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Skyrim Page 5 - "NAKED! Naked naked naked "

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“Oh, Sweet Night Mother, dear sweet Cicero will make the Altmer bitch pay for hurting the Listener. Cicero promises,” crooned the voice from beside Elenwen’s ear, slowly pulling the Thalmor Ambassador from the depths of unconsciousness with his lilting promises.

“Now, now, Cicero, we must not kill her. No stabbing, remember,” purred Babette, her slender fingers tracing chilled paths along Elenwen’s ribcage. “She must pay for her crimes and your blade would be too quick.”

Elenwen grimaced, slowly coming to. She was upright, the constant pull on her shoulders, elbows and wrists told her that she was bound and, most likely hanging from a wall. Where, she could not say. The bindings over her eyes left her blinded but she could hear. Her gown was gone, though she could at least still feel her breast binding and her smalls so that was something.

She could hear giggling.

“Release me this instant, worms!” she shrieked. “I am the Emissary of the Aldmeri Dominion. I demand that you release me.”

“Temper, temper, sweet lady,” purred Babette from her side, those insidious cold fingers tracing wet patterns over Elenwen’s flesh. This really was delectable, thought the vampire, to see the Ambassador of the Thalmor pinned like a butterfly to the wall of the torture chamber. “For you have earned our ire. We will have payment from you.”

Nazir watched, his expression unreadable as Babette and Cicero hovered near the blindfolded Altmer. “Enough. Both of you. She will hang there until the Listener decides her fate. She will tell us the will of the Night Mother,” he ground out, his arms crossed over his broad chest.

Cicero’s face split wide with his grin. “Oh, dear sweet Night Mother—you will tell your dear sweet Listener to let us have vengeance, won’t you?” called the jester as he danced out of the chamber, Babette following behind with a malicious grin on her face.

Nazir stepped away from the doorway, nearing the bound Thalmor ambassador. “I pity you, milady. Your anger may have been righteous—perhaps—but you attacked one of us. The best of us. And for that, dear Elenwen,” he reached out, his gloved hand catching her chin and forcing her to face him, though her eyes were still blindfolded and she would not see him, “will be your end. By Sithis, you will pay.”

Elenwen felt a sob well up in her chest as Nazir’s grip on her jaw tightened before he released her and strode out of the torture room. She would not cry, she reminded herself as she swallowed down the ball of horror. She was Elenwen, Ambassador of the Thalmor. She would get out of this.

##00##00##

Cynric watched the other thieves wander off, intent on finding somewhere to bed down for the night. He waited at the trestle table, his hood still pulled low over his dark hair as he watched Brynjolf, the red-haired thief at the fireplace. “Pull up a seat, old friend,” he called softly, startling the de facto leader.

Brynjolf slowly let go of the mantelpiece and allowed a tired nod as he crossed to the table, dropping onto the bench opposite Cynric. “What’s on your mind, laddie?”

Cynric spotted several bottles of mead near at hand and grabbed two, handing one to Brynjolf. He waited until Brynjolf opened his own bottle before he did the same. “So, quite a few revelations tonight. Explains some things—like why Katrin didn’t seem that surprised about my working jobs for the Dark Brotherhood. Or how she came to us with so many skills.”

Brynjolf nodded, his blunt fingernails scraping at the label on the dusky bottle. “Aye. That it does.” He allowed a small smirk as he remembered the incredulous look that Katrin had shot him all those years ago in the marketplace when he’d convinced her to plant that ring in Brand-Shei’s pocket. Of course at the time he hadn’t known that she’d just murdered Grelod the Kind. So many years had passed and still he was learning his wife’s secrets. He peered at the Breton seated across from him—Cynric had joined the Guild just after himself and didn’t let politics get in the way of coin. “I need to ask a favor.”

Cynric nodded as he took a swig. “Go ahead.”

“I need you to be a voice of reason, Cynric. I,” Brynjolf paused, swallowing, “may let my emotions get away from me with this one. I want revenge but that may do more harm than good to the Guild. I need you to remind me of what’s important…to the Guild, not just to me.”

