skyrimkinkmeme | Meme Announcements!

Meme Announcements!

ANNOUNCEMENTS: UPDATED 12/16/2017

Happy Holidays, fellow Kinkmemers! I have returned and have no reasonable excuse for my absence except LIFE. I will be working on updating the archives. If anyone sees anything amiss, please let me know.

I am also hoping to find another Mod and an Archivist.

The more dedicated people we have in this Meme the less chance of it dying. I admit that being the sole keeper of the Meme is not great for the fandom. If something were to happen to me, for good, this place would go the way of the Fallout Kink Meme. Let's not let that happen! If anyone would be interested in Modding/Archiving, please drop me a line. Thanks! <3

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“How do we fight them, then?”

“We don’t,” Freyja says. “Not if we want to live. I’ve cut my way out of some tight corners, but these are well-trained soldiers, not bandit riff-raff. We have to get in and out without being spotted. Killing a few sentries is one thing, but any kind of pitched battle will bring the whole garrison down on us.”

Eitri’s brow furrows. He darts a rather worried glance around the edge of the boulder, and Freyja can’t help but agree with the sentiment. She knows how she would take a keep with Indros – Illusion spells and slit throats, dirty and brutal and quick. She’d be less worried if it came to crossing blades; they’d still be terribly outnumbered, but there’s nothing like a mage at your side when fighting other mages.

This is different. If they get caught, they’re dead; a blacksmith, however determined, and a single sellsword – however experienced – are no match for a fortress full of expert and ruthless magic-users. Eitri is a quick learner, but a week of sporadic practice with a secondhand axe never made anyone a warrior. Nor is Freyja as comfortable working in the shadows as she would like, not for this kind of job. She’s fairly light on her feet, and good at picking locks, but she’s not a professional sneak. She has always been the type to charge in swinging.

“Hey,” she says, to herself as much as Eitri. “Tombs and keeps and what’s inside them haven’t killed me yet.”

“Aye,” he says, and his cold fingers steal up to squeeze her own.

Finally, once it is dark enough that they will not be silhouetted between the snow and the falling twilight, they pick a torturous path up the boulder-strewn slope. It’s covered in little cliffs and slick with ice. Once the shaky grip of Eitri’s weak left hand nearly fails him. Once Freyja curses after sending a loose pebble clattering down the rock face, and for a long time after they lie prone and breathless on the cold stone, afraid to give themselves away with further noise. When they finally reach a good vantage point they’re both sweating. They start to shiver as it dries, but there is little they can do; a fire here would stand out like a beacon. Eitri finds a sheltered space beneath an overhanging rock and they crawl inside, drawing up the hoods of their cloaks and crowding against each other for warmth.

As night deepens they huddle in their hollow on the mountainside, watching specks of orange torchlight make their steady rounds beneath. Freyja follows the movements with a critical eye. “Six guards on patrol,” she finally says. “And a few more at sentry posts. They’re standing four-hour watches, which means there’s around thirty men down there. Probably more, if they’ve got prisoners inside – they’d need a guard on those, too.”

“That’s a lot of Thalmor.” She feels his answer rumble through his chest, pressed up against her shoulderblade. The moisture in his breath ghosts over her ear and makes her shiver. Even sharing body heat, wrapped in cloaks and furs, Freyja is glad of her Nord blood. The storm has cleared, and the night sky is like concentrated ink. The air is stark and cold as a knife to the throat. Light winds are skating down from the peaks, sending new snow scuffing across older crusts of ice.

Eitri shifts behind her. “I still haven’t worked out why you’re doing this.”

“Doing what?” Freyja asks, sleepily. He’s warm, and she’s beginning to nod off against his chest, exhausted by the day’s travel.

“This.” He gestures down at the ominous glow of the torches. “You said it yourself – the Thalmor will be hunting you the rest of your life. And that’s if we make it out of there alive.”

I’ve apparently got an appointment with the World-Eater, she thinks. The rest of my life may not be very long. “Glad to hear you’ve got so much confidence in me,” Freyja says, aloud.

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

It does seem crazy, she supposes – taking on the Thalmor to aid a chance acquaintance. Freyja hasn’t fully examined her motives herself. She just knows she doesn’t want him to walk blindly to his death; perhaps she saved his life, but she feels as if she is the one that owes him something. She recalls his sad, steady gaze, as he asked her who would search for his cousin if he did not. Because you reminded me what courage is, she thinks. Her shrug ends in an involuntary yawn. “Look, the gods practically dropped you in my lap,” Freyja says. “I’m not going to leave the job half-done.”

He elbows her gently in the ribs. “The gods dropped me in your lap, did they?” he asks, shifting pointedly beneath her.

“Mmhm,” she says.

The sun casts wavering pink tendrils across the sea long before it climbs over the mountains. As it breaks across the shore below them it colors the crests of the waves like bloody foam, sends flame lancing from the pauldrons of the Thalmor sentries. The elves who arrive to relieve them from their watch exit the keep by a door near its western side, behind the heavily guarded gate to the inner courtyard. There is another, smaller door by a forge in the yard, but it doesn’t seem to be used. A lookout stands facing the sea just above it.

Their vantage point on the mountainside reveals that the keep is half in ruins, settled crookedly into its sandy foundation, topmost tower open to the snow. A wooden stockade fence covers a gap in the northern wall, by the smaller back entrance. That’s encouraging, but Freyja also fears there will be no secret tunnel, no hidden door. The drunken list of the fortress walls suggest it is built on shifting, waterlogged sand. Tunnels need bedrock. At the very least, soil. They’re going to have to sneak in the back door, under the watchful eyes of a half a dozen guards.

They try to sleep much of the day, all too aware that motion may draw enemy eyes. Another frigid night falls. Masser and Secunda hang low and huge on the horizon. Freyja looks at the moonlight on the fresh snow and shakes her head. If they move from their shelter tonight, the Thalmor sentries will spot them in minutes.

Another morning dawns. Another night falls. This night, the Divines are with them. As dusk begins to fall so does the snow, and by the time it’s fully dark it’s coming down in sticky wet clumps. “Let’s go,” Freyja says. The storm will play havoc with the guards’ visibility – and assuming they get out alive, Nords will make far better time in a snowstorm than any elves coming after them. Eitri swings his pack onto his back. Freyja draws her sword, sheathes it, draws it again – an old ritual, reassurance that it slides cleanly in the oiled leather. Satisfied, she returns it once more to its place, looking at Eitri. He gives her a grimly determined nod.

Kiss for luck? breathes a dark sly voice, so close in her ear she nearly starts. Freyja can almost feel teeth nipping her earlobe, slender bony fingers gripping her waist. It’s another pre-battle tradition, and it makes her want to curse. Not now. Not now. She glances at Eitri’s full lips, framed neatly by his dark auburn beard. In another hour they could both be dead.

It easier, in the clarity that always comes before a fight, to admit to herself that she wants to taste him again.

No, Freyja thinks, but it’s lacking the usual heat. She’s grown too fond of the man. Not now, she compromises. After we rescue his cousin. To seal our victory. “I’m going to try breaking in the back entrance,” she says, to distract herself. “By the fence at the gap in the wall. There’s fewer sentries on that side. If we move fast we can mostly stay out of sight.” Eitri nods. “Once we’re inside I’ll take the lead. We’ll probably have to kill a few guards, but I want you to hang back unless I get into trouble. This is all about speed and silence. I don’t want us getting in each other’s way.”

