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coffee-at-daybreak · 1 year

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no more games | brynjolf x f!reader

can't sleep it's skyrim sexyman thirsting time. also! this is really only labeled as f!reader bc bryn says "lass" a few times but otherwise there are no explicit pronouns used for reader. it also gets like the slightest bit steamy but i don't think it needs any tags, lmk if i should though! anyway hope you enjoy tysm for reading!!!

Not even the pouch of septims tucked along your belt makes a noise as you slip into the entrance of Nightingale Hall. The singing of crickets fades behind you, replaced by the eerie silence of the cave.

You continue all the way down the windy tunnel, past the waterfall and run down bridge alongside it. You pass through the archway leading into the main interior hall, bathed in warm light from the nearby torches. Then, you finally relax.

Your shoulders droop and your lungs expand with a deep breath. You pull your hood off your head and reach for the newly attained loot at your belt. A small, hefty pouch of septims, with a valuable piece of jewelry wrapped tightly around it.

You drift closer to one of the torches to get a better look. A necklace, you realize. In your hurry to snatch it off that sleeping nobleman at the Bee and Barb, you'd barely gotten a glance at it. All you knew at that moment was that it was valuable, and you had to have it.

With deft fingers, you pull the necklace off the pouch and hold it up to study the material. It's made of shiny gold, and has a large pendant dangling off of it. The pendant is round, with a small but glimmering red stone in the center, and intricate markings etched into the gold around it.

You're turning the treasure between your fingers when you hear a low whistle come from behind you.

"Now that's quite the prize," Brynjolf's voice flows across the hall. You turn around to see him slipping in from one of the nearby tunnels.

You turn back to the necklace, trying to ignore the sudden jump in your heart rate. "You know me - I have to take anything that catches my eye."

Brynjolf chuckles. "I don't blame you for it, lass." He stops next to you. "Where'd you get it?"

"Some rich drunkard at the inn. I don't think he'll miss it much." You hold out the necklace by the pendant for him to see. When he goes to take it, his fingers just barely graze over your own. The flicker of warmth you feel from them seems to shoot all the way up your arm.

He studies the necklace for a moment, giving you a chance to study him. His emerald eyes are bright with awe, and his russet hair looks even brighter, nearly matching the intensity of the torch light. He's in his Nightingale garb, but everything's slightly .. unkempt. He definitely didn't just come back from a job like you.

"Flawless ruby, for sure," he murmurs. "Very valuable, indeed." His eyes flick to catch your own. "And quite the beauty."

You cross your arms and hold his gaze. You pretend not to notice the gesture - and pretend you don't feel a blush crawling up your neck. "I am not trading that in to Delvin. Don't even ask."

He grins. "What if I take it off your hands?"

You reach over and snatch it from him. "Not for sale."

He chuckles again, a low rumble from deep within his chest. You tuck the necklace into one of the many pockets at your belt and start to head back to the waterfall cave. Crashing into one of those old beds there sounds rather tempting right now.

"What are you doing here right now, anyway?" You ask Brynjolf as you walk. His footsteps trail behind you.

"Housekeeping, of course," he replies. "This place has more cobwebs than the Ratway."

You smile at the hint of disgust in his tone. "Afraid of spiders, are you?"

"Aye, just a bit. I don't much like the thought of them crawling around while I sleep."

You roll your eyes in amusement as you stop next to a bed. The gentle rushing water of the fall and creek echo around the room. The familiar smell of wet stone and misty air flows to your nose. It's not the most pleasant scent, but it's a significant difference from the cistern.

"I'm surprised you're up at all," you say with a snicker. "It's rather late."

Your gloves come off, and you stoop down to start working off your boots. You hear another couple approaching footsteps.

"What if I said I was hoping to run into you here?" Brynjolf asks.

This time, your heart feels like it's leaped into your throat. You try to swallow the nerves down, and focus on slipping off your boots. "You can run into me anytime in the cistern - anywhere in Riften, really. Why here?"

"Because we're alone."

You straighten up, and turn around, and nearly jump back. He'd moved much closer now, a mere hand's width away. The sudden proximity just about takes the breath out of you.

His eyes seem dark, but there's a little bit of torch light reflecting off of them. And when he smiles, they seem to glimmer. Very much like the stone of that necklace. Something about his eyes is much more captivating, though.

"I know you feel it, too, lass," he murmurs, voice so soft that you wouldn't be able to hear it over the water if he weren't so close. The cave air suddenly feels warmer than it did a moment ago.

You gulp. "Feel what?"

Brynjolf's head tilts slightly, and he lifts an eyebrow. You know he's clever enough to figure out when you're playing dumb. But of course, he has to play along.

He takes a step closer. You back up, but your back meets the rough stone of a wall, and you freeze.

"Don't be coy, now." His eyes break away from your own, only to travel around your face. You see them looking at your hair, your cheeks, your nose. Then back to your eyes. "I don't exactly try to hide it anymore, if you couldn't tell."

You exhale. Your breath comes out choppy. You don't try to hide it either, because the first thing you look at when you break your eyes away from his is his lips. That slight smirk in them makes your insides coil.

You had felt a connection with Brynjolf from the moment you'd met. It didn't take long to realize it was more than just a platonic connection. You'd never forget the way your heart went into a frenzy when you and Karliah returned from Snow Veil Sanctum and Brynjolf was trembling with relief. Or the way you'd held each other in Bronze Water Cave, trembling from both the tumultous battle with Mercer and the freezing water you'd so desperately escaped. And the little moments in between the big ones had the same effect. It felt like a game - a tedious, frustrating game of throwing flirtations and quips at each other to see who would crack first. You couldn't deny it any longer, and truthfully, you were tired of trying.

"You know it's not wise, though," you say. Your words are a protest, but the way you tilt your head up, closer to his own, is the opposite. "We're Nightingales now, after all. Sworn to duty, with no distractions."

Brynjolf pauses for a moment. His hand lifts, and finds the side of your face. You suppress a shiver as the warm skin of his thumb brushes your cheekbone.

"I think we can find a balance, lass." He leans a tad inch closer, and his breath is ghosting over you.

You let out another shaky breath. Your eyes flutter closed when his thumb moves lower. It trails along your cheek, under your jaw, down your neck. He spreads his hand along the side of your neck, and you know he must feel your racing pulse somewhere in there.

"I took an oath to Nocturnal because I had to," he whispers. "But you-" his other hand circles your waist, pulling you closer, and by the Gods you nearly collapse against him. Your hands press flat against his chest in an effort to steady yourself. You grow weaker still as he continues, "I'd willingly lay my life down for you. I'd do anything for you."

His voice seems to flow around you. You can hardly imagine your surroundings anymore - you only feel his hand trailing your side, his breath tickling your skin, his heartbeat thumping beneath your palm. His entire presence is like honey, as if you could melt right into it.

"Bryn-" Your hushed breath is cut short. His hand is coming off your waist, and coming up between the two of you.

You open your eyes. He's holding up the golden necklace, dangling from his fingers.

He grins. That stupid, charming grin.

You narrow your eyes. "Really?"

"Easy pick." He leans back, but his other hand doesn't come completely off of you. It glides from your neck to your shoulder, leaving sparks in its wake. He gives the necklace a light swing with his other hand. "Take it back if you can."

You merely glare at him. He still wants to play games. You don't.

Your hand flies out. Brynjolf reels back instinctively. But instead of your hand fishing for the necklace, you hook it around one of the buckles on his chest, and pull him in until your lips meet.

Heat floods you instantly, from just about everywhere. He kisses you back so fiercely that you nearly lose your footing again. But his arms are quick to take you in, one squeezing around your waist and the other coming up along your back. Just as you break the kiss for a gasp of air, his hand buries in your hair, and he's angling your head to bring you back in.

You clutch at him, pressing as close as you can. It almost feels like you could mold into him, with how perfectly your body fits against his own. It feels right - he feels right.

You lose track of how many kisses you exchange, how many gasps of air you trade, how many times your hands grip each other in a new spot. You lose yourself completely in him, in his firm lips, in his powerful arms, in that faint taste of Black Briar mead on his tongue and -

Someone clears their throat behind you both.

In an instant, Brynjolf breaks the kiss and whirls on his feet. He pulls you with him though, earning a small gasp from you when his arm stays hooked firmly around your waist. His other hand is quick to pull out a dagger and point it in front of him.

Karliah leans against the archway, her violet eyes glimmering in the faint light of the cave. "Good evening," she murmurs.

Brynjolf huffs, his chest heaving against your own. "By Talos, lass. Thought you were an intruder."

You're struggling to catch your breath, especially since you're still pressed up close to him. Your head is spinning and a fuzzy warmth takes over your face as you glance up at Karliah.

The Dunmer tilts her head. "No, but it seems I did intrude on something." She leans off the wall. "My apologies. I'll be off... housekeeping."

She disappears down the tunnel as quietly as she came. There's a brief second of silence save for the gurgling water nearby and your heart still roaring in your ears.

You can't help the giggle that builds up, though, and drop your forehead against Brynjolf's chest. "Alone, huh?"

He scoffs, his breath tickling your hair. "Sorry, love. In my defense, the girl's a ghost."

You laugh again. Just as you start to catch your breath, you feel Brynjolf's hand hook under your chin, and he's tilting your head up. There's another fluttering warmth in your belly as you meet his gaze.

"No more dancing around the matter, right?" He asks, voice soft but serious. His eyes search yours intently. "No more games?"

You hum thoughtfully. You lift a hand up, where the golden necklace peeks out from your fingers. "I make no promises."

He chuckles, head shaking with amusement. "Aye, that's what I expected. So be it."

He yanks the necklace from you once again, and dives back in to crash his lips to yours before you can protest.

#skyrim #elder scrolls #elder scrolls skyrim #tes #tesv #dovahkiin #dragonborn #brynjolf #brynjolf skyrim #brynjolf x reader #x reader #reader insert #thieves guild #fanfic #its been years and this man still has a chokehold on me #as always feedback is appreciated!

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martindeservedbetter · 16 days

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warhammer

Brynjolf x F! Dragonborn! Reader

word count: 1985

triggers: none

summary: Who could've thought a pair like them could've bonded over a warhammer? Clearly not themselves.

prompt: from @writings-of-a-hufflepuff List #5 prompt 9.

"You really thought I was dead?"

"Mercer, you're back, but where's-"

"Dead. Karliah got her before I got the chance to save her. Such a shame really... she showed so much promise."

The guild all watched Brynjolf freeze, but they'd all seen it before. It wasn't new for his protege to get caught or killed, but his response was so different this time. He seemed... sadder. As this time it was personal like she was more than a protege.

"I'll be back. I'm going to go find her."

"Were you not listening boy? She's dead."

"Just let me do this, alright? I just need to know." He retorted, not keeping to his cool under pressure attitude.

"Do I need to get you a horse-?" Delvin asked, only to be cut off by the man in question.

"I'll be fine Delvin. Be back as soon as I can-" Brynjolf answered.

"You're insane Brynjolf. Can't you just take my word for it?!" Mercer yelled, calling after the man who was already leaving. The man who ignored the protests of the other members entirely.

___________________

Not finding any proof had only made it that much harder for Brynjolf to accept it. And he scoured the Sanctum, only to find dried blood in an open room.

Damn Karliah. Damn her to Oblivion.

Brynjolf had struggled to find any other way to accept it, so he just blamed Karliah instead, finding it was much easier than anything else. She had killed the last guild master, so who's to say that she wouldn't kill another member? One that was going to help fix all of the problems.

"Brynjolf, please, just stop drinking, it's not going to change anything," Vekel muttered.

"Just give me the damn drink, Vekel."

"No. I will not indulge you in this. I don't care if you're hurting, please just accept that she's gone."

"How? She was... she was special."

"The same way I got over my parents. Time and goodbyes." Sapphire suddenly began speaking and slid into the barstool next to Brynjolf.

"I'm not ready for that."

"Then no mead, no wine, no alcohol whatsoever. It won't help, it'll only make it worse."

Brynjolf groaned, and got up and walked away, hoping to at least be alone. To maybe find some peace by going through her things. To maybe just sleep. Just anything to be free of people's dagger-like eyes that pierced him with judgment.

His eyes flickered to her empty bed, the way it just looked so wrong. Brynjolf sat himself in front of her chest, looking through her things, noticing things that he recognized, specifically a certain warhammer...

"Lass, this is ballsy, even for you."

"Shh, it'll be fine."

He watched her sneak away, attempting to steal the war hammer right off the guard's back.

And all Brynjolf remembered was the way the hammer was too heavy for her hands and she carried it back over to him with the largest smile on her face.

"I told you it'd be fine."

"I guess I should believe you more often lass."

He took the hammer out of her arms, and she seemed to sigh in relief, but still high from the thrill of theft.

"Obviously. Don't be an idiot, I'm just as good of a thief as yourself."

"Of course," he mused as he mussed up her hair, and she slapped his hand away.

"Do you know how hard it is to tame this?!"

And Brynjolf just laughed as she attempted to fix her barely messed up hair, scowling as she did so.

"You're so lovely, lass."

"I would say 'you too' but you were a jerk who messed up my hair!"

"You look fine, lass."

"Says the guy who rolls out of bed and looks gorgeous."

"That's very flattering, Y/n, but not entirely true."

He watched her jaw drop, and he gave a soft chuckle.

"You do not comb through your hair! There's no way in Oblivion-"

"And that's where you'd be wrong lass."

"Oh, my gods... Brynjolf is a fancy man."

"And proud of it."

He winked, yet didn't fail to catch the glimpse of a blush dusting her cheeks.

"What happened to you lass..?"

It wasn't long before there was a clamor coming from the Flagon, and when the Cistern door flew open, every member was on alert.

Karliah...

Brynjolf decided to be civilized but was not afraid to turn from the plan if it even slightly went south.

