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Safe 6/?

Date: 2013-07-30 07:21 am (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
6

"No."

"Mercer-"

"Did you really think I'd approve a job breaking into Skyrim's most secure prison when we don't have the skills or the intel necessary to pull it off? Especially when I know it's just an excuse to break your little protégé out of jail? Honestly, how stupid do you think I am?"

Brynjolf's blood burned with every word out of the Guildmaster's mouth. "Refusing to rescue the best investment this guild has made in twenty years?" he shot back. "Pretty fucking stupid."

Brynjolf wasn't sure it was possible for Mercer to look any colder, but somehow the older thief managed it as his face drained of color and his eyes narrowed to steely slits.

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," he ground out, voice barely above a whisper. "Now go take a walk before you say something I'll let you regret."

"She'll die, Mercer," Brynjolf protested.

Mercer shrugged. "Then she dies."

Brynjolf opened his mouth, but Sapphire's hand on his arm stayed the words that would have come tumbling out. He wanted nothing more than to punch the emotionless expression off the man's face, but enough of his mind could recognize what a terrible idea it would be, so he turned on his heel and stalked into the training room.

Niruin leveled a bow at a target while Rune practiced his knifework, both of them chatting amiably between strikes.

"Get out," Brynjolf snarled, heading straight for a greatsword propped up against a barrel in the far corner. Members didn't practice with it often - everyone in the guild preferred lighter, more graceful weapons - but it was not a typical night.

"Bryn-?"

"Get out!"

Brynjolf's roar sent both men to the doorway, whispering in puzzled tones as they left the redheaded Nord to his fury.

He hefted the blade up with both hands and, before he had even adjusted to its awkward balance, he brought it down on the barrel that had previously supported it, wood splinters bursting out in every direction as salt spilled across the floor.

The guild was everything he had, he lamented as he wielded the iron in his fists, hacking at the barrel until it was little more than a pile of kindling. He had voted for Mercer to lead them. Ruthless and unforgiving as he was, Mercer was their only reasonable choice. And no matter how much he wanted to, Brynjolf couldn't bring himself to disobey the man he had spoken for. You could not follow your leader only when it was convenient to do so. If you found his decisions disagreeable, you must try sway him, and cope with it if you couldn't. Otherwise you had chosen the wrong leader.

And so Brynjolf was coping, after a fashion. As the greatsword scraped the stone floor beneath the barrel, he directed his anger at one of the nearby cupboards, splitting a shelf in two.

He could not get the lass out of his mind. Was his wrath useless now? Was she already dead? Would the King in Rags leave her whole, or would he use her bones to decorate his cell?

Brynjolf thought of her body, a body he constantly dreamed of, marked with scars she never talked about (or maybe she did - just not with him). Would Madanach flay her and fashion armor for himself from her skin? Would he wait until she was dead, or would she feel every stroke of the knife?

The thought that he might never again watch her eyes glitter in the Flagon's torchlight, pale blue like an Eastmarch blizzard, or listen to her unbridled laughter echo in every corner of the Cistern filled Brynjolf with a strength he didn't know he had as he battered the cupboard, the sword as light as a dagger in his hands.

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