They pick their way down the mountainside and then swing in a wide arc around the keep, trusting the snowfall to conceal them from enemy eyes. On the slender spit of land just north of the fortress, they both pause. Freyja takes a deep breath, eyeing the dull orange glow of torches, the rowboat docked just offshore, the watchman squinting through the storm to the growling black ocean. As they crouch in the slush behind a lanky grove of fir trees, Eitri catches her hand. “Freyja,” he murmurs. “If we don’t—”

“Don’t tempt the gods, man,” she hisses, and returns to contemplating the lone sentry. Freyja is a passable archer, but she does not dare to take the shot in the dark and snow, with gusts of wind roiling in off the sea. She gestures towards the watchman, puts a finger to her lips. Eitri nods.

They’d have no hope, without the storm. The sentries atop the walls are huddled inside their cloaks, hoods drawn up like great fur blinders, too miserable to really patrol. Eitri boosts her over the wall and Freyja lifts the latch. They ghost to the door and flatten themselves against it as Freyja works at the lock; it seems to take a long time. Aside from the wind it is quiet – the eerie, muffled quiet that only a heavy snow can create.

Finally they slip inside. Freyja brushes snowflakes out of her eyebrows, gaze darting about the room. The shadows are very dark. A low doorway yawns ahead of them, above steep stairs leading still lower underground. Echoing back along the stone is the plop of water. The sound is strangely greasy, mealy-mouthed, as though dripping into pools soft and slick with slime. The place smells of decay.

She glances up in time to see Eitri swallow thickly.

Freyja puts her mouth directly against his ear. “Stay behind me,” she reminds him, so quietly it’s more vibration than sound. Then she draws her dagger and pads down the stairs, into the bowels of the keep.

For a time it’s quiet: the echo of water, the creak of her leather armor. Eitri’s soft breathing at her back. Then the rhythmic, gentle clink of armored boots on stone. Freyja peers around the wall, watches two guards pass in front of one of the L-shaped corners so favored in defensive fortifications. Notes the steady pattern of their patrol. Her hand tightens around her blade.

Freyja has known adventurers who seemed made of night and water, who could cut a man’s throat at table without spilling the wine he sipped. She’s never mastered that sort of elegant shadow dance, but she knows how to kill – and she knows how to do it quick and quiet. The first guard dies before he knows she’s there. The second hears the soft clatter of his armor against the floor and comes to investigate, but the torch in his hand leaves him blind to movement in the deeper shadows. He screams into her hand when she seizes him, struggling, but Freyja buries her blade in his throat and his voice dies away in wet gurgles. Her knees threaten to buckle under his dead weight; Eitri helps her lower him to the floor and then they both pause, listening hard. Nothing. One room cleared.

As they round the corner something crunches beneath her boot. Freyja looks down. There’s a knucklebone on the floor. Behind her Eitri takes a swift breath.

Cells line the walls, the inky darkness within the bars swallowing the torchlight. Eitri shoves past her, peering inside, calling softly. Ragged ghosts stir within. To Freyja’s right a Breton woman stares out at her, the whites of her eyes shining like crescent moons in the black cell, pupils huge in her wasted face. Freyja looks to Eitri, who’s reached the end of the hall. “He’s not here,” Eitri mutters. She can hear the strain in his voice.

Freyja does not want to take one step deeper inside this pit of Oblivion, but she adjusts her grip on the knife. She would feel safer with her sword clutched solidly in hand, but a long blade is not the tool for cutting throats. “We’ll be back for you,” she murmurs, to the half-starved Breton.

The next room is a small armory, lit by red coals burning low in a brazier. Just ahead lies a small side room. To the left a hallway leads deeper into the keep. Another guard sits at a corner table, munching on bread and cheese. As Freyja creeps toward her she swivels her head, eyes narrowing. Freyja claps a hand over her mouth.

The elf leaps to her feet, kicking over the chair; an armored fist slams back against Freyja’s ribs. Freyja’s dagger glances off the cheekguard of her helmet, slips beneath it, sinks into her neck. The dying flail of the guard’s arm sends her plate spinning off the table to clatter on the floor.

“Guard!” snarls an irritated voice from the side room. Strident, carrying tones. A tall robed figure appears around the corner. “I am working. Just what is the meaning of—”

Freyja tackles him: a clumsy lunge that carries them through the doorway and wrenches her shoulder hard when they crash to the stone floor. The mage wheezes, breathless, but when her dagger sweeps toward his ribs he seizes her wrist in a grip like iron. For a moment they grapple, and then his strong long fingers squeeze just right and the blade drops from her nerveless grasp.

A jerk of her knee sends it skittering out of his reach, but now she’s unarmed, and Freyja can feel the magic building just under his skin. When the hand clamped around her wrist flares red with fire it’s all she can do not to howl. Freyja twists viciously, slams a knee up into his groin. For half an instant he goes rigid. She rolls, pins him atop her with both legs and one arm, jerks his head back with the hand she’s clamped around his mouth. The wizard sinks his teeth into her palm. The stormy rush of destruction magic sounds all around her.

“Kill him,” she hisses. “Kyne’s breath, Eitri, kill him!”

Freyja flinches when the axe comes down, a wild stroke that bites deep into the elf’s neck and comes up through his jaw with a jerk, far too close to her own fingers. Her own face. For a moment she lies rigid, pressing her cheek against the floor. Then she staggers up, panting, guarding her burned wrist against her body. Gouts of the mage’s dark lifeblood stain her neck and shoulder. Eitri’s eye are wide. “Freyja—”

“It’s not mine,” she gasps. “Don’t drop your guard now, we don’t know who heard that.”

Eitri’s voice is low. “I think they’re used to noises from this room,” he says, and Freyja, for the first time, looks around.

The room stinks of piss and blood and moldering straw - and death. Beneath the low stone ceiling it's almost smothering. A single torch throws long, sputtering shadows across a torture rack, a noose hanging from the ceiling, a shelf of dusty bottles filled with dark, glutinous liquid. Eitri pulls the torch out of its bracket, and as he turns the weak light sweeps across a corpse rotting in its shackles, scraps of flesh and cloth hanging from its bones. Freyja turns away in disgust. Like most Nords - most anyone, really - she loathes the Thalmor on principal, but she's never felt it so viscerally until now. For a moment she shuts her eyes, jaw clenched with impotent rage.

A weak moan slithers out of the darkness.

In an instant Freyja is standing over the justiciar, sword at the ready. It's Eitri who turns to the corner and raises the torch, and Eitri who starts forward with a cry, dropping to his knees beside the man shackled helplessly to the wall. "Freyja! The key," he says, voice tight with urgency.

The prisoner turns his face to the wall, eyes squeezed shut against the torchlight. "What are you doing here?" he spits. Surprisingly hostile. There’s a bloody knife on the table just beside him.

"Rescuing you," says Eitri, as Freyja rifles the justiciar's pockets. "What's your name?"

The man's voice grates like a rusted hinge. "If this is a trick--"

Freyja fishes out the key and seizes the dead elf's robes, wrenching the body into view. "It's not a trick." The prisoner stares for a moment, blinking suspiciously. He reminds her of someone, though she can't think who. Freyja hands off the key and turns to the door, keeping watch as Eitri sets to work on the manacles.

"What's your name?" he repeats.

There's a long pause. "Thorald."

Freyja wheels. "Thorald Grey-Mane?"