"Karliah, what did you do to Y/n?"

___________________

"Y/n? You're alive?"

It was Vekel who seemed to notice her first, and it drew the attention of the few other members still in the Flagon.

"Y/n? But Mercer said-" Tonilia started.

"Mercer lied. He's lied to all of you for years."

The newest recruit had been confirmed dead by the current guild master, and he'd managed to convince everyone but a certain second in command.

"Brynjolf looked for you. We were also worried about the fact that you two were gone that he just, decided to seek answers for himself... He hasn't been well."

"Vekel, is he here? We have a lot to talk about, and I need the entire guild's attention."

"Of course, he should just be in the Cistern-"

But she was already gone, ready to tell everyone the truth and to address her Brynjolf situation, but that would have to take a backseat. There were far more pressing matters at hand.

As she pushed through the Cistern door, she heard arguing amongst the members and loads of insults toward Karliah.

"Mercer's a liar."

"Lass..."

Brynjolf's face softened and she watched his body seem to go slack.

'He looked for you... he hasn't been well.'

"Karliah saved my life. Mercer tried to kill me."

She lifted her shirt to show the fresh scar along her stomach.

Brynjolf's eyes traced the marred skin, and his body seemed to tense the longer he looked.

"He's been robbing you blind for years, check the vault."

Karliah added, standing right by Y/n's side. Y/n had put her shirt back down, smoothing it out as she stood increasingly closer to Karliah.

"Lass?"

Those eyes of his... those gorgeous emerald eyes bore into her, coaxing an answer from her. Silently pleading for the truth, clearly uncomfortable with the woman beside her.

"She's right, please, Bryn, believe us." Y/n copied his own eyes, begging him for the decency to believe her.

He let out a sigh before shouting," Oi, Delvin! We need to open the vault."

"Thank you..." she breathed, smiling over to Karliah.

Brynjolf looked over to her, very upset about the large scar on her torso, and although he was warry of Karliah, he knew of what happened to Gallus and it didn't help that he knew what it felt like to hear that Y/n was dead. But he threw that to the side when he saw Y/n smile at Karliah, watching her seem very relaxed around the supposed murderer of Gallus and Y/n herself.

"You called, Brynjolf?"

"Put your key in, we need to get this door open."

"Of course."

Y/n hesitantly walked toward the vault, standing right beside Brynjolf. It made him feel a wave of relief knowing she was this close again.

"It's empty! It's all gone!" Delvin yelled back to the group after doing a sweep of the vault.

"Mercer! Damn him!" Brynjolf answered, entering the vault to confirm the claim.

It was a stab at the entire guild like someone had slit the guild's throat and captured its riches as if it were blood. The experience was numbing to most guild members, realizing that not only had all of their hard work been for naught, but their guild master was also the reason for it. He had caused every problem they had ever faced, yet always found some scapegoat, never allowing himself to be seen in a negative light as he tore the guild apart from the inside.

"When I see him, I swear I'm going to-"

"Vex! You know that's not how we operate. We just need to figure this out..." Brynjolf chided the white-haired woman, who was now seething in anger but held her tongue, silently planning Mercer Frey's death in several different ways.

"Lass," Brynjolf turned to Y/n," Tell me everything that's been going on."

"I will Bryn, I promise, but first... can we be alone? Vekel said you haven't been well-"

"So long as we speak of the guild first, of course, lass."

Y/n held out a hand, which he quickly accepted, allowing her to lead him to the intended destination. Although the place was just the secret entrance for the Cistern, they sat on the hidden steps together.

She first informed him about how Karliah had been framed, that Mercer Frey had betrayed them and brought a curse upon the Guild after infuriating Nocturnal. She then led into the tales of the secret trio of Nightingales being true.

"The Nightingales? I thought that was just an old legend, but I believe you lass."

"It seems that we don't have much of a choice in anything anymore Bryn..."

He cleared his throat, garnering her undivided attention.

"What was it that you wanted to talk about lass?"

She gave a soft smile, grabbing his hand and intertwining her fingers with his.

"Vekel said you've been..." she paused, for lack of better words," not well."

"I've not been ill, lass."

"I didn't mean it that way. He said you came for me."

"...I had to make sure it wasn't true."

"You really thought I was dead?"

"No," Brynjolf felt his heart jump into his throat, and he tried to cough up an answer.

"I just... I didn't believe Mercer when he told me you were dead... I... I had to see for myself."

Brynjolf's eyes didn't meet hers, but he rubbed the back of her palm with his thumb.

"You know I missed you, missed us. You know that right?"

"I missed you more than you know... Saw you kept that old warhammer... that was a nice day..."

"That was a nice day... I found out that you were a fancy man."

"And I found out that I loved you," he spoke just below a whisper, just as if it were just a breath.

"Bryn? What was that?"

"Don't worry about it. So I'm a fancy man? I'm glad you remember lass."

"No, don't lass me. You never told me you were hurting. Was it that hard with me gone?"

She had begun to hold his hand a little bit tighter as she looked over at him, trying to get him to look back into her eyes.

"Yes lass," and for the first time since they started their little talk, the emerald-eyed man looked her in the eye.

"It was hard."

"But I'm just, me."

"And that's just it Y/n. You're just you, and down the line, I fell in love with you. I searched for you... because I didn't want to come back to a guild without you."

"I love you too. Gods above, I've been in love with that stupid accent of yours since you told me I couldn't steal that warhammer." She said with a laugh, letting herself fall to lean against his side.

He kissed her temple and gave her hand a squeeze before muttering," That's when I fell as well."

"Future romance advice for those who need it, just steal a warhammer, then you'll love each other." She teased, currently pleased with their current situation.

"Steal one more for the road? We can fix the guild later?" He offered, and he knew the answer as soon as he was pulled to his feet.

"Whoever gets one first, without being caught, gets a kiss!"

"I'm not against this bargain..."

And the pair of thieves both split, oh so full of love, and ready for everything they faced in front of them.

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ironwoman359 · 1 month

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A Thief's Gamble - Ch.8

Caught Red Handed

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

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

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

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

Ships: Brynjolf x Dragonborn OC (slowburn)

Word Count: 4,323

Check the reblogs for a link to read on AO3!

— — —

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ariene’s cheeks flushed slightly, and Brynjolf grinned.

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

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

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

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

“Well then lass, by all means–”

“Stop! Thief!”

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

“Stop him!” the guard shouted again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Girrolf?” she repeated, and he nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just what?” Brynjolf prompted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brynjolf nodded.

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

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

“There you are!”

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

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

“We have a lead on the Goldenglow buyer.”

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

“Someone identified the symbol?” he asked.

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

Brynjolf’s eyes widened.

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

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

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

Ariene frowned.

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

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

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

“He’s in a good mood,” she muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brynjolf blinked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brynjolf frowned, looking back at him.

“Excuse me?”

Mercer just raised an eyebrow.

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

Brynjolf fought the urge to roll his eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brynjolf frowned.

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

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

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

He tapped his chin thoughtfully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Deal,” she said, smiling.

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

“Good luck, lass,” he said.

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

“Walk with the shadows.”

— — —

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

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esta-elavaris · 7 months

Text

Flufftober Day 5: X+ 1 ~ Brynjolf/F!Dragonborn [6,164 words]

Three times Brynjolf wondered just who Kirsi was, and one time he found out.

It's 2023 and I'm writing all these words about Brynjolf from Skyrim. Unreal. I can't even explain the word count. It started as a quick flufftober fill and spiralled into this monster. Filled with a hefty dose of humour at how absurd the Dragonborn's travelling companions must find it when they have fifty thousand different careers and excel at them all.

My Flufftober '23 masterpost can be found here 💜✨

It was Brynjolf’s business to be able to take the measure of someone – quickly. It was no good risking being caught with his hand in some poor bugger’s pocket if that bugger was, well, poor. Not that he was ever caught, not since he was a lad, but it was the principle of the thing. The potential risk had to be outweighed by the potential reward, that was just good business, and he was a good businessman.

But Kirsi? It was a funny thing that the more he saw of her, the less it seemed he knew. She’d strolled into Riften with a bow and blade both far finer than the worn fur armour she sported, which could have meant two things. Either she could afford to heed her armour less because by the time the enemy saw her, it was too late – or the bow and blade were stolen, and the armour reflected the truth of her finances. The truth turned out to be both. Which, as far as recruitment was concerned, was perfect. Maybe the signs had been there since day one that she’d end up running their little outfit.

Unfortunately – infuriatingly – that was the last time Brynjolf had managed to successfully gauge much of anything about the Nord lass who infiltrated his thoughts more and more with each passing month. From then on, the only sure thing about her was that she could, and would, produce results. Flitting in and out of the Ragged Flagon with ill-gotten goods in her hands, a smile on her face, and…blood in her hair. Usually.

The first time, Brynjolf commented upon it, asking vaguely if she recalled their rule regarding bloodshed. She’d blinked at him, followed his gaze, and responded with an ‘oh – no, that’s unrelated, don’t worry’ before making a joke about how it blended in with the colour very nicely anyway. And that had been that. Skyrim was a demanding place in which to live, and those who’d never had blood in their hair seldom lasted long, so it wasn’t a major cause for concern.

No, Brynjolf’s cause for concern came months later – long after Kirsi had been made master of the guild, no less. They saw less of her for a while, but that was her way. That was the way with plenty here, even. Folk always turned up eventually, with a story to tell and something to sell to Tonilia, more often than not. This absence stretched on a little longer, yes, but it hadn’t even occurred to Brynjolf to really worry until she did turn up again. And she seemed in no mood for storytelling.

The Ragged Flagon went gradually silent as she walked in. Brynjolf, his usually keen senses off-duty, noticed the silence before he noticed her, turning to see what everybody else was staring at and then stilling. Kirsi strode in, steadfastly avoiding the eyes of any who looked in her direction. She wore her Nightingale armour, but it was not so form-fitting as it once had been, bunching and baggy here and there suggesting a sudden and unhealthy amount of thinning that a jagged sharpness at her jaw and cheekbones confirmed. Her auburn hair had once been bound back into a complicated series of braids, but it had long since rebelled against it, most of it curling in whisps around her face, and she was sporting a new and very angry looking scar on said face.

It ran from her right temple all the way down to her chin, framing the side of her features in a sort of jagged crescent moon.

“Kirsi…” Brynjolf said, stunned.

“I can’t discuss business right now,” she said flatly, her voice hoarse.

He hadn’t intended to discuss business…but he supposed he deserved it. He’d been avoiding her before she left, and it seemed she’d noticed. Unsurprisingly. Brynjolf fell silent, watching as she turned her head in the direction of Galathil who sad in her usual place, lifting a hand absentmindedly to the scar that they all stared at. Ultimately, she appeared to think better of it. Instead, she dropped a weighty bag of gold down onto the bar, loaded her arms up with bottles of mead, and headed for the cistern without another word.

“What was that?” Vex was the one to break the silence.

“I dunno,” Delvin responded grimly. “But she didn’t even look like that when Mercer…”

There was little need for him to elaborate on that. Brynjolf’s lips set into a thin line, then he counted to twenty, and finally he followed.

Kirsi was at her bed when he entered the cistern, not bothering to hunker behind the screen as she changed – not unusual, few of them here bothered with modesty. And the looks she was drawing were more to do with shock and dismay than anything that might be considered leering. Already she was halfway out of her Nightingale armour, and Brynjolf could see that there was little of her from the neck down that was not badly, badly bruised. Or burned. Or littered with gashes that looked one wrong twist away from reopening.

Whatever healing she’d undergone, be it from potions of magic, it appeared she’d prioritised them to heal her face. That, or they’d all been much worse beforehand. It was hard to gauge the state of her armour thanks to the colour, but he suspected if he took a real look, he’d find it stained badly with blood.

"Wouldn’t you be more comfortable at Honeyside?” he asked – if only to stop himself standing and staring like a fool any longer.

“Am I not welcome here?”

“You know that’s not what I meant, lass.”

At her home in the city – which she would’ve had to bypass to get here, no less – her bed was bigger, and she had a housecarl who could help her. Not that those here wouldn’t, but she didn’t seem to be in the mood for their company. It would be less stifling for her, he suspected, accepting help from one whose sworn duty was to offer it.

“Nobody can find me here,” she said finally.

After several deep breaths. Brynjolf couldn’t quite figure whether they were against whatever pain she was feeling, or just an attempt to find the patience for a conversation. She was wound tight, it was plain as day as she kicked her armour under the bed now that she was stripped down to her smalls, before she pulled a shirt over her head. There seemed to be little intention of finding breeches to go with it.

“…Are people looking for you, lass?”

People who had done this? There was a dangerous, angry streak in Brynjolf that hoped they’d come here looking. They’d regret it sorely.

“No,” she shook her head. “Just don’t want to be found.”

She paused, then, pinching the bridge of her nose and sighing. “There’s just…there’s always something else. Can’t be dealing with it now.”

Brynjolf stilled, lost for words. Then he asked quietly.

“Do you need anything, lass?”

“Just sleep,” she said quietly.

What in the name of Talos had she gotten into? Where was it that she disappeared to so frequently? Who was she?

Kirsi slept for three days – stirring here and there to sit up and down a bottle of mead, or to turn over in a slow and beleaguered fashion that left nobody in any doubt as to how sorely she felt her injuries – but otherwise, she was out cold. The same conversation was had over and over in that time.

She needs a healer.

She is a healer.

I don’t think she has the strength to heal herself more.

Could someone carry her up above to get her help?

I don’t think she’d allow it.

Could we bring someone down here to look her over? Someone that won’t blab?

I don’t think she’d allow that, either.

Ultimately, Thrynn looked her over…with all of his limited healing knowledge, gleaned here and there from his days of patching himself up amidst bouts of banditry. Kirsi didn’t seem to notice it much. The unease in Brynjolf’s stomach gnawed deeper.