Cynric shook his head, a tired smile on his lips. “In other words, you want me to be a cold-hearted, clear-headed bastard.” He took another gulp of mead. “You forget, Bryn, she’s my friend too.” The Breton leaned back, allowing his dark eyes to track around the interior of the cottage. As homes went, Breezeholme wasn’t a bad one. “But I see your point. You’ve nearly lost your wife and you’ve lost a son. You’re operating on instinct—rage—grief—those things aren’t good for business.”

Brynjolf nodded, taking a swig of the mead, its sweetness like lead against the tight burn in his throat. “Aye. And you’ve had the most time in the Guild other than myself, Delvin and Vex. So you’ll do it?”

Cynric let out a slow breath. “I will. But this does demand a response from us. From the Guild. Katrin would expect us to safeguard ourselves and to prepare countermeasures.”

Brynjolf raked a hand through his rusty mane. “Agreed. And those are being set and carried out as we speak. But I’ll still need a check on my own impulses,” admitted the redhead, taking a sip of his mead.

Cynric reached out, his hand falling on Brynjolf’s shoulder as he met his green gaze. “You’re one of my oldest friends, Bryn. I’ll watch your back. Now, take your own advice and get some sleep.”

Brynjolf allowed a tight nod and rose from the table, his bootsteps heavy on the staircase to the second floor. It was long minutes before Cynric moved from the table in search of his own place to lie down. Soon the only sound was the crackle of the fire in the hearth.

Poor Brynjolf!! : '(

Ancano swirled the wine in his goblet before glancing back at his dinner guest. He’d been slightly surprised when Ondolemar had shown up at Winterhold and the Mage’s College in particular. Especially since last he’d heard, Ondolemar had last been in Solitude to visit Elenwen at the Thalmor Embassy. For once Ancano was happy to be stuck in the wintry wastes of the Mages’ College—he could happily leave that nest of vipers to his superior. What with the events at the Embassy, Ancano had already made some discreet inquiries. Ondolemar had been nowhere near the Embassy when it was burned to the ground. In fact, Ondolemar had been on his way back to his posting in Markarth. A nice bit of work if Ancano could decipher it, grinned the Altmer mage to himself. “So, my old friend, what brings you to this frozen wasteland of a college?”

Ondolemar took a sip of his wine and set the goblet on the table at his elbow. “A favor, Ancano. If I recall, you once encountered the Dragonborn, correct?”

Ancano chuckled, leaning back in his own chair, long lean fingers steepled at his chin. “Ah. Yes, Mistress Katrin—she burgled my quarters for a very fine drinking horn as I recall. I taught her the error of stealing from the college--and me--with the help of a rather pretty Dwemer artifact. Ended up invited to her wedding as a result.” He grinned. “Quite an oddly pleasant little Breton.”

Ondolemar nodded. He’d heard the story at the wedding feast in Riften when he’d attended the same wedding. And he remembered seeing Ancano there, the pale-maned Altmer hovering in the shadows. “That she is. But that leads me to my visit, Ancano.” He took a breath, his fingers playing over the condensation on his goblet. “We have a situation. What knowledge do you have of her associations?”

Ancano’s lips pursed as he thought. “According to reports, she’s the head of a resurgent Thieves’ Guild. She’s also the Harbinger for the Companions in Whiterun, though she’s passed most of the responsibility to the brothers Vilkas and Farkas, correct?”

Ondolemar nodded, motioning for the Thalmor mage to continue.

Ancano tapped his chin with his fingertips as his other hand returned to the wine. “She also holds the rank of Legate in the Imperial Army and she is the Listener for the Dark Brotherhood, correct?”

Ondolemar’s eyes widened. He wasn’t aware the other Mer knew about that last tidbit of information. “You are very well informed.”

Ancano shrugged, his smile self-deprecating as he accepted the compliment. “I must be--as your subordinate, Ondolemar. Besides, she’s a regular visitor in Winterhold, visiting both Nelacar and Enthir.” The mage lifted his goblet back to his lips, savoring the wine. It really was an excellent vintage. “Why the questions about Lady Katrin?”

Ondolemar sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Because our dear Emissary took it upon herself to act, without orders from the Dominion, to kidnap, rape and torture her with the intention of killing her.” He watched his fellow Altmer pale and nodded. “While I can appreciate tactically the value of eliminating the Dragonborn,” he allowed slowly, watching Ancano nod in agreement, “her timing and tactics leave a great deal to be desired. Even as we are talking now, wheels have been set in motion that she could have in no way imagined.”