"Yes - I - what in Oblivion-" he looks bewildered to the point of tears, unraveling beneath the shock of his unexpected rescue. Then he seems to master himself. "Do I know you?"

"I used to play with your little sister," Freyja breathes, faintly sick. She remembers Thorald as a boy not quite come of age, with a shock of white-blond hair and bulky shoulders that gave the lie to his youthful leanness. When she was twelve she even went through a stage when she was rather tongue-tied around him, though she doubts he remembers her name - he was a good five years older. Now he's barely recognizable. His braids are clumped and dark with grease and blood, his body stringy like a big man who's lost muscle weight too fast. One side of his face is a mass of half-healed bruising, splotched yellow and brown and blue.

He squints at her through the eye that isn't swollen shut. "With Olfina? Wait – no, Torstein and Sonje's little girl, what was your - Freyja?"

She nods.

"I thought - did my family send you?"

"I didn't even know you were missing. We're looking for someone else."

The man crumples back against the wall when Eitri finally releases the shackles, cradling his arms against his chest and hissing as the feeling returns to his fingers. "Who?" he grits.

"My cousin," says Eitri.

"There's a block of cells just outside," Thorald says. "Two - three guards, maybe--"

Freyja shakes her head. "That's where we came in."

Eitri puts a supportive arm behind Thorald's shoulders, clearly torn between helping and pressing for information. "Where else would they keep him?" he pleads.

Thorald shakes his head. "If he's not in those cells, he isn't here - prisoners are all in this wing."

"But how can you be sure? If they've kept you here the whole time--"

"Because there's no screaming from the other wing," Thorald says, harshly.

Eitri swallows. "Please--"

Something in his voice makes the other man open his eyes. Thorald squints intently at him. "Your cousin?” he says. “What did you say his name was?"

"Brokkr."

Thorald bites his lip. "Red hair?"

"Aye.” There’s terrible hope on Eitri’s face. “Real red, darker than mine. Have you seen him? Is he here?"

Thorald's face closes. He nods stiffly, like an old man whose neckbones ache. "He was," he says, and his voice lingers on the second word.

Eitri leaps up, pacing, fevered. "Where is he?"

Thorald exchanges a pained glance with Freyja. "He's gone," Thorald says. "I'm sorry."

Eitri doesn't seem to register the implication. "Where? Do you know where they took him?"

"Eitri--" Freyja starts. Thorald looks helplessly at her, and then his eyes flick to the skeleton still hanging in its shackles.

Eitri follows his gaze. For a moment he only stares, utterly motionless, and then he sways on his feet.

Freyja catches him under the arm, certain he's going to fall, but he wrenches brutally out of her grip. "No," he says, whirling on Thorald. "He only went missing two months ago, he can't - how long have you been here?"

"Not sure. It was Sun’s Height when they took me out of Imperial custody."

"And you're still alive," Eitri says. "That isn't--"

"He was wounded when they brought him in," Thorald says, looking like every word pains him. "I truly am sorry, but if you don't want to go the same way--"

"He's right," Freyja says. "Eitri--"

Eitri is on his knees beside the body, heedless of the stench, poking at what is left of its clothing. He must recognize something, because suddenly his face cracks like new ice. He doesn’t make a sound. He only buckles inward.

“I’m sorry,” Thorald says again, wretchedly.

“We have to go,” says Freyja.

Eitri makes a shaky, desperate little gesture, but she can read it well enough. I can’t just leave him here.

There’s a Talos amulet dangling amongst the bones, and Freyja steps closer, trying to ignore the cloying taste of death in her nose and throat. Picks the amulet free. It’s made of wood, hand-carved, small and rough and vulnerable in her hand. Scooping up Eitri’s wrist, she presses it into his palm. “Eitri,” she murmurs, and folds his fingers around it. Clasps them in her own. “Let’s go.”

He staggers mechanically to his feet, follows them from the room. As they hurry back towards the dungeon Thorald arms himself with one of the elven swords hung on a weapons rack, strips the dead guard of her fur cloak. “Armor?” Freyja prompts, but the man glances down at his wasted body and snorts a laugh.

In the prison Freyja locates a lever that unlocks the cells. “Please,” groans a bearded Nord from one of the cages. “I have to get out of here.”

“That’s the plan,” Freyja says. When the doors swing open the Breton woman comes spilling out, along with an Argonian. But their comrade makes no move to rise. Freyja beckons urgently. “Hurry – we’ve got to move!” He doesn’t answer. Freyja ducks into his cell, wondering if he is injured. “What’s your name?”

The man flinches back, staring vacantly at the wall. He hugs his knees to his chest. His voice is an airless whistle. “I have to get out of here,” he whispers.

Freyja tastes bile. She watches his colorless gaze slide over the bars of his cell, right past the opened door. Then she reaches for the dagger at her belt.

A hand catches her wrist. “You can‘t!”

Freyja looks up. Eitri’s grip is painful, his face deathly white. Freyja’s throat tightens in sympathy, but she shakes her head. “You‘d rather I leave him to the mercy of these bastards?”

He stares at her. “We have to move, Eitri,” she says. “He doesn’t even know his own name - we can‘t carry him to the other side of Skyrim. It’s kinder this way.”

“You would kill a man because he’s inconvenient?” Eitri’s voice is pebbles rumbling over granite; his eyes flash with real anger, a fierceness Freyja has never seen from him. The accusation rouses her own temper.

“I would do what has to be done,” she snaps. “Wait by the door if you can’t stomach it.”

“What if it was his leg that was broken, and not his mind?”

“It’s not the same thing!”

“She’s right,” says Thorald. “It’s a matter of time before they change the guards – we’ve got to get out of here now.” Eitri shakes his head. “It’s one life or four,” Thorald rasps. “We can’t save him. If you want to avenge your kin, we’ve got to live out the night first.”

That makes Eitri snarl and stalk for the door, fists clenched at his sides. “Are you headed for Whiterun?” Freyja asks Thorald.

“Aye.”

“Tell those other two to grab warm cloaks and weapons and get ready to head for the shore. There’s a rowboat nearby, and the border of High Rock’s not far. Most Argonians I’ve known were good with boats. If they row through the night they should make it across the border by dawn, and it’ll be a while before the Thalmor can give chase without a second set of oars. We’ll head east and hope the snow throws them off the trail.”

Thorald nods. Glances down at the man in the cell. “Talos guide you,” he mutters, and turns quickly away.

And then Freyja is alone with a dagger in her hand.

Swallowing, she kneels behind the prisoner. The stone is hard and damp and filthy against her knees. When she puts a hand on his shoulder the man huddles into himself, a tiny sound breaking in his throat, and for a moment Freyja has to look away. “Easy,” she says, pressing up against his back. “It’s all right.” With her thumb she kneads at the taut, hunched muscle of his shoulder, murmuring pointless soothing sounds. A voice in her mind is howling the need for urgency, but she cannot bring herself to drag his head up from where he has buried it in his arms.

Eventually he does lift his neck, although he does not relax; instead he fixes his gaze on the opposite wall, hugging his knees to his chest, seeming to will himself elsewhere. Freyja moves her hand to his matted hair, holding him steady. Rests the blade against his throat. It’s the dagger she uses to dress game, and she keeps it lethally sharp.

"We'll meet in Sovngarde, brother," she says, like a prayer. Gods only know if it's true. Freyja isn't certain that a mercy kill in a reeking dungeon counts as a heroic death, but in that moment she thinks it ought to.

She takes a breath, sets her jaw. Hot blood sprays across her fingers.