She’s more exhausted than injured, he ultimately concluded.

It didn’t cheer them much. Then, on the fifth day, she rose. The signal was given by Vipir, who strolled through the Flagon whistling a jaunty little tune, and Brynjolf was moving swiftly thereafter. Ignoring the looks that followed him. He entered the cistern expecting to find her sitting up, or maybe at the little cavern that they designated as a kitchen. Instead she was up, she was dressed, and the contents of her pack were strewn across her bed as she methodically took inventory for the trip ahead. Wherever that would be.

Brynjolf felt alarm streak through him – very much not liking the prospect of her barrelling off into the unknown after worrying them all sick for the better part of a week.

“What happened to your dagger, lass?” he asked rather than voicing any of that.

Ever since she’d commissioned it from Balimund, he’d never seen her parted from it.

“Lost it,” she muttered sourly.

“Where?”

She could have that thing wrenched out of her hand and flung into the Sea of Ghosts and she’d go diving in after it.

“Sovngarde,” she grunted.

Not in the mood for serious conversation, then.

“When are you heading out?”

“Why? Are you coming with me?”

Brynjolf made a very quick, very impulsive decision then.

“If I’m invited.”

Stilling, she turned her head and stared at him for a few long moments.

“You’re being serious?” she asked, tone unreadable.

“Things here can keep for a while,” he shrugged. “I trust the others to stop the place from burning down in my absence.”

And it was far, far better than torturing himself wondering what she was up to and how she was doing, should she leave alone.

“And you wouldn’t just rather speak another time?”

Brynjolf forced a strained laugh. “I deserve that.”

Kirsi tilted her head as if in agreement. Then, finally, she sighed.

“Don’t wear your Guild armour. Don’t pack light, either. I don’t know how long I’ll be this time,” she said, watching as he nodded along. “And Brynjolf? You have to listen to me while we’re out there. If I say no…extra-curricular activities in a certain hold, I mean it.”

“We did well enough together at Irkngthand, didn’t we?”

She considered his words for a long moment, with eyes that he knew had sussed out many a foe, and then finally she nodded.

“Fine. We leave after midday.”

“We leave,” he countered, “once you’ve eaten something.”

That earned another sigh, but it was followed by another nod, and Brynjolf took it as a good sign that she listened to him.

Stepping out into the world again felt like a gradual lightening for Kirsi. Even with the worried looks Brynjolf kept pretending he very much was not sending in her direction. They stopped at Honeyside just long enough for her to switch out weapons, stock up on potions, and for Iona to fix her new travelling companion with a withering glare, and then they were out of Riften.

She didn’t know why she’d agreed to let him come along. Well, she did know, she just wasn’t a massive fan of said reasoning. This was the first time he hadn’t given her the brush-off in months, and even in her exhaustion and the numbness that had overtaken her since defeating Alduin, she didn’t want to squander whatever chance there might’ve been for things to go back to normal between them.

…and she was at least present enough to know that weeks spend wandering and camping on her own would do little to help her mental state, at present. Maybe she could’ve hired someone to watch her back and provide civil conversation, but she also didn’t want to shoulder the responsibility of that. Brynjolf had asked to come along, and so his hide was therefore his own concern.

Being out and moving felt good, though, and with every stray breeze that caught her hair and every birdsong that met her ears, she felt more like her old self. Maybe she just needed to be reminded that it was all still here. When they set up camp for the night, she was even laughing when Bryn went out of his way to try and make her do so…although she knew just how dour she must’ve been since her return when she saw how surprised he was to get any sort of response at all.

“I’m not asking that you tell me now, lass,” he hedged when dinner was eaten and there was little to do but doze by the fire ‘til morning came. “But I have to know…are you going to tell me what happened?”

“Probably not,” she admitted quietly.

And he accepted it readily enough. Or hid well, if he did not. Well, save for one comment, spoken incredibly lightly.

“I dread to think what’s so salacious and sinister that even I can’t be told about it.”

She snorted quietly, staring at the stars above. “It’s not salacious. Nor sinister. It’s just…a lot.”

Keeping her countless lives separate was something she always endeavoured to do, all while being painfully aware that bits and pieces were bound to crash in on one another at some point. This wasn’t like keeping a spouse and a lover secret from one another, it was bigger and more all-encompassing than that. She toed the line between doing what she could to keep those boundaries in place, while staying detached enough that she wouldn’t fall to pieces should the lines in the sand be erased by a crashing wave.

It was just…neater. The guild had to stay secret for obvious reasons – she could only imagine what Vilkas or Ulfric would think if they saw her slipping into the Ragged Flagon and making all sorts of underhanded deals with her friends down there. She could even kid herself that it was easier for the guild if they didn’t know about any of the rest of it. That maybe they’d balk if they realised their Guild Master was the Dragonborn, or Ulfric’s best soldier, Thane of too many holds to count, or even Archmage of Winterhold’s college. All those titles didn’t particularly lend themselves to secrecy.

But that wasn’t why she kept it from Brynjolf. She didn’t want to be the Dragonborn, nor Stormblade, nor the Harbinger, or whatever else she was known as across this land, when Brynjolf spoke to her. When he deigned to speak to her, these days.

Which was why it was a risk bringing him with her.

But she was a thief, was she not? She was good at sneaking.

It took the better part of three weeks for them to get to Whiterun – with Kirsi gradually healing herself with magic and potions both as they travelled. By the end of the first week she was smiling freely again, and by the end of the second she was cracking her own jokes to go along with his. Brynjolf didn’t press the matter of what had gotten her into such a state, and she didn’t make any more allusions to his steadfast avoidance of her prior to it, so he did what he could to avoid looking that gift-horse in the mouth.

When Whiterun loomed before them, jutting up above the rest of the landscape, she issued those aforementioned orders that he’d promised to follow back in Riften. No stealing, no conning, no shenanigans. If I have to start bullshitting, go along with it. He’d shrugged and agreed, too pleased at her swift change in spirits to start arguments now.

And the time for that bullshitting came alarmingly quickly, for they hadn’t yet yet cleared the Honningbrew Meadery when a group of warriors came walking from the other direction, spotted her, and immediately approached.

“Shit,” she breathed.

Brynjolf’s hand had been straying towards his sword when one called out.

“Kirsi! You’re back!”

They were two men and a woman, the first to greet her being the bigger of the two men. Twins, Brynjolf quickly realised, despite their difference in stature – both sporting long dark hair, and dark war paint around their eyes. The woman, another redhead, watched he and Kirsi curiously as the men stepped forth to shake her hand and then pull her into a one armed hug that mostly consisted of a thump on the back.

“Farkas,” she greeted with a tired smile, then repeating the gesture with the other two. “Vilkas. Aela.”

“We didn’t know when you were coming back. After that business with the dragon at Dragonsreach…” Aela greeted.

“Well, I’m back now,” she interrupted quickly.

“With a sellsword, too. Can’t fight your own battles these days?” Vilkas asked, his eyes lingering on Brynjolf.

Brynjolf returned the scrutiny with a lazy smile. It didn’t endear him to the man…but he hadn’t particularly intended it to.

“Not a sellsword – a friend,” she said. “This is Brynjolf. Brynjolf, these are the Companions.”

“Companions to who?” Brynjolf greeted wryly.

“Ysgramor,” Vilkas sneered.

“Oh. You must be older than you look, then.”

“We’re only here for the night. For a comfortable place to sleep and a good meal,” Kirsi interrupted – shooting a look in his direction that was too amused to hold any real bite to it.

“You’ll find both in Jorrvaskr,” Farkas said. “You and your friend. Come. It’s been too long.”

If any other than Brynjolf noted her reluctance, they did not show it.

They arrived to the Companions’ long-hall just in time for dinner – which was swiftly followed by drinking and merry-making thereafter. Brynjolf was accustomed to fudging the details as far as his identity was concerned; not often introducing himself with ‘good morning, I’m a high-ranking member of Skyrim’s biggest criminal enterprise, Dark Brotherhood notwithstanding’, and so he was able to do so here without blinking.

Well, there was one moment that gave him cause to blink. Harbinger. He had heard of the Companions, of course, he wasn’t a fool. His question by the gates had mainly been to rankle the dark-haired man who clearly loathed his presence and whatever his association might’ve been with Kirsi. Any doubt Brynjolf had as to that loathing was gone when he saw how the man’s eyes followed her about the hall throughout the night. And more-so when Brynjolf dragged her up for a dance, bringing yet another smile to her face…and a matching one to his own.

The glare gained yet more frost to it when Ria asked Kirsi about her new scar, and she lifted a hand self-consciously to it, muttering something about a dragon. Brynjolf took it to be a joke – it was what people used as an explanation for every minor cut and scrape since the beasts returned to Skyrim, but the Companions murmured appreciatively.

“I’m sure it’ll fade, with time,” the Imperial offered reassuringly.

“It suits you,” Brynjolf said simply, returning Kirsi’s gaze boldly when she eyed him in surprise – as if trying to figure out whether he was teasing or not.

When the hour grew so late that it was technically early, Kirsi finally drummed her hands against the long table at which they’d feasted, announcing loudly.

“It’s time we headed to Breezehome – I’ll come by in the morning before I leave.”

“Why not stay here? Tilma readied your quarters while we’ve all been up here. Your friend can bed down with the whelps,” Vilkas commented.

Njada made a noise of displeasure somewhere down the table. The suggestion put her in an uncomfortable position - Brynjolf could see that easily enough. Refuse, and it would be a rejection of the people whom her role here was to offer guidance. Accept, and a lesser man might be insulted in Brynjolf’s shoes. But Kirsi considered it, sighed, and then spoke.

“The Harbinger’s quarters are big enough to share, Bryn. Come on – Tilma will have a bath waiting, too.”

Brynjolf grinned as he watched Vilkas’ regret at saying a word wash over his face.

The rooms below Jorrvaskr were cooler than the hall above, not so warmed by bodies and smoke and revelry, but a bath did indeed wait there for them in the bedchamber next door to the sitting room, steam rising steadily from it.

“Ladies first,” Brynjolf shrugged.

Weeks on the road together had shed them of whatever modesty might have remained, and Kirsi shrugged and began to strip off.

“Multiple rooms, eh lass?” he commented, taking stock of the fineness of the room.

“They’ll always feel like Kodlak’s rooms to me,” she commented quietly. “My predecessor.”

“Even so, it’s funny to think what bed you chose to fall into when you needed that rest when this waited for you here.”

“Don’t act like you don’t remember what I said at the time.”

“Mm. Still, there’s a lad up there that would’ve waited on you hand and foot while you recovered.”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” he snorted, but then a furious motion caught his eye even as he studiously trained his gaze straight ahead.

Kirsi was in the bath, the water steadily turning murky after weeks of travel – which made it a little easier for him to keep his eyes stuck on her face, despite the flush that crept up from his neck towards his cheeks. She motioned once across her neck as if to say ‘stop’, and then pointed to her ear, and then the door.

Brynjolf almost laughed. In what world would they be overheard all the way down here? But there was no room for argument in her gaze and he slumped back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling, one question on his mind.

Who are you, Kirsi?

Despite Kirsi’s fears, Brynjolf finding out about her identity – one of them, at least – did not instate the sort of distance she’d feared it might. Oh, a fair amount of good natured ribbing came her way, but with Brynjolf that was always a decidedly good thing, and so she left Whiterun in a better mood than she’d arrived…and in a mood that was unrecognisable to the one she’d departed Riften in.

Rescuing townsfolk from bandits holding them hostage? You’re joking. What are the guards doing? Resting?

You make saving lives sound like a bad thing.

It might be, depending on what it pays. How much?

What?

How much each time? What’s the going rate for a saved life?

…It doesn’t matter. It pays in more than gold. Goodwill. Contacts. Reputation.

By the Nine, it’s a pittance, isn’t it? How much Kirsi? I’ll just keep irritating you until you tell me.

…A hundred gold each time.

When he stopped laughing – which felt like hours later – he pointed out he could make ten times that depending on the job he took. Her pointing out that she could also raid whatever lairs the jobs sent her into did little to help.

Don’t tell me half the goods you fence to Tonilia are gotten honestly, lass. It’ll break my heart.

And it was too difficult to act annoyed by him when she was laughing along.

From Whiterun they turned north to Windhelm. Kirsi withdrew her rule against larceny for all of an hour so that Brynjolf could liberate a farmhouse of a couple of bottles of wine – more for the thrill than anything else, and because free wine tasted better. That night when they made camp, they mulled it over a fire and huddled together far more closely than the barely-encroaching chill necessitated. By the time they were a few tankards deep, she felt giddy and foggy and overall like herself again, matters of fate and destiny and death and Sovngarde, and what a Dragonborn was worth once they’d achieved their purpose, fading behind Brynjolf’s jokes and the way he kept smiling at her and looking at her.

The night was pressing on when she found herself pressed against him beneath a blanket, their backs against a tree, her head on his shoulder as she was pulled further and further towards sleep.

“Lass?” he murmured lowly. “Kirsi?”

She didn’t respond – the original intention being to not respond right away, needing to blink herself into wakefulness before she could wrap her lips around syllables, much less words. But after a moment of silence, he relaxed and pulled her closer.

“I won’t give you the brush off again,” he murmured.

They were words that should have been basic decency, but they had the sound of a vow. As well as that not intended for conscious ears. So she pretended to be asleep, and soon she was no longer pretending.

It took another two weeks for them to reach Windhelm, not helped by their unhurried pace that defied the cold snapping at their heels. Kirsi, aptly named after the frost, seemed to enjoy it if anything. And Brynjolf? Brynjolf…endured it. With a smile. Primarily because he was happy. Happier than he’d been in a while…and more content than he’d admit in this strange and unexpected little routine they’d slipped into together by now.

