, the Khajiit’s harsh screams rising over snarls and barks. The hounds were ruthless, trained to kill on command, without hesitation or mercy. Rune could barely make out Dar’Ranirs’s struggling form under the mass of dogs. Time seemed to slow as they tore at the Khajiit, teeth and claws ripping through leather and skin. Dar’Ranir’s screams cut off sharply as blood sprayed, some of it splattering on an illuminated window above him.

From the corner of his eye Rune saw Vex dive into the lake, but he stayed rooted in place, watching the guards surround what was left of Dar’Ranir.

A yell from far too close jarred his instincts into action even as his mind was still frozen. Rune barely registered the steps that carried him to the water’s edge, the jump that sent him into the murky water. The shocking cold finally dragged his senses back to the present as he dove beneath the surface, practiced stealth pushed aside for survival. He cried out, mouth filling with water, spasming at a stabbing pain in his shoulder. He kept going, lungs burning and arm in agony, struggling to the far side of the lake, not daring to break the surface until his fingers brushed the gentle rise of sand at the shore.

Rune dragged himself onto the muddy shore, the movement jostling the imbedded arrow and sending fresh white-hot flares of pain through his shoulder.  A thin trail of blood followed him up the shore. The exhausted thief collapsed on his uninjured side with a groan, pulling off his mask and allowing himself a moment to catch his breath.

Rocks clattered down around him from the ledge, and Rune was immediately on his feet in a low crouch, dagger in hand.

“Crows, Vex.” He breathed, relaxing slightly as the blonde Imperial skidded down the bank next to him. Vex didn’t respond, wordlessly folding herself down onto the sand next to him. She raised a brow at the arrow, her fingers barely brushing the exposed shaft in his back in a silent question. Rune nodded, and winced when the wood snapped just above the skin, jostling the bit still in his arm painfully. Rune fell back on his haunches next to Vex. An uncomfortable silence stretched between them as they stared out over the lake, heavy with the weight of what had just happened.

Dar’Ranir was dead. The Goldenglow heist had failed.

A silent question crept into the air between them, one they were both afraid of: What happens now?

The sun was starting to rise over the Velothi Mountains, the eastern sky lightening to blue and grey behind the jagged peaks. The lights of Goldenglow seemed almost mocking in the south, and past the estate, Riften started to wake, a single column of smoke rising from the Keep’s kitchens.

Deep in the Ratway, Rune stared at the floor of the Ragged Flagon, watching water slowly drip from his soaked gear into a growing puddle on the filthy stone floor. He sat frozen in his chair, too scared to even flinch as Delvin’s calloused hands brushed over the wound as he nearly wrapped Rune’s shoulder, the bandages gradually covering the now stitched, jagged hole the arrow had torn through the muscle in his upper arm.

Distantly he could hear Vex’s shrill yelling, and the lower bass of Brynjolf’s voice. In the pauses between them Rune could only imagine Mercer’s words, glacial tones he couldn’t hear, but swore he could feel through the layers of stone and wood between them.

In the two years since he’d joined, Rune had never seen Mercer so angry. Neither had Brynjolf in his time, if the older thief’s stony expression upon their arrival was any indication. The Guild’s second-in-command had quickly ushered Vex into Mercer's office, muttering a low warning to the blonde before calling Delvin to patch Rune up before putting himself in front of Vex like a shield as she headed into the office. A low command, a growl that made the hairs on the back of Rune's neck stand, from the smaller room cut him off. Brynjolf's lips pressed in a thin line and he shook his head at Delvin before turning to Rune.

Rune hadn’t heard a word Brynjolf had said to him. He’d watched Mercer the whole time through the open office door, like a deer caught in the eyes of a wolf.

Mercer didn’t say anything, not at first. He didn’t have to. His rage was palpable, raising already high tensions. The gathered thieves cleared out immediately; they couldn’t read Mercer’s moods like Brynjolf could - no one could, save for one other Guild member - but they knew the actions of the Guild Second. When Brynjolf moved toward the two battered and exhausted thieves, the others quickly found somewhere else to be.

The main door of the Cistern slammed shut behind Sapphire, and a harsh silence settled over the remaining thieves. Mercer stood at his desk, utterly still and silent. His face was a mask, the only outward indication of his fury blazing in his grey eyes, cold and dark and unforgiving as the Sea of Ghosts.

The tension in the room had been suffocating. Vex kept her head raised high, back ramrod straight as she met Mercer’s gaze. Her entire frame trembled with rage or fear or cold, Rune couldn’t tell. The younger Imperial just stood frozen, his mouth drier than sand, wishing the gates of Oblivion would open beneath him and swallow him.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

Rune flinched when Mercer’s low voice cut through the silence and over their nerves like a rusty blade, barely more than a whisper, ground cadences hissing from behind clenched teeth.