Glad to see another update!! This is such a great story. I haven't posted here on your fill before so I wanted to let you know I've been really enjoying it thus far! I like Audric, he's not your typical DB, and I can sympathize with his actions. I also like all the thought you've put into building up the story thus far and creating an interesting plot. Can't wait to read more...! (And I squee'd when Ulfric found Audric in his moment of weakness. Looking forward to seeing further interactions between those two! I also wonder what will happen with Brynjolf and Audric as well...!)

Reljir smiled slightly. “What can you tell me about the companions?.”

Reljir had a new spring to his step when he emerged from the Kutta house. Armen had proved true to his word providing amenities such as food, rest, and hot water for bathing. He had even sent Saffir to purchase clothing. Reljir had gladly parted with more coins to cover his expenses. He also promised Armen he would retrieve his family sword soon. The men had parted on amicable terms, Reljir wanting to visit Jorrvaskar before it got to late.

He noticed the looks he was getting from the townspeople and smiled slightly to himself. Armens women had good taste in clothing with a flare for the dramatic. Dressed completely in black, only his sword and carefully groomed reddish beard provided relief against his outfit. He knew the look suited him. In his opinion it wasn’t vanity that he had spent so much time making sure every detail was perfect. He wanted to impress Aela and was willing to do what he must. It didn’t take him long to find the building shaped like an overturned ship.

Reljir squared his shoulders before he pushed open the warped doors of Jarvaskar and entered. The mead hall was impressive. Mostly aged wood, a large fire pit surrounded by tables dominated the center of the room. Off to the side a fist fight was going on between a thin dunmer male and a stocky nord female. Several people stood around offering advice and making bets.

Ria the Imperial from earlier was in a corner with a male nord who had to be Farkas’s twin Vilkas. She looked like she had been crying and was obviously receiving a tongue-lashing from the him. Reljir decided to stay out of it. The two were mated. It was none of his business. Farkas was leaning against the back wall tankard in hand watching the fight.

Reljir spotted Aela sitting in a chair with an annoyed look on her face. He relaxed crossing his arms waiting for her to notice him. He felt eyes boring into his back and turned slightly to see a balding nord watching him watch Aela. He instinctively knew he was facing the alpha of this group. The werebear were solitary creatures. There were no true alphas among the Shadiing. However, fighting over territory between dominate males was common.
The nord was staking his claim on Aela; it was written all over him. Briefly Reljir wondered if she was mated and he had misread the signs. But no he was positive she was not marked. He felt his bear spirit stirring unable to resist answering the unspoken threat issued by the nord. He was glad he was wearing his ring of Hircine. Now was not the time to fight the bear spirit aided by that other dominant spirit for control. By stepping foot into Jorrvaskar to woo Aela, he had unwittingly issued a challenge.

The alpha was not backing down. He moved deliberately placing himself between Reljir and Aela who seemed yet unaware of the situation. The male lycanthropes noticed though. And yes clearly he was dealing with werewolves! Their armor told its own story.

He was surprised they hadn’t honed in on his nature. He would smell their response if they had. Although they all shared Hircines gifts, apparently the Shadiing gifts being hereditary gave him a slight edge.

Vilkas had turned to watch the standoff. He appeared alert and cautious. Farkas had straightened up and was watching Reljir warily, no help there. This was his alpha. Reljir wondered wildly if the three of them were about to jump him. Meanwhile, his bear sprit was stirring aggressively despite his ring of Hircine. Things had rapidly spun out of control!

EEEEE!!!! THIS UPDATED!

And it's still marvellous and beautiful and raw. Poor Eitri, getting all that way and his cousin's dead. I wonder what he'll do now - that was mostly what was keeping him going. And I love Freyja in this too - so pragmatic and at the same time, still so very human.

Ooo, I'm really liking how this is developing!

The Court Wizard narrowed his eyes at the scholar. “I’m not trusting my personal possessions to the companions.”

The scholar raised an eyebrow at him, “Nothing will happen to your books, they’re probably safer in the Halls of Jorrvaskr than here in all honesty.” With the Civil war going and Whiterun being in the middle of it all, Ariella was right.

“I’m still not lending you anything. You’re not the Harbinger.” Farengar had not moved since Ariella entered the room. He was leaning over a map, staring at her.

“If I really have to I’ll get a letter from the Harbinger himself and show it to the Jarl. I don’t think the Jarl will be happy if I have to disturb him with such a trivial matter.” Farengar considered her words and finally pushed away from the map he had been studying.

While he fussed with the shelves Ariella walked over to the desk and looked at the map he had been studying. It was a map of Skyrim that had a few markings on it. While the wizard busied himself with looking for the book Ariella looked at the marks carefully, feeling an odd sense of déjà vu.

“Ah, here it is.” Farengar announced. He walked over to the desk and placed the book onto the table, it was an old worn book but that wasn’t what had Ariella’s attention.

“What are the markings on this map?” The crosses were made with red ink and had some dates scrawled next to each. There were a few lines through some of the dates and new ones had been put under them. There also seemed to be descriptive features written around them.

“Ah, yes. These are where there have been reports of Dragon Sightings.” The wizard seemed much happier talking about his work. He went to turn the map around so she could see it the right way up but she placed a hand on it to stop him.

“These dates and descriptions?” She looked up at him.

“The approximate dates that the Dragons were sighted and what they looked like. The reports are always conflicting though. Sometimes people claim the dragon is made of bone or as black as the night or red or brown or green, sometimes with horns, sometimes without. There’s no consistency, I wish I could just see one with my own eyes.”

Ariella was positive she knew where she had seen similar markings before.

“Do you sell maps?” She asked after a moment of silence.

“Of course.”

“I’ll need two.” The wizard went to fetch her the maps and she went to the other side of the desk. She read the dates and descriptions.

“Here you go.” Farengar could see the woman’s mind working. He knew she was a scholar and clearly she was a good one. He was also fairly certain that she was the Dragonborn. There had been whispers about the Dragonborn being a member of the companions, and while the gossip was a bit confused on who it was she honestly made the most sense; at least to Farengar it made sense.

“Do you have a quill and ink I could use?” Farengar wouldn’t let just anyone copy his work. He knew she would put the information to good use, sometimes you had to swallow your pride.

He gave her black and red ink. She worked quickly, quietly and neatly. Her handwriting was neater than his, which was not something the wizard encountered often.

As Ariella wrote out the dates she had a feeling they should mean something to her, like they were important.

“I need a copy of the lunar charts and copies of the reports of dragon sightings.” Farengar did not like to be ordered around and would have protested but her tone didn’t really give him the space to. He pulled out the many letters he had received and put them on the table. He gave her paper and she wordlessly copied them out. She wrote quickly and didn’t even seem phased by the scrawl some people called handwriting.

“Thank you for this. I’m sure you understand how important this is.”

“I think I have to expect that the Dragonborn with be more of a Dragon expert than I’ll ever be.” She blushed a bit and smiled before thanking him one last time and leaving for Jorrvaskr. Her arms were full of scrolls of paper and she had the book Kodlak had asked for. She certainly had a lot to think about now.

Thank you so much for the lovely comments! I'm especially glad you like Freyja. In characterizing her I've tried to keep in mind that she is the type of person who is comfortable making her living by hunting down bandits and stabbing them in the face for money. A streak of ruthless pragmatism would necessary as a sellsword, I think.