He was happy as they slipped into Windhelm in the early hours of the morning, when he watched Kirsi pay a little brown-haired lass a hundred times what the entire stock of flowers she peddled were worth, when he found out that had been Kirsi’s main reason for wanting to come here in the first place (for it had been a while since she’d last given the wee girl a stupid amount of gold, and she was worried the last lost may have run out by now), and he was happy when they slipped into Hjerim – her stupidly big Windhelm home – and began to cobble together a hot meal.

Most of all, he was wrapped up in the atmosphere that had fast begun to overtake them. The one that had him enforcing that distance all that time ago, that stupid distance, convincing himself that his own worries were valid concerns about business and the running of the guild and not just cowardice over not wanting to face how he’d feel if it went tits up. That worry was still there, and it would gnaw at his insides like a pack of skeevers if he let it, but it was overpowered by how much he could get used to this. The little smiles. The looks. The complete lack of personal space between them as they went about their little routines.

That happiness was put on pause when a knock interrupted their dinner preparations.

Cursing beneath her breath, much as she had when they’d been spotted by the Companions, she cleaned her hands free of flour from the bread she’d been making and strode for the door. Brynjolf followed, a dagger in hand behind his back, a force of habit.

“Jorleif,” she greeted tiredly. “What is it?”

“Still not one for pleasantries, I see,” Jorleif replied. “High King Ulfric invites you to sup with him tonight – he was pleased to hear you were back in Windhelm.”

“I brought a guest with me.”

“Bring the guest, please!” Jorleif responded happily enough. “Galmar will be there, too. A real reunion, through and through.”

“When?”

“As soon as you can get to the Palace of the Kings, I expect.”

“…Wait here.”

Turning away from the door, she almost walked straight into Brynjolf – and then breathed a soft laugh at the weapon in his hand. Taking up the bread dough in its bowl from the kitchen table, she strode back to Jorleif and thrust the bowl into his hands.

“Here. Have the cooks bake this, I don’t want it going to waste. Move quickly, or else the cold will ruin it."

Whether it was a ploy to be rid of the messenger quickly, a way to amuse herself, or she was truly very excited about that particular loaf of bread, it had the intended effect – the man was quickly gone, and she turned a look filled with trepidation in Brynjolf’s direction.

“How would you like to have supper with the High King of Skyrim?”

Had he not overheard the exchange, he’d never have believed her.

Rather than rush to her wardrobe to change into finery, she settled for brushing the flour from her armour (and her hair) and then leading the way out of the door. It was a short walk to the palace – and Brynjolf’s disbelief did surface when he saw how Ulfric Stormcloak greeted Kirsi. With a warm greeting, and a hug.

“When did you arrive, Stormblade?” he asked, paying Brynjolf all the attention High Kings likely usually paid people who didn’t immediately interest them.

“This morning, my King,” she bowed at the neck and was forcibly straightened, Ulfric having none of it.

“This morning? I should set the guards on you for being here so long without coming here. And who’s this?”

He had not yet looked at Brynjolf, but it was plain he had not escaped his notice.

“Brynjolf. A friend – and a travelling companion. Bryn, this is Ulfric Stormcloak, and his housecarl Galmar Stone-fist.”

This is Ulfric. Like he was a friend from the tavern and little more. Was he supposed to bow? Brynjolf did not bow – not to anybody. He didn’t much want to start here. So instead, he cleared his throat and looked between the two of them.

“I wasn’t aware you rubbed shoulders with royalty, Kirsi. I imagine how you met must be quite the tale.”

Galmar breathed a harsh laugh. “She’s not told you? By Talos, if I’d survived Helgen all within a hundred leagues of me would know the tale at all times.”

Helgen? Brynjolf stared in disbelief. The look remained on his face throughout dinner, and he was in less of a mood for teasing than he had been in Whiterun.

Do you remember Korvanjud, girl? When you snuck up onto the walkway and rained fire down on those Imperial bastards from above?

Ulfric had cut in there. I remember it. I still owe you that drink, don’t I?

You fought in the war? Brynjolf had asked, unable to help himself.

She’s not told you that either, lad? By Talos, I don’t know how Ulfric would’ve won the damn thing as swiftly as he did without the Dr-

Galmar. Kirsi had cut in, fixing the man with a hard stare.

…Without the driving force that Stormblade here proved to be. Ulfric had covered for his housecarl – and Brynjolf didn’t buy it for a second.

They returned to Hjerim that night in silence.

“Brynjolf, sooner or later you’ll have to say something to me.”

After dinner, they’d retired back to her home wordlessly, and Kirsi didn’t try to break the silence until they were out of the city gates early the next morning. Brynjolf suspected she was worried that High King of hers would issue an invitation for breakfast, too, if they didn’t make themselves scarce.

“The Companions were one thing. Harbinger, do-gooder, whatever. I figured you need easy money to supplement your finances, a cover for all of the ill-gotten gold you make with us. Whatever. Soldiering? Not my business either – the civil war never interested me, and maybe it’s a good thing that your mighty High King’s victory stopped Maven from being directly in charge of the Rift. It’s even a relief to know your not being scared of her has reasonable roots that go beyond plain old foolishness. Maybe even who you are – whoever that is – provides you with useful contacts, I don’t know. But that’s the point. I don’t know. And the more I see, the less I know.”

“Bryn…”

“Are you a highborn lass, then? Is that it? Because you’ve done too much for us for me to call that a conflict of interest, you know?”

“Not at all. I’m as common as the muck beneath our boots.”

“Most peasants don’t sup with High Kings.”

“A twist of fate, little more.”

“One you don’t trust me enough to explain.”

“It’s not like that.”

“What is it like?”

Sighing, she shook her head and looked out across the snow landscape, visibly searching for the words.

“Most folk like me in the context they know me in. You insist Vilkas is in love with me, and maybe he is, but only in the context he knows me in. He could barely square himself with my throwing a fireball at a draugr – some nonsense about it not being an honourable way or fight, I don’t know what the- anyway, if he does love me, he loves Kirsi, the Harbinger of the Companions and Thane of Whiterun. The one who disappears and returns having cleared out a cave of bandits, or rescued a citizen, or beat the shit out of someone who threatened a villager. That’s not me. You know that better than anybody. If he saw the rest of it? He’d go from being attracted to me, to wanting to take up arms against me very damn quickly. I can’t even resent him for it, either. He believes what I’ve led him to believe.”

It was clear she wasn’t done when she paused, and so Brynjolf waited in silence for her to continue.

“Ulfric…he’s less rigid, perhaps. Not that he’s in love with me. If he was ever going to pursue anything like that, it would be because of what I am and not who I am.

“I’m sure he has enough soldiers to take his pick from, lass.”

“It’s not that I was referring to,” she muttered sourly. “So long as I’m subtle about whatever else I get up to, I’m sure he doesn’t care. But is that better or worse than Vilkas’ outlook? I don’t…I can’t have that happen again. Not with you.”

“You think I’d go running because you give gold to orphans and run an outfit of block-headed warriors?”

“I don’t run then. And they’re not block-headed,” she said softly. “And it’s more than that.”

“How much more, Kirsi?”

“Much more. An entire world-load of complications. And you’ve shut me out before for less.”

Brynjolf faltered. “Kirsi…lass…”

They were interrupted by the screech of a dragon, and then a blast of fire.

The battle was a hard-won one. She’d fought worse dragons, after all – the worst dragon – but she was certain the ones that were left were growing fiercer, as if in some desperate bid to cling onto the foothold they’d previously dug out for themselves in this land.

They hadn’t been far from Kynesgrove, and so they’d been joined by miners and guards as they battled the beast, but that threatened to be more of a help than a hindrance – making sure none were in the line of fire as she shot spells and bellowed Shouts at the dragon until finally she could make the killing blow, driving her blade through its eye.

She turned to Brynjolf then, looking at him almost mournfully as she fought to regain her breath, well-accustomed by now to the feeling of the dragon’s soul whipping about her body and finally sinking in. It felt like she was being held before a bonfire, the heat just shy of actually burning. Brynjolf stared, his face splattered with dragon blood, his eyes wide.

“I’m the Dragonborn,” Kirsi breathed.

Like the skeever wasn’t already out of the bag. How long had she refused to use Shouts around him? Even in their pursuit of Mercer through Falmer-infested caves. All for nothing. Brynjolf continued to stare – a time during which she did her best to predict what he would do. Mostly, her money was on an awkwardly mumbled “I’m heading back to Riften, I’ll see you next time you complete a job”.

Instead, though, he threw down his blade and strode towards her, few paying them much mind at all as they trailed back towards whatever they’d been doing when the dragon descended. Now it was Kirsi’s turn to stare…right up until he was within arm’s length of her, when he grabbed her by the arm and yanked her towards him, pulling her into a kiss that filled her with fire more than the souls of a hundred dragons ever could.

When he pulled back, he stayed close, one rough fingertip trailing across the scar at the side of her face. Kirsi was fast deciding she wasn’t going to have the face sculptor get rid of it, after all.

“No more secrets, lass?”

“No more secrets,” she confirmed softly, eyes flickering down to his lips and then up to his eyes again. “Although…”

Her hands had come to rest at his chest and she felt him stiffen, dreading what she was going to say next.

“I’m also the Archmage at the College of Winterhold,” she said. “I thought we might go there next.”

Brynjolf breathed a laugh, his forehead pressing against hers. “I can live with that.”

Links: AO3 -- FF.net -- flufftober masterpost -- dividers by cafekitsune

#esta's flufftober '23 fills #flufftober 2023 #flufftober2023 #brynjolf/f!dragonborn #brynjolf x f!dragonborn #skyrim fic #skyrim fanfic #skyrim fanfiction #brynjolf fanfic #brynjolf fanfiction

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throughtrialbyfire · 7 months

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Friday Kiss Tag Game ♥

wooooo!! thank you so much for tagging me @boethiahspillowbook !! <3 this was so much fun to write and i'm delighted to share this piece!!

i'm tagging @totally-not-deacon @trickstarbrave @your-talos-is-problematic @skyrim-forever @orfeoarte @v1ctory-or-sovngarde @umbracirrus and anyone who wants to do it, if you're not tagged, feel free to hop in!! and no pressure as always!!

Rules: post a smooch between your OCs for Friday. It can be as light as a peck or as intense as a makeout. It can be romantic or platonic or familial. As long as a smooch takes place it’s free reign!

decided to bring a little treat, this features my very first LDB oc, Hyron Aedther! he's such a challenge and a joy to write. this is fresh out of the brain, and i hope you enjoy it!!

Hyron was not a very tactful man, but he was good at what he did. Stealing seemed to run in the family, as whispers of his grandfather's history with the Thieves Guild of Cyrodiil echoed down the branches of his lineage like a harsh and hollow wind. Still, wind nonetheless, and he tended not to reflect on the dead too long. The Altmer wound his way through the streets of Riften, noon sunlight dripping along the mountains like cupped hands desperately dragging water from a stream, in hopes this would quench the thirst. He had found himself doing this more than he liked. His silver hair tied behind him, the world at his back, he wondered if this would all come to a peaceful end. No, he chastised himself, don't be so dramatic, Hyron. It's only a crush. He seldom found himself in these positions, heart bent over backwards for the attentions of someone who he didn't know if would or could return his feelings. But he'd found himself watching the other man in the Ragged Flagon with increasing interest over the past few weeks, the way the ginger joked with Vekel and Delvin, the way he laughed at Vex's dry humor, the sound of his laugh, gods, the sound of his laugh. It battered Hyron open entirely, the sound of that thief's laugh. Brynjolf. Gods, his name even felt right in his mouth. Brynjolf, his friend, Brynjolf, his fellow thief, Bryn… Gods. Gods, he was utterly pathetic.

Pathetic. Like a soggy, sopping wet hound back from a hunt with nothing to show for it, to a master who would only feed him half the scraps he'd saved that night as punishment for his effort. His stomach churned with the weight of it. The thought of Brynjolf rejecting him made him want to tear his hair out, the image of the man's mouth moving in such a way to say, 'I'm sorry, lad, I just don't feel the same.' Or worse, what if he laughed at him? What if he thought Hyron was a lovesick fool, unfit to handle being in the same room as him? What if he hated Hyron for this, solely on the basis that Hyron had shown one fleck of weakness in the wild portrait of his life, the intensity of the color so rotten and bare it turned all away with it? What if… "Ah, there you are, lad. I've been looking for you."

The sound of his voice made the Altmer jump. He turned, the other thief rushing to catch up to him, his guild boots - mismatched with his regular dayclothes, his blue coat wrapped around his arms - thudding the wooden boards of the bridge over the canal. "Oh." Brynjolf furrowed his brow, slowing his pace as he approached the taller man. "Something on your mind?" Hyron shook his head. "No." A moment passed between them, before the other shrugged his shoulders, taking in their surroundings with familiarity, a boredom passing into his face. "What'd'you say we head to the Bee and Barb, get something to drink?" Hyron scoffed with a frail smirk, "why not the Flagon?" Brynjolf returned the smirk with a shrug. "Need a change of scenery, of course." Much to Keerava and Talen-Jei's displeasure, they found the two thieves in their tavern, keeping a distance from the bar, choosing instead to sit by the stairs. After a couple of small drinks and a paltry meal, Brynjolf turned to Hyron, his sharp gaze not missing the slight flinch of the elf's shoulders. "Alright, come on," he said in a quiet voice, "what's on your mind, lad?" Hyron knit his brow, and Brynjolf rolled his eyes. "You've been quieter than usual, and that's saying something."