That was when Brynjolf had cut in. "It's not their fault.” He said sharply, briefly drawing the Guildmaster’s venomous glare away from the two younger thieves. “There's no way we could have known -"

"I don't need you to make excuses, Brynjolf.” Mercer growled, and Rune flinched even though it wasn’t directed at him. He froze when Mercer’s attention turned back to Vex. Divines, the man looked predatory. “You overestimated your ability.” He hissed. “You should have known, but you got careless and sloppy. A rookie mistake from one of our supposed best."

Vex didn’t respond. Rune wasn’t sure she could – she didn’t even seem to be breathing. Then Mercer turned his glare to him.

The young man had finally moved then, jarred by a flaring pain in his shoulder, allowing Delvin to all but drag him out of the Cistern.

A door slammed somewhere, causing Delvin to look up warily. The younger thief didn't move, still numb from their return. Rune didn’t know how much time had passed since then, only that Vex hadn’t come back, and the loss of another thief was the least of their problems.

“What do you expect me to tell them? This isn’t what we asked them to do.” Brynjolf snapped. He’d stopped trying to remain neutral, and now scowled openly at the Guildmaster, his usually warm green eyes hard, arms tightly crossed against his chest.

“They knew the risks coming into the Guild.” Mercer replied coolly, staring down at the map on his desk, a blackjack imbedded in the wood squarely in the middle of Lake Honrich, as if he could force an answer to appear from the parchment by force of will alone, tension written in every line of his body.

Brynjolf’s grim scowl, if possible, deepened. “Not like this. The Guild hasn’t tried a job like this in years, and we don’t have the resources –“

“Which is why we cannot abandon this.” Mercer bit out, looking up at Brynjolf for the first time since Vex had stormed out of the room. “We must find a way. We’ve already lost too much.”

“You think I don’t know that? Those are my people you’re sending out there – “ And now we’ve lost another. Fuck. Dar’Ranir had only been with the Guild for three months, assigned as Vex’s partner just a few weeks ago. He’d shown real promise, more than the last four initiates combined. He’d mentioned a sister once that traveled with one of the merchant caravans; maybe he could convince Delvin to send word.

“My people,” Mercer snapped, a dangerous gleam in his grey eyes, “and I will do with them as I see fit.”

“Sending them on suicide missions?” Brynjolf stared at Mercer incredulously, his voice growing harsher. “Even you wouldn’t –“

“Are you questioning me?” Mercer’s voice was like ice, and Brynjolf’s words immediately dropped. As second-in-command, the limits he could push with Mercer were higher, but he knew he was dangerously close to crossing that line. “I will do whatever it takes to restore this guild. My people,” Mercer emphasized, “including you, swore to do the same. Whatever it takes.” He repeated. Brynjolf didn’t respond, but met the Guildmaster’s eyes coldly. The two men stared at each other wordlessly, the tension mounting like a storm.

"And what do we have to show for it? Another dead thief.” Brynjolf forced out. “How many bodies are you going to throw at this before you admit that you might be wrong?”

Something flashed in Mercer’s cold eyes, something dark and very dangerous, and suddenly Brynjolf was afraid he’s pushed too far. Neither thief moved for a long moment.

Finally something shifted, and Mercer sighed, running a hand through his greying hair as he straightened. He still barely came up to eye level of the burly Nord across from him. “If we had a choice, this wouldn’t be my first.” His expression didn’t change, the hard planes, weathered by age and the stress of years of trying to hold together a dying Guild, still set in a permanent grim scowl, but his voice softened by a fraction of a degree. It wasn’t an apology, but he sounded almost regretful. “But you know that this job is the Guild’s only option. We cannot abandon this.”

Brynjolf’s shoulders sagged in resignation. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What do we do now?”

"Reach out to our contacts in the garrison. I want this kept quiet for as long as possible." Mercer said immediately. Brynjolf nodded. He’d expected as much; the last thing they needed was news of this getting out. “Then send word to Windhelm.” Realization dawned quickly on Brynjolf’s face, and the tight knot in his stomach loosened slightly. “Since Vex has proven herself incapable,” Mercer ground out, turning back to the map, “We’re going to try a different approach.”

[myszkina]

[myszkina]

We all wear masks my dear, not just the people in Orlais. Orlesians codify this truth, make it visible. By giving each of these selves it’s own separate face, they believe they can be their truest selves unmasked.

[myszkina]

[myszkina]

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[myszkina]

Welcome to the Reach, traveler…

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