Passerby anon here, wringing hands and endlessly stalking this thread. Every update wrings a squeal from me. This fill is sublime, and I'm along for the ride no matter how long it takes. I just can't get Vilkas' poor broken hands off my mind though.

Summary: The Nightingales avenge their Guild - but the aftermath leaves them all wondering where to go from here. Fortunately for them then that fate drops them right into the laps of someone needing assistance from thieves.

A/N: This one was interesting to write, I've never really written Blindsighted into a fic before, and doing so really brought home how Nocturnal's influence works for thieves. It's your skills that get you through Irkngthand and kill Mercer, but you're sealed in, nearly drown, and it's only luck the roof caves in and you're able to get out. Skills get the job done and luck saves your life. Never really thought about it that way before...

Irkngthand was as horrible as Sapphire had thought it might be, in fact it was worse. She'd always avoided Dwemer ruins on principle – why fight all those automatons and Falmer when there were easier pickings in Skyrim's towns and cities? But she had no choice in the matter this time.

So there they'd been, making their way through a ruined city, fighting off automatons and Falmer, avoiding traps and seething as Mercer fled ahead of them. He'd left a shadowmark and bottle of Black-Briar reserve for them near the entrance, and Karliah even spotted him below them in the lower chamber.

“We're not too late,” she'd gasped, relieved. Brynjolf had cracked his knuckles, growling.

“We've not caught him yet,” he'd muttered. “If he gets those Eyes ahead of us...”

“We can't let him get away,” Karliah had said, leading the way. “It's too important.”

So on they'd battled, Karliah obsessing over the Key, Brynjolf over the Eyes and Sapphire... Sapphire just wanted revenge. He'd let her entire Guild get murdered to cover his tracks. This one was personal – although the coin from the Eyes would be nice too.

After slogging through a particularly densely infested settlement of Falmer, they finally arrived at a door, behind which could be heard the sound of tools on metal.

“He's still here,” Karliah whispered.

“And so are the Eyes,” Sapphire said, nudging the door open and creeping in. That was right, concentrate on the coin, on the gemstones, thinking of the shiny gleam of a sapphire took her mind off all the blood in the Cistern after the Thalmor had finished with it.

Despite everyone moving silently, somehow Mercer heard them. Grinning from where he was dangling from the crown of the biggest statue Sapphire had ever seen, prising the left eye out of it, Mercer laughed at where the three of them were crouching.

“When will you learn, Karliah, you can't get the drop on me!” Mercer sneered.

“Mercer!” Karliah shouted. “Give us the Key, Mercer. It's over.”

“I don't think so, Karliah!” Mercer laughed. “Here, time for you and Brynjolf to get reacquainted.”

A blast of some strange magic, and Sapphire threw up her hand instinctively, some power coming from her and she'd have said it was Nocturnal's had she not done the same thing when the Thalmor came, throwing up some sort of aura that had absorbed their magic and left her virtually unharmed. That same aura was buzzing around her now and Mercer's stolen gifts breezed right past her... but Brynjolf wasn't so lucky. He drew Chillrend and turned on Karliah.

“Brynjolf, what-!” Karliah cried, drawing her dagger.

“I can't stop, lass, I'm sorry!” Brynjolf cried, doing his best to not swing Chillrend at her but not entirely succeeding. Sapphire tried to grab Brynjolf's arm but he was too strong and just shrugged her off. Sapphire had no choice but to leave them both. Maybe if she killed Mercer, his spell would die with him.

“So, little Sapphire, you're still alive,” Mercer growled, approaching with sword drawn. “Crawled to safety over the bodies of all those Thalmor like you did before, hmm?”

“I crawled nowhere, Mercer,” Sapphire snapped, Nightingale Blade standing ready to avenge its former owner. “I stood and fought and I won. And I'll do the same today.”

“Spoken like a true Nord. If only they let thieves into Sovngarde,” Mercer sneered, his own Dwemer blade at the ready.

Sapphire had been raised on tales of Sovngarde, but farmers weren't warriors and both her parents had known Sovngarde wasn't for them. Wasn't for her either – not now anyway. Evergloam was her destination and Sapphire found she preferred it that way.

“I'd think less on my afterlife and more on your own if I were you, Mercer!” Sapphire snapped, advancing with sword in one hand, dagger in the other. “Nocturnal demands your blood!”

“Nocturnal doesn't care about me or you, or anything to do with the Guild!” Mercer snapped. “The Nightingales are over, Sapphire, those days are gone. Accept the truth, Sapphire, there's no honour to what we do. We're thieves!”

“We are thieves,” Sapphire breathed, all her old training coming back to her. “And you are a murderer. But I – I am Death Incarnate!” She swung her blade, Mercer only just managing to block. He staggered back, cursed and raised his hand, some sort of spell at the ready. Sapphire readied herself to power through, but the spell wasn't cast on her, it was cast on the pipes. Dwemer metal cracked, the whole room shook and then water from Lake Yorgrim started pouring in.

“Mercer, you'll kill us all!” Karliah cried, horrified, but Sapphire didn't care. All she cared about was vengeance, and she chased after Mercer, who was dodging and weaving like any Dark Brother. This was going to be a tough fight, but it was only when he turned invisible she realised just how formidable he actually was. Water was pouring into the cave, and Sapphire had to find him, had to.

Of course, all the water also made it that bit easier. All she had to do was follow the drips and the ripples.

Dwemer blade met Nightingale craftsmanship and while his Guild armour was tough, so was Nightingale gear. Mercer was strong, but she was a good two decades younger and while he was experienced, so was she. In the end, youth and speed won out as she broke his guard and shoved the Nightingale Blade into his gut, impaling her former Guildmaster. He looked up, shocked to see someone finally best him but also a little impressed.

“Glover was right,” he gasped, spitting blood. “You are special.” He closed his eyes in pain as Sapphire kicked him in the stomach and wrenched her blade out, irrationally furious that he even dared to bring her old mentor Glover Mallory into this.

“Get your excuses ready, Mercer,” Sapphire snarled. “Nocturnal's waiting for them.” Sapphire sank the blade expertly between his ribs and Mercer breathed his last.

“Shadows take me...” he gasped, and then he was gone. Sapphire, never the sentimental type, cleaned her sword off on his armour before going through his pockets. With Mercer dead, Brynjolf was free and he and Karliah were making their way over.

“Where's the Key,” Karliah gasped and Sapphire dug it out – a black and green monstrosity but still recognisably a key for all that. Alongside it were about 500 septims in coin, lots of jewels and best of all, the twin Eyes of the Falmer. The legends hadn't lied, they were the size of new babies and only just fit in Sapphire and Brynjolf's packs.

“Let's get out of here,” Brynjolf said tersely. Easier said than done. The water was already half filling the room, and the doors proved blocked.

“What do we do,” Sapphire whispered, fighting a rising wave of panic. Not like this, she didn't want to drown, even if she was a thief rather than a true Nord warrior, she'd rather die fighting.

“Up the stairs, let's get to the higher ground,” Karliah said, leading the way. Sapphire and Brynjolf followed, but it was no use. There was no way out and the water was rising fast. Once behind the Snow Elf's head, there was nowhere left to run.

“We're going to die,” Brynjolf whispered, voice oddly flat for someone normally so optimistic. “After all that, we're going to die here.”

“But we avenged the Guild,” Sapphire said, feeling her heart break at the thought of it ending like this. “We got the treasure! We can't just die!”