Hyron's pulse quickened. "Nothing." He paused, and before Brynjolf could interject, he piped up, "I'm adjusting to my new life. It's hard." Brynjolf thought this over, rubbing at his chin, the bristle of it against his hand making a noise that Hyron only wished could be caused by his hand in the same place on the man's face, only wished he could rub his cheek, thumb his cheekbone, run his fingers though his fire-red hair, look into his eyes so intensely it was as though staring into a chasm of ice back in Winterhold- "You seem to be doing a lot of adjusting lately. I'm guessing this has something to do with that whole Dragonborn business." Hyron nodded. A lie. It worked. "I see." Brynjolf didn't seem satisfied, leaning back in his chair, arms folded over his barrel chest. He looked towards the bar, flitting his gaze between Hyron and Keerava, before rising. A few moments passed of him exchanging quiet words with the Argonian woman, before she handed him a key. Approaching Hyron, he cocked his head quickly to the stairs. "Come on, let's talk somewhere private." His heart hammered against his chest. In his throat. No way out. Mouse. Mouse in a trap. Hyron stood there with the door behind him and the bed before and Brynjolf opening the window to let some fresh air in - as fresh as it got here - and turned back to him, noon sun golden on his skin. "Come on, out with it, lad. I know it can't just be this Dragonborn mess that's got you all worked up." Hyron swallowed hard. His chest hurt. He sat on the edge of the bed and released a loud, exasperated sigh, cradling his face in his hands. The pressure next to him told him that Brynjolf was seated right there, right there, next to him, gods, he could feel his body heat, it made Hyron dizzy. Intoxicating, the feel of the other's presence. "Maybe it is. Maybe it isn't," he grunted in his typical manner, cursing himself internally for it. He was never one for words. Never found them useful. So, instead, he remained quiet most often, but here and now with Brynjolf beside him…

"I may be in over my head with something." He finally decided that this was a conclusive enough answer. He looked through his long, golden fingers to Brynjolf, who appeared taken aback. "It's not something I'm used to." "Well, if it's debts you need settling, that's your own business, I'm afraid. We look out for each other in the Guild, but we pay our own ways." Hyron waited, then shook his head, silver eyes latched to the other. Brynjolf relaxed only momentarily, before leaning closer, intrigued. "…Oh, lad," he grinned now, a waggle of his brow catching Hyron off-guard, "is it perhaps a lady you're in trouble with?" Hyron waited. Shook his head. Brynjolf, this time, cocked his head to the side for a second before it hit him, and he nodded slow, almost sagely. "A man." Hyron nodded. "I see." The silence threw Hyron under the weight of the entire lake, an entire mountain's worth of pressure in his spine, his stomach tying furious knots, a sailor afraid of falling overboard. Before too long could pass, before the moment could fall apart, Brynjolf raked his fingers through his hair and rested his elbows against his knees, leaning forward, something bitter crossing his eyes. "I understand." What?

Hyron removed his hands from his face as the other began to speak, picking his words carefully. "I've had relationships that have gone… Well, for lack of better words to describe it, terribly. But I've also had some lovely ones. Sometimes someone comes along and everything about them tears you open like a ragged purse, reminds you of all the things you once wanted when you were a young man. I don't really chase these sorts of urges, to spill open for people, but…" Neither spoke a while. The noon crept closer to evening. Hyron watched Brynjolf and Brynjolf watched Hyron and before the Altmer could find the words for it, he cradled the other's face in his long, spindly hand, and when Brynjolf pressed his own palm against it, terror seized him that it was to push his hand away and to tell him to leave and to never come back and to forever fade from Brynjolf's memory, but now, no, he did not do that, instead the Nord ran his fingers along Hyron's and seemed to grow closer to him, closer in a way that made Hyron's stomach ache and his chest burn and bleed open with his pulse, so loud he swore the Nord heard it. It was a soft kiss, much softer than the Altmer anticipated. Brynjolf's lips were rough, not unexpected, but warm, and he was so tender with the other, so unexpectedly comforting. Hyron swore he glimpsed the gods a moment there, and he found his arms around Brynjolf's neck, deepening their kiss until he thought he might break his own nose against the other. When Brynjolf pulled away, he laughed, heartfelt and soothing. Worry turned away from Hyron's mind, no longer interested in haunting him, his eyes locked on the Nord. "The night's still young. There's loose coin for the taking, and plenty of room in this bed afterwards." The promise of more tore Hyron open with light, a burning, a brightness that he hadn't felt in so many years. All he could do was nod, and together, the pair departed, off to fill the Guild coffers with gold and their time with each other.

#ldb oc #ldb x brynjolf #brynjolf #tes fic #skyrim fic #tesblr #thieves guild #tes v #my writing #bishop.txt #oc ; hyron aedther #one shot #oc x canon #last dragonborn

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justheretop0st · 2 years

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Rain

He hated the rain. He hated the sound of it, the smell of it, the feel of it. And though he prayed it never comes, the thunder rolls and mocks him. How unfortunate.

She was one in an era that truly caused change. It was evident at her funeral. There wasn’t enough room to accompany the waves of people who had come to see her one last time. It lasted days, almost a week of respect and reminiscence. There were things that he didn’t even know about her. This was especially telling of the figures in black and red.

The woman he had come to call his wife was a leader by nature. She lead her side to victory in the war. She ended Alduin, granted she had legendary warriors by her side. She solved the vampire crisis, having to split her own soul in order to enter the soul cairn. She became the leader of the companions, even for a brief period becoming the Arch-Mage. She had helped countless people. He was sure there was more, but there are always secrets that are best left to die with her.

The day she died, she looked more. More of everything. More like a leader. More like a wife. More beautiful and terrifying all in the same breath. She laughed and she seemed to glow. The breeze made her hair animate with life. With every ounce of blood in his body, he swore it shone in the sun.

It was quick and he was thankful for that. Perhaps he couldn’t handle it if she suffered. Perhaps it was because he didn’t have to worry about the last words he said to her. Because he swore to tell her daily how much he adored her. It might have been out his comfort zone. But even in his actions he swore to show her nothing but adoration and love. She deserved it and he knew it was likely she was to die at any point.

Being a renowned hero, she had enemies. A single moment of peace, pierced by an arrow laced in poison. Normally it wouldn’t have punctured her armor. But she wore a dress that day. Even into the night when she was being honored with a banquet. Ale, wine, mead and more was being served. How could someone have missed a person with an arrow equipped?

He wished he could have been more vigilant and maybe he would have had it not been for the drink. He wished his last words were more fine than a sloppy serenade. A declaration of known love. On his knees before her and he could feel the air push over his head as the arrow hit its target.

Panic arose in the crowd, they all ran to cover. But he stayed kneeled there, catching her as she fell into his arms. Straight through the heart, and she stared into his eyes. A connection. A final connection. She died with a smile on her face and her hand in his. But he felt to many emotions for him to simply sit there with her. He felt anger. Remorse. Sadness. He wanted revenge.

All he can remember after that is snatching a sword from a guards sheath and searching the building. Room by room, person by person. He was to filled with emotion, but nothing would get past him. He was told that the assassin was eventually found. That this person was taken to jail. But jail was not what the person deserved. For taking such a life, death would be the only repentance.

During her funeral, it rained for those days and nights. He couldn’t bear to leave her side as she lay there. Surrounded by flowers and gifts and mementos. He remained soaked and though there were others with him, he paid their words of condolences no mind. Nothing would make this better.

How he hated the rain.

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maysoulrose · 1 year

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The Thief and The Moon chpt 1

You guys i’m doing it. I’ve been writing a fanfic about one of my skyrim oc’s and her relationship with Brynjolf because i’m a sucker for the man. I posted the first chapter on Fanfic . net if you’d rather read it there, but I’mma try and post here too!!!!!!!!!!! I finally finished enough chapters to where I feel like it could be at a stopping point, in case I take a long break or something, so here they come! I’ll try to link each chapter on every post for convenience sake!

here’s my story on the website of the fiction : @ maysoulrose

ALSO this whole thing started because I stumbled upon THIS STORY ABOUT FARKAS AND I’M DYING. it really inspired me to write my own.

it’s freaking steamy as HECK so get your eyeballs READY.

Chapter 1

“Pay up.” Brynjolf held out his hand in anticipation. The two guards at the front gate of Riften eyed each other. Bashfully, the one on the left scratched the back of his head before confessing.

“Sorry Brynjolf, the only person who came through today saw right past our scheme… and…”

“She scared the pants off of us!!!” the other guard burst out. Brynjolf gave his eyebrow a good raise.

“Really?” He folded his arms in thought. “What did this person look like?”

“Terrifying” The guard on the right said, followed by a smack on the back of the head by the other.

“He wants physical features, dimwit.”

“Oh. uh…” He collected his thoughts for a moment. “Tall, really long hair, like, super long. Dark elf… I… I think.”

“... Fine. But I expect payment later. Don’t mess the next one up.” Brynjolf jabbed the closest guard in the shoulder.

“Yessir” the two say in unison. Brynjolf swings open the giant gate and enters the city.

It was just past midday. The market was gathering the usual attendees. Brynjolf scoured the crowd. No sign of this mysterious Dark elf. He had been meaning to find a new recruit or two for the guild and since she caught his little shake down, maybe this elf would be a good fit. She’s probably still here in the city since the guards hadn’t seen her leave.

“Better take my usual spot at the snake oil counter and see if she shows.” He muttered to himself. He adjusted the quilted fine hat that sat atop his head and straightened out the matching tunic. He felt a little uncomfortable in the getup he wore, for his merchant ploy to lure In a possible victim- I mean… Customer.. But it helped with the whole … ‘outfit.’

He leaned his hips against his booth and took in the crowd. Grelka was her usual angry self. Marise was over there, chiming about her crispy carrots. Brand-Shei… just waiting to be framed.

“Where’s my little guinea pig…” he whispered. Balimund was working away at the forge. That one fisherman walked by, who definitely was having secret love affairs. He scoffed at the thought, then glanced back over toward the front gate.

An unfamiliar figure was making their way across the bridge and over the canal. That had to be her. Probably just coming from a visit to the town alchemist.

Brynjolf ran through his mental list of introductions and tried to pick the best one for her as she approached the market.

"Here we go."

His eyes traced her form from head to toe. She had a fur hood and covered most of her face with a scarf. A pouch of coin strapped around her waist. She definitely wasn’t afraid of showing a little skin. She wore a set of fur armor. Bare shoulders and arms with a thin strip of fur across her chest. Her hips draped with assorted pelts and skins.

He continued his gaze downward… Through the fabric shifting as she walked, Brynjolf got a glimpse of a dagger strapped to the inside of her thigh. Already promising to fit in with his crowd.

The woman pulled back her hood, revealing a fountain of white hair, cascading down her chest and past her hips. A very small hint of purple shimmered off the waves when the sun hit it just right.

“Wow. They weren’t kidding.” Brynjolf recalled the guard’s description of her. She then tugs on her scarf and tucks it under her chin. Brynjolf felt his heart twinge with excitement.

She was beautiful. The closer she got, the more he felt himself entranced by her. She was elegant in the way she held herself. She was tall, and all of her features seemed to be just a bit longer than your average passer by. Her skin is on the lighter side, for a dark elf, and a bit warm in tone. Almost purple, rather than gray. A hint of pink revealed itself on her cheeks and the tip of her nose. Her skin seemed to have a velvet texture that shimmered like glitter. As if a diamond was crushed into pure dust and was sprinkled all across it.

By the time he realized he was gawking at her, she had caught his eyes. Hers were white, with only a hint of a pupil if you looked closely. Brynjolf snapped his jaw shut and approached her.

"So… you're the little lady that sniffed out my scheme at the front gate."

The elf stopped in front of him; he had her full attention.

It's a good thing he was skilled in the art of speech otherwise her otherworldly eyes might've made him stutter.

"I admire how you were able to catch that shakedown, and even more with how you handled the situation." He continued. "How about doing a little job for me, eh? Should be easy for a Lass like you." He paused for a moment, but she just kept her eyes on him. White lashes lining her lids.

"... not much of a talker, I see." He clears his throat. "I have a bit of an errand to run, But need an extra pair of hands. And in my line of work, that extra pair of hands always gets paid. Handsomely." He waited for a response.

She shifted her weight to the other side, extending out her leg slightly, and folding her arms.

"I'm listening." Her voice was smooth and low, almost a whisper. Brynjolf grinned at her response.

"See that argonian over there?"

————————————————

"EVERYONE, EVERYONE!" Brynjolf stood at his makeshift booth, waving his arms. "Please! Gather 'round. I have an AMAZING new product."

Everyone in the market groaned and shuffled over to him.

"What is it this time?" Brand Shei huffed. Murmurs and eye rolls were plentiful among the onlookers.

The mysterious elf watched the crowd and disappeared into it the moment everyone had their attention on the presentation. Quite literally it seemed. One moment Brynjolf was giving her the nod of approval, the next it was as If she never existed.

She slipped away, disappearing into wisps of shadowy smoke. The Argonian had left his booth, just as Brynjolf had planned. She tackled the lock of his cabinet and the Strongbox within. As expected, there lies a silver ring. Swiping the piece of fine jewelry, and softly closing the cabinet behind her, She made her way to Brand-Shei.

The dunmer had sat his rump on a pile of crates next to a couple of barrels. She reached an arm between two of them, just behind his back, and slipped the ring into one of his pouches.

Brynjolf continued on about his new "limb growing serum". He scanned the crowd, and almost jumped when he saw those moonlit eyes staring right at him, as if she had never left.

"Uh, that's all from me for today! Please! 20 gold per bottle. It'll change your life!" He shook around the tall potion container, appealingly.

Once the crowd dispersed, he jumped down from his platform and approached the mystery woman.

"Done without a hitch! You continue to impress.. Here's your share." He handed her a small pouch of gold, holding about 200 septims. She took the bag and dumped the contents into the satchel already on her hip.

Just a few paces behind them, sounds of a guard promptly arresting Brand-Shei for the planted ring filled the air. Brynjolf took a step closer to the lady elf and lowered his voice.

"Listen, if you're interested in doing more jobs like this, come meet me in the ratway. Just a test to see if you really have what it takes. We could use somebody with your skills." He smirks at her.

She ponders the invitation for a moment and shuffles around her freshly filled coin purse.

"Sounds like a deal~" flashing him a smile.

Brynjolf exhaled a breath of relief. He was really hoping she'd say yes.

"Good on ya. Do you have a name?" He asks. It takes her a moment to respond, like she's considering if she should trust him with it.

"... Allustria." She whispers with her alluring voice. Brynjolf smiles.

"Fitting"

read it on the fanfiction site

#brynjolf #skyrim fanfiction #brynjolf x dragonborn #elder scrolls #romance #elder scrolls skyrim #dark elf #the thief and the moon #fanfic #my stories #my ocs

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questforgalas · 1 year

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Hidden in the Moonlight

Summary: After weeks of Brynjolf dodging the dragonborn, Lorienna, after they took down Mercer, she's ready to throw him in the cistern herself. With some pushing from Delvin, Lorienna confronts Brynjolf about why he's been avoiding her all this time

Notes: Apparently I write Skyrim fanfic now??? Meet my OC, Lorienna :) Also, writing Scottish accents is hard so I'm sorry if the dialogue spelling detracts from the story! Enjoy!!!

WC: 4k

Tags: BrynjolfxFemaleOC, Delvin, Vex, love confessions, fluff, gentle kissing, idiots not communicating

On AO3

“Sorry, lass, I’ve got important things to do. We’ll talk another time.”

It took a lot for Lorienna to lose her temper. During her short time in Skyrim, she’d been attacked by cultists, fought more dragons than she could count, was hunted down by the Thalmar, and survived a drinking game with Sam, though that last one was a close call. That’s not to mention the many guilds she stumbled upon that all oddly were in need of a leader so badly they just let the newest recruit fly through the ranks and quickly become their master, but who was she to question the rules. At least that’s what she told herself each time she was handed a hideout master-key or a centuries old set of armor with more enchantments than an arcane table.

Yet, here she was, ready to throw one flowing-haired ginger into the waters of the cistern if he brushed her off one more time. There were layers to her frustrations, of course. First off, she was the dam guild master. What in Sovngarde could be more important than talking to the guild master? Lorienna may have been new to this, but she was pretty sure that in the “Priorities of the Thieves Guild” mental-handbook, speaking with the guild master was number 1.

Second, if the distractingly rugged nord really had such important things to do, shouldn’t she, again, the GUILD MASTER, know about them? Wouldn’t that be something her second-in-command should keep her in the know about?

Third, and the one that stung more than she wanted to admi, was that she wasn’t just the guild master to the infuriatingly handsome thief. Or at least she had thought.

Yes, many members of the Thieves Guild have been victims to Brynjolf’s easy charm. There wasn’t a day that went by without a new recruit ending their first job with star-filled doe-eyes focused on the good-looking man, but Lorienna had been certain she felt the shift between Brynjolf and herself during the whole mess with Mercer.

When she wasn’t lying to herself, she could admit it started shifting well before that, well before he ran up to her in the cistern, disbelief in his eyes, relief in his voice, telling her he’d looked for her. Too lost in the moment, both of you had missed the knowing glances passed between Delvin and Vex, silently smirking at what you two didn’t know yet - that you were well beyond the safety of the shoreline of this river of emotions.

But right now? She was lying to herself as she stared daggers into Brynjolf’s broad, rippling back hugged by his Nightengale armor in the most deli…

Ok. She had it bad.

Too distracted by her warring thoughts of plunging a knife in Brynjolf’s armor to either make him bleed or to cut it off of him in offense for blocking him from her view, Lorienna didn’t notice Delvin sliding into the unoccupied chair to her left, thunking his mug onto the table. “Ya know, I don’t think actin like that mug is Brynjolf’s throat is goin to help ya at all.”

Jerking back, Kandri blinked Delvin into focus, shaking her head of the cobwebs occupying her mind. When Delvin’s words registered, she looked down, noticing ghost white knuckles strangling the tankard in hand. “I wasn’t imagining strangling anyone,” she mumbled.

“Might be more convincing if ya hadn’t been starin at his back without blinkin the past 10 minutes.”

“I was not staring.”

“Miracle he hasn’t looked over at ya, honest.”

“Can I help you Delvin? Or are you just here to archive my movements?”

A chuckle shook the guild-veteran’s shoulders. “Just wonderin when ya’re gonna talk to him, boss.”

“Who? Brynjolf? There’s nothing to talk about. He’s obviously content with moving onto the next chapter with no regard of who he’s leaving behind in the pages.” Lorienna wanted her statement to drip with venom, leave no question for the disdain she was obviously feeling, but Delvin caught the melancholy lilt sucking all the poison out of her words and replacing it with an ache only the hear knew.

“Listen, boss, I ain’t here to tell ya what to do. But, well, listen, I’mma be blunt. Ya’re walkin around here like a kicked puppy, and it’s obvious to err’one why. Well, maybe not err’one, hence why ya’re mopin around…”

“I am not moping...”

“Ya’re. And it’s pathetic. Ya’re lucky I’m givin ya this talk and not Vex, she’s been wantin to throw a dagger at ya the past two days.”

“I don’t know how a dagger wound is going to help anything…”

“It’s Vex. Probably best not to question it, yeah? Either way, either ya talk to him or we lock ya both in the vault.” While Delvin spoke, their subject of conversation rose from his seat, emptying his tankard with a long gulp, setting it down on the table for Vekel to clean, and made his way out of the flagon to the cistern.

Lorienna didn’t realize she’d been watching Brynjolf’s every move like her eyes worked completely on their own agenda until Delvin jabbed her in the side, causing a startled yelp and an arm to flail, knocking the wooden plate in front of her to the floor. The clatter only interrupted the Ragged Flagon’s din for a beat, everyone going back to their conversations once they were satisfied with what could’ve caused their leader to cause such a ruckus.

Rubbing the fresh bruise, Kandri pointed a daggered look at the man now becoming a quite literal pain-in-her-side. “Why do you care so much? What’s in it for you?”

“Figure it’s best for err’one to have our two leaders be happy. Not gonna be verr’ good with both ya actin like draugr around here. Morale and all that. Not to mention Brynjolf’s been messin’ up job details, so that’s not helpful.”

Kandri took a beat at that last bit. Brynjolf messing up jobs? She’s never heard of him missing a speck of dust on the vault door, let alone pass along faulty job information. This guild was new to her, but it was Brynjolf’s family, and he knew better than anyone that bad information meant risking a member of that family. He’d rather cross Maven Blackbriar himself than risk sending any thief on a half-assed job.

“What’re you getting at Delvin?”

With uncharacteristic softness, Delvin met Lorienna’s gaze, “Ya both deserve happiness, boss. And right now? Ya’re both wading through each day like Sovngarde’s already takin’ ya. Bryn’s too blind to see his own feet, so he’s probably got no idea. But just talk to him. It’ll be alright, ya ‘ll see.”

He gave a comforting squeeze to her hand and downed the rest of his ale before moving over to join Vex and Dirge in their game of cards at the next table. Vex caught Lorienna’s eyes over Delvin’s shoulder, giving a knowing smirk, and coked her head in the direction of the cistern.

The guild master let her head fall back, eyes closing, as a small groan escaped her lips. “Sovngarde take me. These bunch of idiots are going to be the death of me.” Pinching her nose, she took one last deep breath as she steeled herself and finally pushed from her seat.

To her surprise though, the cistern was mostly empty, many members still in the Flagon given the early hour. Steady “thunk” “thunk” thunk”s told her someone was by the archery dummies, and she wandered in the direction of the sound, fingers crossed that she’d catch Brynjolf practicing archery for the first time in their friendship, but Stendarr wasn’t on her side today as Rune came into view.

Seeing the guild master approach, Rune loosed one more arrow, satisfying “thunk” meeting their ears, and lowered the bow as he turned to greet her.

“Lorienna, what can I do for you?”

“Hi Rune. Any chance Brynjolf came through here earlier?” Lorienna hated the sheepish tone of her voice and was praying that her cheeks weren’t an telling shade of crimson while she spoke. Either Rune had the soul of an angel or he was none-the-wiser to her plight because his face never changed as he kept his attention on her.

“You just missed him. Exited out the entrance just a minute ago.”

“Outside? To the town?”

“Yup.”

“Huh, ok. Thanks Rune. And keep up that practice, your shooting is already greatly improved.” Now it was Rune’s turn to blush as a shy smile crept on his face. Easing his suffering, Lorienna brushed past him, giving a pat to his shoulder as she did. Moments later, the crisp night air of the Rift touched her face while the stone door ground behind her.

This was Lorienna’s favorite hour to wander the city. Not many found Riften beautiful, with it often considered the underside of Skyrim, but Lorienna found the opposite to be true, relishing in the beauty that hid beneath the cracks and creaks of the fishing port. The surrounding mountains kept the air cool, even in the summer months, while the steady water below them offered a mask of tranquility to a city that lived in bedtime stories to keep naughty children at bay. During the day, the sun reflected off the mountain snow, bringing out the colors of the foliage as if they were freshly painted on the branches. And at night? Oh, the night in Riften was magic.

Running water replaces the bustle of the market, crafting a spell of calm to all who wandered the streets, making their way to the Bee and Barb or to rest their weary heads. The moon casts a shimmering blanket on top of the water, stars appearing in the air, reflecting off the windows and lamps as you passed by. You could feel completely alone and surrounded at the same time. It was Lorienna’s happy place.

When she started rising through the guild ranks, duties piling up and stress multiplying with each new member, Lorienna would escape their underground home to the quiet streets of the city above, basking in the moonlight on top of the temple roof. It wasn’t surprising when Brynjolf started following her there, attempting but failing to hide the worry in his eyes as he claimed he just happened to be scouting the area when he caught site of her up there. She didn’t bother pointing out that scouting the area he knew like the back of his hand when sleeping didn’t make much sense; instead letting him ease down next to her, always settling into comfortable silence.

That rooftop, in the spotlight of the moon, became their hideaway. So she knew exactly where her instincts were pulling her as she turned from the Thieves Guild entrance and looked up, finding him right where she knew he’d be. At first, it appeared as if he didn’t notice her standing just before him on the ground, but then she saw the slight tilt down of his forehead. “Should’ve known ya’d find me here.”

Oh, how she missed that voice.

Her usual route to the roof was imprinted in her brain, and she was approaching their spot in less than a minute, but as she walked closer, she felt her steps get smaller. Just steps away from him, back still facing her, she paused.

Weeks. It had been weeks of hearing his sorry excuses. Of hearing him brush her off over and over again. Of watching her best friend move on without her. One more exchange and she was going to break. But standing here, preparing to confront him, her heart was in her throat. Every doubt, every fear, every reason for her to turn around and run bombarded her brain as she stood frozen, feet unwilling to take the final steps, because she knew. She knew once she started the conversation, there was no going back. To before. To their easiness. To their companionship. Was this worth risking all of that?

Brynjolf didn’t even bother to turn around to interrupt her spiraling mind. “Just sit down, lass. I can hear ya’r thoughts all the way over here.”

That voice. That voice was a balm on her soul when she returned from a job, weary, exhausted, ready to collapse. That voice was her guiding light as they confronted Mercer. That voice was just one part of a man who plucked her off the streets and became her home. Lorienna closed her eyes, taking one more steadying breath.

Much to her chagrin, the descent onto the rooftop was more of a “plop”, foot slipping on moss slick with the day’s rain, and the “oomf” she let out didn’t go unnoticed. Shoulders shaking, Brynjolf didn’t bother trying to hide his chuckle while Lorienna got herself situated, rubbing her arse in an attempt to ease the pain. Leaning on an arm for leverage, her shoulder brushed his, and Brynjolf turned his head at the contact. For the first time in weeks, since they took down Mercer together, Lorienna and Brynjolf held each other’s gaze.

Familiarity settled in her chest before unease and fear gripped her heart. She swore she caught a glint of sadness in Brynjolf’s brown eyes before he turned away again, focusing his attention on the mountains over the wall. Well, it was now or never.

“Where’ve you been, Bryn?” Lorienna asked him, eyes never leaving his face.

“Only been here a minute before you got here, lass.” He answered.

“That’s not what I mean. I mean the last few weeks, since Mercer.”

“I told ya, lass. I had important thin…”

“Brynjolf. Talos help you if you say you had important things to do. I am the guild master. Master of the Thieves Guild. Top of the top. What in Sovngarde could have been more important than talking to me? Especially if you were doing ‘important things’ for the guild! Please enlighten me because I have been losing my mind the last few week!”

Lorienna’s gaze never faltered, staying focused on Brynjolf’s temple since his gaze on the mountains seemed as determined as hers. For a few beats, he remained frozen, not even a twitch of his jaw to be seen. It took every ounce of Lorienna’s will to remain patient, letting him sort through what was flickering through his mind, instead focusing on calming her pounding heart.

Agonizing seconds passed before he closed his eyes, letting loose a sigh she felt in her own bones, and turned to face her. His eyes met hers. Brown eyes that could flash with mischief and then compassion and then steel determination in the span of a second. Eyes that always held a softness for his family in the guild, and a softness that grew a little more noticeable only when he looked upon one particular member. Eyes as deep as the treasure troves of Skyrim that Lorienna loved to get lost in.

Hope bloomed as she watched the sadness in his gaze transform to fondness, holding her breath as he seemed to settle on whatever thought he’d been arguing with.

“Lorienna, lass, I’m sorry. I – I wasn’t truthful over the last couplah weeks.”

“No shit.” Brynjolf tilted his head, rolling his eyes at Lorienna’s lack of decorum, giving her a bored look as if to ask if she was done.

“Ok, ok. I’ll behave now,” she relented.