“Sometimes things just don't go our way,” Brynjolf said sadly, sitting down as the water started to creep over the platform edge. “That's how life goes.” He'd pulled his hood off and Sapphire was shocked to see tears in his eyes. “I'm sorry, Sapphire, I should never have dragged you into this. You had your whole life ahead of you, and a fine career.”

Sapphire shook her head. It felt wrong to see Brynjolf look so dispirited. She knelt beside him in the rising water.

“If it ends here, at least it's with a friend,” Sapphire said quietly. That did get a smile off him. Then the waves reached their chins, and they were swimming. Except for Karliah, standing and staring at the roof as the waves surrounded her face.

“Karliah!” Sapphire cried. The Dunmer barely moved.

“Nocturnal will provide,” Karliah said simply, and then the waves swallowed her under. Sapphire took a deep breath, took Brynjolf's hand and then they were both under water too, clinging on to each other in the murk... and with the last of the light gone, Nocturnal answered. Another explosion rocked the room and the roof caved in, rocks missing all three by inches – and light glimmering in from the newly revealed hole.

Sapphire wasn't going to argue. Striking out for it, she swam upwards, Karliah already ahead of her, Brynjolf close behind, and while her lungs were burning, she had enough strength to drag herself onwards. Finally her head broke water and Sapphire gasped as air flooded back into her lungs, Karliah there to offer her a hand and pull her onto solid land, holding her upright while Brynjolf joined them, all three dripping wet but alive, gloriously alive.

“We did it,” Sapphire gasped. “We got the Eyes!”

“And the Key!” Karliah laughed.

“And justice,” Brynjolf said quietly, arms around them both, and not all the water on his face was from the lake. Sapphire couldn't blame him for getting emotional. Now the excitement of catching Mercer was done, they all had to face the reality of no more Guild. Of having to start all over again.

“Now what?” Sapphire eventually had to ask. “Bryn, I'm with you, whatever you want to do.”

“Don't say that, lass, you don't know where I'm going,” Brynjolf laughed. “But all the same, we do need a plan. Need to fence these Eyes for one thing.”

“We need to give Nocturnal her Key back,” Karliah said firmly. “But I agree, we should sort out the spoils first. Brynjolf, is Niranye still in Windhelm? Think she could help?”

“She hasn't fenced for us in a long time and I doubt she's got the coin... but it's worth asking her,” Brynjolf said thoughtfully. “She might be able to put us in touch with a buyer – if not, Delvin's got contacts all over. We can ask him once he's feeling better.”

“And after?” Sapphire asked. “Where do we even start with rebuilding the Guild?”

“We don't,” said Brynjolf. Sapphire looked up, shocked as she realised perhaps he'd intended this all along.

“But... Brynjolf, the Guild's your life!” Sapphire cried. “You can't just walk away! Where will you go?”

Brynjolf smiled a little at that. “You know, Sapphire, there's more to life than coin alone. I know, the last thing you'd ever thought I'd say, but it's true. Those Thalmor bastards killed my Guild – well, turns out we're not the only ones they've fucked off. I plan to take the fight to the fetchers and make some coin along the way – and maybe in a few years we can really start sorting the Guild out again. In the mean time, I'm not keeping my share of all this. I'm handing it over to someone who really needs the coin. I think it's about time I told you both who my client for the Embassy job was...”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

“The Blades. You've signed up with the Blades,” Karliah said, staring in disbelief at him as all three sat by the side of the lake. “Dragonslayers??”

“I know, it's hard to believe, eh?” Brynjolf grinned, still looking a little embarrassed but not actually at all guilty over this. “But it's true. Delphine turns up after all these years, offers me a dangerous job knocking over the Thalmor Embassy, and I end up fighting dragons and Forsworn and taking over this old Blades temple in the Reach. It's definitely been an experience.”

“Delphine,” Sapphire whispered. “I never met her, she'd left years before I joined the Guild, but Glover and Delvin told me about her. She was one of the best out there, heisting in half the Guild's income at one point. Glover reckoned he'd never seen anything like it, she had one of the finest strategic minds he'd ever come across and seemed to have contacts all over the place. Then she just left one day. They say she never even said goodbye.”

“She never did,” Brynjolf said quietly. “She just disappeared. I got a note about six months later telling me she was sorry but that she was all right and not to come looking for her. She wasn't close to a lot of people, but she and I went out on jobs together all the time. I thought we were friends, was furious with her when she left... but I get why now. She thought the Thalmor had found her and didn't want them to hurt us as well.”

“She gave us ten years then,” Sapphire said, closing her eyes and remembering all the bodies and blood. Brynjolf was right, she couldn't just go back to the Cistern as if nothing had happened. “So what now? Guess you're going back to Delphine. Why does she need a thief anyway?”

“Covert ops and fundraising,” Brynjolf said, patting the Eye in his rucksack. “Blades look after the Dragonborn, keep the world safe for humanity, they need spies keeping an eye out for threats. That's where Delphine got her training, and she can always use talented sneaky types. I'm heading back there after this. She'll be pleased about the cash although less so about the Guild. Doubt she'll miss Mercer though, she never did get on with him. Could never be bothered with courting his approval or pretending she wouldn't have been as good a Guildmaster as Mercer.”

“I like her already,” Karliah laughed, looking thoughtful. “Listen, I'm not sure about joining up. Sounds a bit too straight and narrow for my liking. I'm a rogue, not a hero. But I'm willing to help out on the odd job if you need an extra pair of hands. I'll be at Nightingale Hall, working as an independent contractor. When you need me, come find me.”

“I will,” Brynjolf promised, clasping her hand. “What about you, Sapphire?”

A tricky one. On the one hand, she could help Karliah out – but she didn't know the Dunmer that well and wasn't sure how well they'd work out. Then there was going it alone... but Sapphire didn't really quite have the experience for that yet. There was always joining the Mallories on Solstheim – but thieving opportunities were going to be thin on the ground over there. Then there was the Blades...

“Can I come with you?” Sapphire asked hesitantly. “I don't know about sticking around forever, but I can help out for a bit until we're ready to start sorting the Guild out properly.”

A broad grin split Brynjolf's face and he held out a hand to her, smiling as he pulled her in for a hug.

“That's what I hoped you'd say, lass. Welcome aboard.”

Sapphire submitted to the hug – Brynjolf might be a bit of a ladies' man, but he was also in possession of a certain code and he was one of the few people she felt comfortable enough to let touch her, him and Glover Mallory, someone else who'd never been anything other than a perfect gentleman around her.

“So how far is this place then? This Blades Temple?”

“A bloody long way,” Brynjolf admitted. “But we don't have to set out right now. The Nightgate Inn's not far from here, is it, Karliah?”

“Just the other side of the lake if I remember rightly,” Karliah said thoughtfully. “Come on, let's go and crash out there and have a drink together. We've all earned it, I'd say.”

All three helped each other to their feet, picking their way round to the distant lights of the Nightgate Inn glimmering in the distance, three Nightingales looking for home. They didn't have one yet... but in time, the Guild would rise again. Of that, Sapphire was certain.

The Nightgate Inn was a small traveller's inn, miles from any towns or villages, not given to having large numbers of guests. So it was with some surprise that the three thieves received the news that the inn was busy that night. Of the three available rooms, two single and one double, only the two singles remained, the double having been rented by two Nord mercenaries. Twins from the look of it – definitely brothers, and there was something about that armour. Brynjolf had seen its like before.