“Aye, I like it better when you don’t.” The mischievous glint in his eye left as soon as it appeared, somber softness settling in again. “It’s a sorry excuse, and an ever sorrier way to go about it, but I was scared. That whole mess with Mercer, I thought I was ready to handle it, to come out of it same as before, but I was only foolin myself.”

He returned his gaze to the mountains beyond, resting an arm on top of one bent knee, the other placed behind him on the roof to keep himself upright. Sitting patiently beside him, Lorienna listened as he put his thoughts forward.

“I knew it well before too. When ya came back from Goldenglow, eyes shinin brighter than any emerald, bouncin on the balls of your feet with adrenaline. Mara herself could’ve descended, and I wouldn’t’ve questioned why. But I lied to myself. Tucked that feelin down and buried it, tellin myself you were a new recruit, probably not gonna make it the month. Can’t get attached now. Yet, insufferably determined lass you are, ya kept comin back. Nose down, gettin jobs done. Gradually takin in my family like they were ya’r own. Slowly, a kernel of worry would always form when ya left for jobs. ‘Ya worry for everyone, don’t overthink it,’ I’d tell myself.

Then the kernel would stay, plantin itself as soon as I’d watch ya leave the cistern, and not makin itself scarce until my eyes were on ya again. Didn’t take long until I’d ask Delvin or Vex where they sent ya off to. Thought I was bein subtle, but they know me too well. Wanted to punch Delvin right in his smirkin mouth every time it popped up.

But I am nothin but a man of my word so I kept tryin to bury it, kept tryin to lie to myself. Thought I was goin crazy when givin ya your next job was my favorite part of the day simply because it meant I’d get to talk to ya.”

Lorienna’s cheeks were flaming as she listened, nuzzling her face in her knees in an attempt to hide the affects his words had on her. Never in her life could she fight the smile that was taking over her face, basking in the moonlight, listening to Brynjolf’s confession.

It seemed that this next part wasn’t coming to Brynjolf so easily though. Pausing, he shifted his gaze to the shingles underneath them, scratching at the wood like it was the most important thing for him to do in that moment. Just as Lorienna opened her mouth to ask what was wrong, he planted his hand flat on the roof as if grounding himself and continued.

“Then Mercer sent ya after Karliah. As I watched ya walk out of the cistern, my instincts were yellin at me. ‘Tell her, tell her. You’re in love with her ya fool, tell her.’ Like they knew something was goin wrong. But the fool that I am, I stood there, feelin that seed of worry take its usual place. Weeks went by. Somethin started to nag at me. I’d look at the entrance to the cistern everyday, pleading with it to open and ya’d walk back in. Finally, Mercer returned, alone. As he approached me, my mind was screamin. Every fiber of my bein kickin at me that this wasn’t real, that this was a trick. Ya were right behind, comin in any second. It all went silent when he told me ya were dead.”

At last, Brynjolf lifted his head, brown eyes meeting Lorienna’s green. Small tears began to form in the corners, and she allowed herself to reach out, wiping one away before it fell to his cheek. For a moment, her hand lingered there, her palm lightly scratched by his stubble, relishing in being in front of him and not a corpse left in the snow.

“I acted on pure will and muscle memory, grabbin my gear and equipment I needed. I didn’t hesitate, immediately makin my way to Snow Veil. Nothing would’ve stopped me. I dared any imperial or stormcloak to get in my way, blocking my path to ya. It wouldn’t’ve ended well for ‘em. By the time I got there though, ya were gone, and there weren’t any tracks for me to follow. It was a dead end, nothin to tell me what Mercer said wasn’t true. Nothin to wake me from the living nightmare I was trapped in. As I trudged back, I grieved. Grieved the love I had been too stubborn to accept. Grieved the fiery dragon who burned her way into my life. Grieved the thief who was the sole owner of my heart.”

Lorienna knew this story, but this was the first time she heard the depths of Brynjolf’s pain. Heard the crack in his voice as he relived that grief. For a brief second, in the back of her mind, she cursed her inadequacy with necromancy not letting her bring Mercer back from the dead just so she could kill him over and over again for eternity.

A hand found its way onto Lorienna’s check. One she nuzzled into, eyes closed, humming at the contact. Brynjolf’s thumb gently stroked back and forth, coaxing her to meet his gaze. “I hadn’t realized my world had stopped until ya walked into the Flagon weeks later, casting my life in ya’r fiery glow once again. Mercer’s plot be damned, I wanted to grab ya right there and hold onto ya until the divines separated us. Durin that whole ordeal, swearin to Nightengale, takin down Mercer, restorin Karliah, I swore to myself I’d tell ya as soon as we were back. I couldn’t go another day without ya knowin how I felt. And then we got home, and well, I ran.

Not literally, of course, but any time I dredged up the courage to talk to ya, I’d look in these gorgeous green eyes with the ability to make my brain stop, and I’d get scared. What if ya didn’t feel the same? What if I read everything wrong? Could I date the Guild Master? Was that even allowed? Would the other members reject it? Every cowardly question would roar in my head until it was all I heard, and I’d run. Throwin that half-arsed excuse at ya every time ya approached me. I’m honestly impressed ya hadn’t punched me right in the mouth.”

Lorienna rolled her eyes. “You were one more excuse from getting thrown into the cistern.”

That earned her a hearty laugh that she found contagious, the tension built upon for weeks dissipating into the Rift night air. There on their little hideaway, laughing like schoolchildren, Brynjolf and Lorienna took each other in for the first time not as guild members, not as friends, but as the sole protectors of each other’s most precious possession.

Brynjolf moved the hand resting on Lorienna’s cheek to snake his arm around her waist, tucking her into his side. As she went to nestle her head in the crook of his neck, he stopped her with a gentle tap to her chin. Tilting up, she blinked up at him, catching him glance down at her lips before meeting her eyes again and closing the space between them. A ghost of a kiss touched her lips, one that had her angling her neck to deepen it, chasing whatever she could. So gently she barely registered the movement, Brynjolf moved away, looking at her like she was the greatest treasure he’d ever beheld.

“I’m sorry. I’ve been a right arse, lass, but I promise ya. I’d fight every divine if it meant havin ya by my side. No one is takin ya from me again. I’m honored to be your second-in-command, rebuilding a life for our cozy, little family, but if ya ’ll have me, it’d be my greatest honor to be your partner.”

“Until my dying breath, Brynjolf, you and I will go through this life together, no matter what the divines have in store for us.”

Conveying the conviction in her words, Lorienna leaned up to seal her oath with a kiss, one that Brynjolf returned eagerly, trying to deliver every promise he could offer to her through such a simple act. Breaking apart, they rested their foreheads, trying to imprint this moment in their memories to hold onto for eternity.

Hearts settled, Brynjolf moved to make room for Lorienna in the crook of his neck, resting his cheeck atop her head, his thumb tracing small circles along her hip. Together, they took in the view in front of them – snow-capped mountains glistening with the stars in the moonlight, gentle waters lapping underneath the city, and the cemetery below cast in silver light, a single moonbeam shining on the hidden entrance to their family.

Was this worth risking their before? Lorienna could feel the answer wash over her as if the divines themselves were handing over their blessings.

Because he was hers and she was his, and even when they find themselves separated in the darkness, they would always find their way back home. Back to each other.

#skyrim #brynjolf #oc #female oc #brynjolf x dragonborn #brynjolf x oc #brynjolf x female original character #fluff #love confessions #dragonborn

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ghostfacedbat · 2 years

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i forgot about that one time I drew Brynjolf+my LDB OC Kolhav+Mercer Frey

#ghostbat doodles #skyrim #skyrim memes #skyrim meme #skyrim art #thieves guild #brynjolf #ldb #ldb oc #last dragonborn #the last dragonborn #mercer frey #brynjolf x ldb #cause why not yknow #ghostbat ocs

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hombrediablo · 1 year

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Art trade for @elvenforgedart !!!

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emrysthegoodwitch · 1 year

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#brynjolf #brynjolf x dragonborn #skyrim #elder scrolls online #elder scrolls morrowind #elder scrolls arena #elderscrolls #the elder scrolls skyrim #elderscrollsdaggerfall #elder scrolls fanfiction #thieves guild

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dovahkinniez · 2 years

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🦇 — BRYNJOLF.

COMING SOON . . .

#skyrim x reader #skyrim x dovahkiin #skyrim #skyrim scenarios #elder scrolls x reader #elder scrolls skyrim #skyrim headcanon #elder scrolls #brynjolf #brynjolf x reader #skyrim brynjolf #skyrim brynjolf x reader #brynjolf x dragonborn

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ironwoman359 · 6 months

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A Thief's Gamble - Ch.5

The Renegade from Cyrodiil

Previous: Ch.4 - Bedlam and Burglary || Next: Ch.6 - Unhindered Insights Fic Masterpost

Chapter Summary: Brynjolf learns that Ariene has been hiding who she really is, and he is forced to confront her before she endangers the Guild.

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

Ships: Brynjolf x Dragonborn OC (slowburn)

Word Count: 3,857

Check the reblogs for a link to read on AO3!

--- --- ---

Sometimes, Brynjolf wondered what his Ma would think of him today.

She’d wanted him to join the merchant’s trade when he was a lad, but he’d refused, complaining that he didn’t want to spend his life stuck behind a desk filling out paperwork and speaking with boring noblemen. He wanted to do something exciting with his life.

He’d always been a schemer, inventing wild tales to scam the other kids out of pocket change and sweets, and as he grew, so did his ambition. His targets grew bigger and his plans became more elaborate, and soon he caught the attention of others who operated on the shadier side of the law. He made some new friends, acquired some new skills, and before he knew it he was being offered a position in the Thieves Guild.

Finally, he had the life he’d always wanted, far away from the daily drudgery of ledgers, bookkeeping, and his Ma’s boring expectations.

Thirty years later, as he sat at his desk keeping books, balancing ledgers, and reading correspondence from boring noblemen, he was certain that she was looking down from Sovngarde and shaking her head at him.

It turned out that running a Guild required just as much paperwork as being a merchant. And while not all of the contacts he kept were boring noblemen, sometimes he thought that actually made things harder.

Merchants didn’t have to encode half their messages to keep the guards from discovering their movements, and shopkeepers didn’t have to keep two sets of ledgers, one with real figures and one with numbers that were faked.

Sometimes, Brynjolf regretted being so eager to prove himself to Gallus and the other higher ups. While he did prove that he was an exceptional thief, he’d also proved that he had a good head for numbers, and more and more of the Guild’s administrative work was passed on to him, especially after Mercer took over the Guild. He still managed to keep his more interesting skills as sharp as his daggers, but there were definitely days when he felt more like a merchant than a thief after all.

Today was one of those days.

He’d been cooped up in the cistern for what felt like ages, reading over reports from his agents across Skyrim. It was important for the Guild to keep a finger on the pulse of what was happening in each hold, and while most of their clients had dried up, Brynjolf had managed to ensure that his contacts still sent him news about any notable changes in the country.

The most concerning news was the rumors of a dragon attack in Helgen. Brynjolf had received reports on what had happened near the southern border, but it had been right before the situation at Goldenglow had escalated, and he hadn’t paid much attention to the rumors. There were, after all, more pressing matters to deal with.

But now it seemed that Helgen really had been destroyed, and that not long after there’d been another attack in Whiterun. Only about a day later, by the accounts he was reading. He was only receiving the report now because his contact had feared traveling across the Rift with dragons on the loose.

Brynjolf wasn’t sure what to make of the idea of dragons. He had initially thought the reports about Helgen were written in some kind of code, but once he’d disproven that theory he’d simply written them off as mere rumors. This latest report from Whiterun implied otherwise though, and Brynjolf couldn't help but think back to the stories his Ma had told him as a boy, about dragons and fire and the end of times.

Still, despite the existential threat that the return of the dragons posed, he found something else in the report from Whiterun to be even more surprising.

He was sitting at his desk, staring down at the letter in disbelief when Delvin walked up to him.

“Brynjolf, you’re never gonna guess who I just got a message from.”

Brynjolf blinked, then shook his head.

“Sorry old man, what was that?”

“You got wax in your ears or somethin’?” Delvin asked. “I said I just got a message in from Whiterun, and you’re never gonna guess from who. Olfrid Battle-Born himself. Says he’s heard we were active in the city again, and that he’s got a job for us. We haven’t had a break like this in months.”

“We haven’t,” Brynjolf muttered, more to himself than to Delvin, and the old man snapped his fingers in front of Brynjolf’s face.

“You awake in there, Bryn? What’s got your head in the clouds?”

Brynjolf just passed the Whiterun report to him, and pointed at the last paragraph that he’d been reading and rereading for the past several minutes.

Delvin huffed, but took the paper and read aloud:

“A final note: word is that you’re making moves in Whiterun again. Be aware that the jarl has appointed a new Thane to his court, an imperial by the name of…Ariene Anneius? It is unknown at this time how amenable she is to persuasion, or whether or not she will seek to take Justice into her own hands. Proceed with caution.”

Delvin lowered the paper and stared at Brynjolf.

“I know,” Brynjolf said, his mouth a grim line as he took the page back.

“Why on earth would a Thane join up with the Guild?” Delvin wondered aloud. “Could she be tryin’ to take us down? Gather evidence against us?”

“I wondered the same thing, but if that were her goal then she’s seen more than enough to incriminate the lot of us. Instead, she just…keeps doing jobs,” Brynjolf said.

“Besides, if a Thane were to try and take us down, why would it be one from Whiterun?” Delvin added. “We haven’t had a strong foothold there in years, and it’s only because of her that our reputation is gettin’ stronger in the first place. Maybe she wants somethin’ from us? A cut of the action in exchange for her silence?”

“Maybe…” Brynjolf trailed off, something Delvin said sticking out in his mind. “Except…wait a moment.”

He pushed a stack of papers aside, digging through the older pile of reports until he found what he was looking for.

“Except she’s not from Whiterun. I knew I’d heard that last name somewhere before. Look,” he said, passing over a crumpled note bearing the Imperial seal.

Delvin took it and read aloud again.

“Wanted: Renegade Imperial Soldier Ariene Anneius. It is believed she is headed for the northern border with Skyrim. Likely armed and dangerous, DO NOT ENGAGE alone. If spotted or captured, inform the nearest Imperial outpost.”

He let out a low whistle and passed the note back to Brynjolf.

“This came in around three weeks ago, but I didn’t give it much attention.” Brynjolf said. “By the time I saw Ariene in the market and offered her a job, I’d already forgotten about it.”

He shook his head in disbelief.

“No wonder she was so nervous about Maven knowing her name. Maven’s ties with the Imperials are well known, if Ariene is on the run from the law in Cyrodiil…” he trailed off as another thought came across his mind. “Hang on. If she’s a wanted renegade, then-”

“How on earth did she end up gettin’ named Thane of Whiterun?” Delvin said, completing Brynjolf’s thought. “Jarl Balgruuf is a man of honor, so much so that it makes things difficult for us on occasion. He wouldn’t just award a wanted criminal the highest position in his court without a damn good reason.”

“Whatever the reason, I don’t think we should send anyone out there to meet Olfrid Battle-Born just yet,” Brynjolf said. “Not until we get some answers.”

Delvin nodded in agreement.

“And how do you intend to get those answers?” he asked and Brynjolf grimaced.

“The only way I can. I’ll have to ask the lass myself.”

— — —

Brynjolf found Ariene in the training room. He stood in the entryway, hovering just out of sight and watching her with renewed curiosity.

She stood in the center of the room, her bow drawn and an arrow knocked at the string. She took a deep breath, then in one smooth motion she lifted the bow up, pulled back the string and fired, not even waiting to see where the arrow landed before reaching back and drawing another. Over and over, she let the arrows fly through the air, her movements quick and fluid and her face a mask of cool concentration.

Brynjolf edged closer, tearing his eyes away from her to look at the targets, each with a mass of arrows clustered around the bullseye. Not a single shot had flown astray, and his mind drifted back to her wanted notice.

Possibly armed and dangerous, DO NOT ENGAGE alone.

“How long are you planning on skulking there in the shadows?”

Brynjolf tensed, but Ariene’s tone was light and playful, and as he turned his attention back to her, he saw her bow was lowered, the quiver empty at her back. She was smiling an easy smile, and Brynjolf took a deep breath.

“How long did you know I was there?” he asked, stepping into the room, and Ariene smirked.

“The whole time. You’re not as stealthy as you think you are, Brynjolf,” she said, and Brynjolf raised an eyebrow.

“Or maybe you’re just more observant than the average mark,” he countered.

Ariene laughed, and Brynjolf found a part of himself wishing that he could just ignore the mysteries of her past and enjoy her company for the sake of it.

But he knew that if he did that, he’d never quite trust the lass again, and that would be far worse in the long run than whatever fallout would come out of this confrontation. Better to face the issue head on while he still had a chance to.

“Got a problem, lass,” he said, forcing his voice to remain even. “Was hoping you could give me a hand.”

“Sure,” Ariene said, stowing her bow over her shoulder and looking at Brynjolf expectantly.

Silently, he pulled the folded wanted slip out of his pocket. He passed the paper over to her, and carefully watched her reaction as she unfolded it. Her shoulders tensed and her eyes darted around the room, lingering for a moment on the daggers on Brynjolf’s belt before settling back on his face.

“The criminal organization have a problem with criminal pasts now?” she asked, a challenge in her tone.

Brynjolf couldn’t help the half smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth at that, and he shook his head.

“No, lass. And I’d be a damn hypocrite if I said otherwise. Your past is your own business, so long as it doesn’t affect the rest of the Guild.”

“So what’s the problem? Have you decided the price on my head is greater than the amount of gold I can make you?”

“No, it’s nothing like that,” Brynjolf said. “You’re not the only member with a bounty, and the Guild never would betray one of our own for coin. The problem is this.”

Brynjolf pulled out the Whiterun report, and Ariene narrowed her eyes. She grabbed the paper and scanned it quickly, and when she looked up, her expression had gone stone cold.

“I still don’t see the issue,” she said evenly, and Brynjolf scoffed.

“Then you’re not as good a thief as I thought you were. We’re all entitled to our fair share of anonymity, but this? This is something I needed to know about, especially before I let you take a job in Whiterun.”

“I don’t owe you an explanation-” Ariene began, but Brynjolf cut her off.

“You don’t owe me an explanation for how or why you’re wanted by the Imperial government. That’s not my business. But secretly being a member of a Jarl’s court? Even if it’s in another hold, that could affect the Guild in any number of ways. And that means that it is my business.”

“You make it sound like it’s some crazy conspiracy,” Ariene growled. “Maybe I just like my privacy.”

“A normal thing for a thief to say; a very odd thing for a Thane to say,” Brynjolf countered.

Ariene glared at him and he tensed, fighting the instinct to reach for his daggers. Her quiver was empty; as deadly as she could apparently be with a bow, the weapon was useless to her now. He glanced quickly at her belt, where her own dagger sat in its sheath. He’d never seen her use the weapon before, and had no idea whether her skill with it matched his own. Even if he couldn’t stop her alone she’d likely be bottlenecked in the cistern, but he’d still prefer to keep his blood inside his body, thank you very much.

Still, Ariene made no move to attack him, or to try and escape. Instead, she folded her arms over her chest and kept her glare trained on him.

“Who says I even wanted to be a Thane?” she demanded. “Why would I come to Riften in the first place, break the law multiple times and crawl through a sewer to join a failing Guild if I was set for life in another hold?”

At that, Brynjolf forgot his apprehension and glared right back at her.

“That,” he said, his voice low. “Is exactly what I’d like to know.”

Ariene sighed and turned away, walking over to the archery targets. She began pulling the arrows free and Brynjolf tensed, but she still made no hostile movements. She stowed the arrows back in her quiver and glanced back at Brynjolf, raising an eyebrow.

“You’re not going to be satisfied until you get an answer, are you?” she asked.

Brynjolf folded his arms.

“I’ve had questions about you since the first day you showed up here,” he admitted. “But there’s a difference between personal curiosity and business. This isn’t about me, lass. It’s about the Guild.”

Ariene leaned up against a bale of hay that one of the targets was standing on and gave him a long look. Silence hung heavy in the air between them, the tension in the room a nearly physical thing before she let out a breath and looked down at her boots.

“Fine. What do you want to know?”

“Why are you here?” Brynjolf said immediately.

“Here in Riften, or here in Skyrim?” she asked, then she shook her head. “No, I suppose that doesn’t matter. The answer is the same either way. I’m running.”

Brynjolf raised an eyebrow at that.

“Running?” he repeated, and Ariene rolled her eyes.

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

She looked distant for a moment, and Brynjolf waited for her to continue. After a spell, she shook herself, and held up her wanted page.

“I’ve been on the run from the Imperial Legion for nearly two months. I tried to cross the border into Skyrim a few weeks ago, but I got tangled up in an ambush that the forces here had set for the Stormcloaks. I was captured, and very nearly executed.”

Her expression was casual, but there was a detectable tightness to her voice, and despite everything, Brynjolf couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy for her.

“They execute folks for deserting now?” he asked, and Ariene huffed.

“For deserting, for illegally crossing the border, for what I did before I deserted, maybe for all of it wrapped into one, who knows. It doesn’t matter anyway. I escaped Helgen and-”

“Wait,” Brynjolf interrupted suddenly. “You were at Helgen? When?”

Ariene grimaced.

“If you’re asking that, then you already know the answer.”

“So you saw a-”

“Yes,” she nodded. “Believe it or not, I’d be dead now if it weren’t for that dragon. I was able to slip away during all the confusion, with the help of one of the other prisoners. We laid low with some relatives of his for a day or so, but the price for their hospitality was a message to Jarl Balgruuf about the dragon attack. I took the message to him and was going to just move on, but he offered me a contract to retrieve an item from an old barrow in the mountains. And as much as I didn’t want to waste my time dancing on a jarl’s strings…well, the Imperials took my money, and all my gear. I didn’t really have a choice.”

“You don’t expect me to believe he named you Thane because you ran one job for him,” Brynjolf said, and Ariene rubbed her eyes.

“No. No, he named me Thane because right after I returned from fetching the artifact for his wizard, there was another dragon attack.”

Brynjolf’s eyes widened at the implication.

“Are you saying that…you killed the beast?” he asked in disbelief.

Ariene gave a wry smile.

“Not alone, no. But my contributions to the fight weren’t insignificant. I’m sure you noticed, but I’m a hell of a shot.”

Brynjolf nodded, a smile of his own tugging at the edge of his lips despite himself.

“When the battle was over, my, ah, prowess was noted by the other guards, and that is when Balgruuf named me his Thane. I left the city not long after.”

Brynjolf stared at her, trying to wrap his head around the revelation. He’d assumed the lass was capable in combat– she’d made it out of Goldenglow, after all– but taking down a dragon…that was something else. No wonder the jarl had ignored her criminal past and given her a title. A thought occurred to him then, and his brow furrowed.

“There’s something I still don’t quite understand, lass,” he said. “After all of that, why leave Whiterun at all? Why come here?”

The smile slid from Ariene’s face, and she fiddled with the hilt of the dagger at her hip.

“Whiterun was never my planned destination. And Balgruuf…” she sighed, and a look somewhere between a smile and a grimace crossed her face. “He’s an honorable man, for better or for worse. If an imperial officer tried to capture me there?” she shook her head. “I can’t be certain he’d refuse them.”

“So he doesn’t know about your criminal history?” Brynjolf asked, and Ariene shrugged.

“I’m not sure what exactly he knows, but to be honest, it doesn’t matter. Regardless of whether I’d be safe from arrest there, I’m not too keen on spending the rest of my life carrying out the orders of yet another man who thinks he can use me for his own gain.”

She tilted her chin up and looked straight at Brynjolf.

“Like I said,” she said evenly. “One more thing to run from.”

Brynjolf read the challenge in her eyes, but he held her gaze.

“And that running took you here, of all places,” he said. “Why?”

Ariene raised an eyebrow.

“It’s not as though I planned it. I ended up in Ivarstead, and had no desire to go back around the mountains, so I headed east instead. I’d planned on spending a day or two in town here to scrape up enough money to hire a carriage north, but then–”

“Then I offered you a job,” Brynjolf finished. “At this point I’m surprised you said yes. It sounds like following orders isn’t high on your list of favorite activities.”

“Maybe not,” Ariene admitted. “But you didn’t give me an order, you gave me an offer. One that was my choice to accept. Besides,” she added with a half-smile. “You were right. My pockets were pretty light on coin. And in my experience, larceny is the quickest cure for that particular ailment.”

“Aye,” Brynjolf agreed with a chuckle. “You’re not wrong there, lass.”

There was a beat of silence, and Ariene shifted her weight so that she was no longer leaning against the hay bale.

“So…” she said carefully. “What happens now?”

“Now?” he repeated, and she nodded.

“That’s it. You gonna run me out of the Guild or hand me over to the Imperials now?”

Her voice was light, but she carried a tension in her body like a coiled spring, still ready to run or fight at a moment’s notice. Brynjolf watched her for a long moment, then he shook his head no, and she blinked in surprise.

“I said it before, lass. We don’t turn in our own for gold.”

“But if I lied about my background–”

“Look. The only thing that worried me was the question of your allegiances,” Brynjolf explained. “If what you’ve told me is true, and you joined the Guild because you honestly wanted to, no ulterior motives besides getting rich? Then that’s no longer a concern of mine.”

Ariene nodded slowly.

“My allegiance has always been to myself, first and foremost,” she said. “Never to the law, either in Cyrodiil or Skyrim. But the Guild’s done right by me, which is more than I can say about the Legion, or…anyone else, really. So I intend to keep doing right by the Guild, as long as it’ll still have me.”

Brynjolf inclined his head to her, letting an easy smile slide onto his face.

“And we’ll keep doing right by you, as long as you do the same for us,” he said.

Ariene nodded, then looked at him for a moment, her expression thoughtful.

“There’s more you want to know, isn’t there.”

It was not a question, but a statement; one they both knew was true. Brynjolf’s mind was turning over all the information she’d given him, throwing up dozens of questions in response.

Why had Ariene fled to Skyrim after deserting? What had she done that made the Imperials so determined to hunt her down? Hell, why had she, who bristled at authority and walked her own path wherever she went, joined the Legion in the first place? What was she– someone who could hold her own in a fight against two dozen men and take down a dragon– really running from?

Each question fought to jump forward to the tip of his tongue, but Brynjolf pushed them all down with another smile.

“Like I said, lass. This isn't about me. Unless there’s something else that would affect the Guild, there’s nothing more you need to tell me.”

“That,” said Ariene, giving him a pointed look, “was not a no.”

“Aye, it wasn’t,” Brynjolf agreed with a chuckle. “Sharp as ever, aren’t you lass? But I meant it. Your business is your own, and my curiosity is mine. You’re under no obligation to satisfy it.”

Ariene regarded him for a moment, then a smile– small and more than a little cautious but there nonetheless– spread across her face and the tension finally bled out of her posture.

“Well,” she said. “Maybe one of these days, I’ll tell you the rest of the story…if you don’t mind telling me a story or two about yourself in return?”

Brynjolf grinned.

“You know lass? I don’t think I’d mind that at all.”

--- --- ---

Previous: Ch.4 - Bedlam and Burglary || Next: Ch.6 - Unhindered Insights

Author's Note: Sorry this chapter took awhile! Things have been busy at work and I haven't had a lot of energy lately, BUT I'm back at it and more excited than ever about where this story is going! Hope you enjoyed a peek at our Dragonborn's backstory! Please reblog if you liked it, it'd mean a lot to me! <3

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