While Sapphire was berating the innkeeper and grudgingly accepting one single bed for Brynjolf, and a bedroll in the other room that Karliah and she would share, in return for a round of free drinks for the three of them, Brynjolf made his way over to where the brothers were sitting at a table, heads down while they had dinner.

“Well now,” Brynjolf murmured, taking a seat next to the smaller of the two men. “Not often a man runs into two Companions of Jorrvaskr on the road. Got any stories of heroic deeds for me, lads?”

“Do I look like a bard to you?” the shorter one snapped, glaring at him. “My brother and I are having a quiet drink and dinner. We're not here to entertain the rest of Skyrim.”

“Ah, now that's a shame,” Brynjolf said calmly, recalling Aela's tales of Jorrvaskr and guessing who these two were. “Especially since we've got a friend in common and all. Aela sends her regards, and shouldn't you two be checking in at Jorrvaskr soon? You've left that old man Kodlak running things all on his own. Very irresponsible of you, Vilkas.”

Vilkas' head whipped round, lips curling backwards in a snarl as he glared at Brynjolf, who realised just a little too late what the wolf armour probably symbolised.

“Don't lecture me on responsibility, thief,” Vilkas growled, and across the table his brother was cracking his knuckles. This might not have been one of Brynjolf's better ideas.

“Now that is a harsh word to call a man you've only just met,” Brynjolf protested, raising his hands to show they definitely weren't in Vilkas's pockets or anything.

“Oh I know you,” Vilkas spat. “You're that market trader from Riften, the one with the questionable potions for sale. An honest city would have run you out of it years ago.”

Very probably, and it was a bitter irony that it was revenge rather than justice that had achieved that objective. All the same, Brynjolf could tell that of all of them around this table, he was the least desperate of the three.

“Well, as you can see, I'm not there now, so perhaps my luck ran out at last. But clearly I'm not the only one. You two lads have not had a good time of it lately, have you now?”

Vilkas said nothing, just glaring at him, but Farkas looked amazed. Really, someone needed to give the lad a few lessons in being a bit less obvious, he knew Companions had never been terribly good at subtlety but this one seemed a bit simple even for them.

“How did you know that?” Farkas asked, awed even as Vilkas had his head in his hands.

“Three empty flagons on the table already but you're not singing and carousing, either of you. Good arms and armour but a little worn of late, almost as if you've not got the coin or time to visit a smith. Your boots look like you've been on the road for weeks, but we're not far from Jorrvaskr, a day if that. And I can sense the desperation a mile off. Whatever your business is, it's not gone well. Let me guess, you swore some binding oath that you'd do something and not go home until it was done, and it's proving harder than you thought.”

“That's amazing,” Farkas whispered, impressed. Vilkas just grunted.

“That's something any con artist can manage, Farkas. He's just a thief, brother. Even if he does claim to know Aela. Hah, you probably just tried to sell her something once.”

Not true, Brynjolf had seen Aela around Riften before, taken one look at the way she held herself and decided not to bother. Aela wasn't in possession of enough coin to be worth the risk of antagonising someone that smart and formidable. There were easier marks. As it was, Brynjolf had got to know her quite well and come to actually like and respect her. Even stranger, it was mutual – they had similar combat styles and she'd been impressed by his skills. Pity her Shield-Brothers weren't so reasonable. Well, Vilkas wasn't anyway. But Farkas now... Farkas was looking hopeful.

“Are you really a thief?” Farkas whispered, glancing nervously around the inn. Definitely a simple one.

“Wouldn't tell you if I was, lad,” Brynjolf murmured. “Don't tell me you want to change jobs.”

“Farkas!” Vilkas snapped. “We do not look up to criminals.”

“I wasn't...” Farkas protested, before glaring at his brother. “Look, if he's a thief, he might be able to help! We never got anywhere, but a sneaky type might.”

“Get where?” Brynjolf asked, his curiosity piqued. He didn't know what the brothers would have in the way of coin, but a favour owed in Jorrvaskr might come in useful.

“Farkas!” Vilkas hissed, but he was gritting his teeth, clearly seeing something in his brother's argument, his hands going to something clipped to his waist – Shor's bones, was that Azura's Star?? Looked a bit worse for wear, but it definitely looked like the descriptions Brynjolf had read.

“You want to tell me what you lads are mixed up in?” Brynjolf asked, just as Karliah arrived with drinks in hand.

“Making some friends, Brynjolf?” she asked, before her eyes raked over the Star on Vilkas' belt, Dunmer eyes seeing what Brynjolf initially hadn't noticed. “By N- by the Reclamations, is that Azura's Star??”

“It is not for sale!” Vilkas hissed, grabbing it and putting it on the table out of either thief's reach.

“In that condition, I'm not sure I'd want to buy it,” Karliah said, looking vaguely appalled at the state the Star had got into as she took a seat on the bench next to Farkas. “What did you do to it?”

“Nothing!” Vilkas snapped. “It was like that when we found it. We're on our way to Azura's shrine in Winterhold to take it back!”

“I'm sure Azura will be ecstatic to see what's happened to it,” Karliah said, eyeing it nervously. Sapphire arrived at that point, fresh from having hauled the bags into the rooms, and accepted her mead off Karliah, taking a seat next to the Dunmer.

“Honningbrew?” Sapphire asked, waving the mead in the air. “I feel like a traitor just looking at it.”

“No need, I get five per cent on all sales,” Karliah said cheerfully, before realising what she'd just admitted and blushing.

“You!” Brynjolf cried. “You're the one who was trying to take down Maven!”

“To hurt a man, first bring down his allies,” said Karliah, shrugging as she sipped her Honningbrew. “If it's any consolation, I can reign in the competition a little if you like? Not really any point antagonising Maven any more...”

“Please spare us your corrupt business dealings,” Vilkas growled, rolling his eyes. Farkas was staring at his own Honningbrew, wondering if drinking it was honourable any more. He hoped so, he really liked the taste.

Sapphire narrowed her eyes, steely glaze not leaving Vilkas.

“Brynjolf, why are we sitting down to dinner with two mercenaries who are clearly going to sit there judging us every five minutes?”

“Ah now, that's a very good question, Sapphire,” Brynjolf said, glad of a change in subject. “See, these two lads are Companions of Jorrvaskr, and they were going to entertain us all with a heroic story involving a sworn oath, Azura's Star and a possible job that we might be able to help with. Weren't you, Vilkas?”

“A job?” Karliah said, toying with her mead bottle, her earlier reservations over the Star forgotten as the prospect of coin dangled in front of her. “What sort of job?”

“We charge for our services,” Sapphire said fiercely. “I doubt you've got the coin to hire us.”

“Now, now,” Brynjolf said calmly. “I'm sure we can negotiate a fee once we've heard everything. Even if we don't take it, well, I'm sure it's a good story. So how did you get hold of Azura's Star exactly?”

“We went to visit her shrine in Winterhold,” Farkas told him. “We needed help with a job and one of the Dunmer in Windhelm told us to seek advice from the priestess there who sees all sorts of things in her visions. She said she'd only help us if we tracked down Azura's Star. So we did and now we're taking it back.”

“My brother speaks the truth,” Vilkas sighed, drinking his mead. “But not the entire truth. Aranea said that if we did this thing for Azura, the goddess would assist us, but that we had to leave quickly if we wished to be in time. For what, Aranea did not or could not say. But we would not be in this inn tonight, here and now, if we had not set out on that mission. So maybe this is meant to be. I can't say I like it... but the welfare of a dear friend rests on this. All right then, thief. You know we're Companions, you say you know Aela... but have you heard of the Dragonborn?”

Silence around the table as both women's eyes turned to Brynjolf. They'd both shrieked on hearing he'd actually met the famous Elisif Dragonborn and pestered him for stories, bombarding him with questions, wanting to know if she was as pretty as everyone said, if she'd really killed dragons and necromancers, if the golden sword was real (and was it worth anything?). He'd said yes to it all but advised against stealing the sword. Elisif was a sweet young girl but with a bit of a black and white view of the world... and she was very attached to that sword. After seeing her take on a dragon, Brynjolf had decided it wasn't worth risking her wrath.

“I'm familiar with Jarl Elisif, yes,” Brynjolf said delicately. “She's involved too?”

“Not directly,” Vilkas said bitterly, staring into his tankard. “But one of our Shield-Sisters, a young Imperial called Ria, decided to follow her on her adventures. Except it didn't go well.”

“She died?” Sapphire asked, and Brynjolf shot her a glare. He'd seen that look before, interest and bloodlust and wistfulness over having to leave the Brotherhood, which meant she was hoping for a revenge contract two Companions could never honourably take themselves.

“Worse,” Vilkas said, shaking his head. “She got captured by the Stormcloaks. They're holding her prisoner in Windhelm, and as she's a political prisoner, there's no bail. I don't know what Ulfric wants with her and I don't care, but she's our Shield-Sister and we won't abandon her.”

“Except rescuing her's harder than it looks,” Farkas said moodily. “She's locked up tight, and we're not any good at sneaking around. Can't pick locks either. That and we're too well-known. Guards'll know we're up to something, they were all keeping tabs on us while we were there, the New Gnisis was the only place we could get any peace. That's where we heard about the Shrine of Azura and thought we might as well try it.”

“You want a jailbreak doing,” Brynjolf said, pondering all this. Now wasn't that interesting. Normally he'd be calculating the fee and charging heavily for this sort of service... but if Ria had got caught because she'd been protecting Elisif, that made a difference. Brynjolf knew the story, had heard it in a drunken late-night chat that first night at Sky Haven when he'd ended up sitting up with Aela and Elisif and later Cicero, who'd actually been quiet, just cuddling Elisif and listening to them talk with an odd little smile on his face. Elisif had looked heartbroken and guilty as she'd retold the whole thing and it was clear she still missed both Jordis and Ria, blaming herself even though Aela told her it wasn't her fault. Well, Brynjolf couldn't bring Jordis back from the dead but perhaps he could get Ria freed.

“A political prisoner in Ulfric's stronghold,” Karliah pondered. “That'll take some doing. I hope you have coin for this.”

The answer to that was clearly no, and Brynjolf doubted Jorrvaskr's coffers were overflowing either. Nevertheless he could afford to be generous on this one.

“On the other hand, he has to know her ransom value's limited and she's not likely to know much,” Brynjolf mused. “I doubt he's got her under the very highest security. We might be able to do something. If you've not got the coin, a favour owed might be possible.”

“I am not doing anything dishonourable for you,” Vilkas growled. “Nor is my brother.”

“If you want our help, you might not get a choice,” Sapphire snapped. Brynjolf placed a hand on her wrist, motioning for her to be calm.

“Tell you what,” Brynjolf said. “As it appears we have a few friends in common, both of whom would also like to see young Ria freed, I'll look into it for you. You stay here at the inn, the three of us will head out to Windhelm tomorrow and scout the situation for you for free. When we've done that and put a plan together, we'll send word and quote you a suitable fee. How does that sound?”

“Too good to be true,” Vilkas said, still dubious. “But all right. I'm not paying you a thing until Ria's back here and safe though.”

“Fine by me,” Brynjolf agreed. “We were heading that way tomorrow anyway on business of our own, it's no bother to do a little investigation.”

“We'll get her out of there if we can,” Karliah said, her voice reassuring and kind, which seemed to go down well with Farkas certainly, and even settled Vilkas a little. “Now, you told us why you were after the Star, but not how you found it. Where did you get it and what happened to it?”

Now that there was a possibility, however slim, of Ria being free, Vilkas could finally relax a little.

“Well all right, I suppose I can tell you the story. All Aranea could tell us was that we needed to go to Winterhold and look for a mage who could turn the brightest star as black as night...”

As Vilkas warmed to the tale, three thieves drank their mead and listened enraptured, and for one evening, Skyrim's men of honour and deep-seated rogues sat around the table and ate and drank as friends.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: There you go, the Guild questline done and dusted, although the Guild will take a while to rebuild. Many of you also were wanting to know what was happening to Ria, so I am pleased to tell you the Rescuing Ria subplot is now under way! With Nightingales on the case, I think you can all join me in being cautiously optimistic about this one...

I love this! Also I keep thinking about Vilkas, his hands, his suffering, and the fact that between him and Ariella things are not clarified yet! But she is closer to the truth?

Vilkas turned the page of his book gingerly. His hands had been healed days ago, but while the bones had be mended there were still bruises from the damage he had caused. They would have gone away by now if he had rested them but Vilkas needed to keep his mind and hands busy.

Instead he opted to wrap them each day before he went out on jobs. The pain didn’t concern him even though it was there with every swing of his sword. He flexed his fingers and his hand seared in pain. Beneath the bandages his skin was a sickly purple. The healer at the temple had told him to rest for at least three days but he hadn’t been able to do that.

Even at night when he wasn’t working his head would swim and he couldn’t sleep. His wolf was even more restless, angry, at the loss of the alpha. Vilkas shook his head and concentrated on his book. The content was dull and even though Jorrvaskr’s history was a favourite topic of his he couldn’t concentrate on it. It wasn’t enough to hold his attention, not when his mind kept wondering.

He heard a light tap on the door before it opened. Ariella pushed the door open balancing quite a number of scrolls and books in one arm. Vilkas jumped up and took some of the scrolls and books from her before it all toppled. He hissed at the pain of picking the things up.

He hoped she wouldn’t notice but she did, of course she did.

She put everything down and Vilkas set down the things as well. He sat back down on the bed and resumed reading. Ariella sat beside him quietly, flipping through the pages of a book.

“You should stay here tomorrow.” Ariella said breaking the silence.

“Farkas and I have to clear out a cave of bears.”

“Athis and Aela are going to be going instead.”

“Aela?” Vilkas said skeptically. “Do you want my brother getting killed?”

“Vilkas.” Her voice was a warning, he had crossed a line. “Athis is going as well, you know just as well as me Farkas and Athis alone would be more than enough to deal with bears. Aela needs to start working again and you need to be resting.”

“I don’t need to be resting.” He shut his book and tossed it aside. Ariella placed her book aside as well and held her hands out.

“If you don’t need to be resting then let me see.” Vilkas didn’t move for a moment and Ariella cocked a brow at him. Her attitude seemed different lately, but not in a bad way. He had no intention of fighting with her, she had certainly been the most stable force in his life for the past few days.

He placed his hands out and the Breton began unbinding them. His bruised hands felt better now that they were released but it was a painful release.

“Vilkas…”

“I know.” She turned his hands in the same way she had done while they were broken; her fingers delicate and her touch light.

“Stay here for a few days. Let these get heal, please.” She was practically begging him. He nodded and she gently pressed her lips to his hands, which despite a slight pain made him feel better.

“Perhaps you can help me with some Dragonborn things?” She asked, Vilkas nodded and suddenly felt very tired. “We can do that in the morning though.”

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