Ancano leaned back in his chair, meeting his fellow Mer’s gaze. “I already received a missive from the Sunset Isles, as I’m sure you are aware, Ondolemar. Our superiors have named you the new Emissary and Ambassador to the Empire and Skryim.” Ancano lifted his goblet in toast to his better. “As I’m sure you expected.”

Ondolemar allowed a small nod of acknowledgement. “But since the Dark Brotherhood has burned our Embassy to the ground, I don’t think I’ll be relocating from Markarth any time soon.” He leaned towards his fellow Mer. “You, however, are going to be relocating, Ancano. I’m not convinced that having you here in Winterhold isn’t an abominable waste of a resource. I intend to send you to Riften. Arrangements have already been made for your new residence.”

Ancano’s eyes narrowed. “And that serves what purpose?” He wouldn’t object to leaving Winterhold—between the people and the cold, the place could do with a full-on apocalyptic scourging. But last he’d checked, his distant cousin was still commander of the garrison of Imperial soldiers in Riften and he’d rather not deal with family drama.

Ondolemar swirled his wine in his goblet again. “For one thing, it puts you nearer Maven Black-Briar and her interests. And nearer the Thieves’ Guild.” He offered a small smile. “And when our Lady Katrin returns, it will be better to be seen as her friends and allies than not. I know this woman, Ancano—her rage will not be sated with a few quick deaths.”

Ancano nodded. “Then best I get to Riften, Ambassador.”

I'm not op but I want Elenwen to survive this. Seems to me killing her would be to easy. I think she needs to live with the results of her actions. I think that she should be made an example of what happens to anyone messing with the dragonborn. But then again the price/revenge she suffers should really fit the crime followed by slavery or something.

asks revenge!Bad revenge!no one was to touch my Kat and my Brynjolf!

I am stalking this fill daily! Please update soon!

Brynjolf glanced at Etienne, the Breton thief having insisted on accompanying him. “Etienne, I appreciate your dedication, but this is not necessary,” he advised for the fifth time as they climbed the steps towards Jorvaskrr.

Etienne swallowed as he looked up at the mead hall of legend. “I owe it to your wife, Bryn. She saved me from the Thalmor.” He squared his thin shoulders, trying to look more imposing. “This is the least I can do.”

Brynjolf nodded tersely and pushed open the doors, not surprised that there was a fight going on at the center of the hall. He still remembered the first time Katrin brought him to the mead hall—that had been shortly after their wedding and she’d needed to see Balgruff about something to do with one of the Guild’s thieves residing in the keep’s dungeons. So far as he could tell, nothing had changed. The long tables still framed the open area at the center and warriors still lounged on benches or in chairs around the hall.

“Brynjolf! What brings you to Whiterun, old man?” called a dark-haired Nord in greeting, clapping the red-haired thief on the shoulder.

“Farkas, it is good to see you. Is your brother about? I need to speak with you both.”

Farkas nodded, offering a lopsided grin. “Aye, he’s testing new recruits in the yard. Come, let us watch the show.” He loped off towards the double doors on the other side of the hall, shoving them open and stepping out onto the terrace. “Brother!”

Vilkas looked up at his twin, his expression pensive. “Farkas, what is the matter?”

Farkas nodded towards Brynjolf, ignoring the curious glances sliding their way from Companion and prospect alike. “Kat’s mate is here with one of their pups,” he grinned, taking another gulp of his mead. “Says he needs to speak with both of us.”

Vilkas’s brow creased as his mouth turned down in a deepening frown. “Hmmm. Njadja, take over.” He motioned Brynjolf, Etienne and Farkas to follow him as they headed up the cut-stone staircase towards the Skyforge. They were ensured privacy there—moreso than they might find in Jorvaskrr. Nodding to Eorlund Grey-Mane, he turned to face Brynjolf and Etienne, Farkas coming to stand at his side. “Now, what has happened?”

Brynjolf swallowed against the thickness in his throat, staring down at the stone floor of the SkyForge for a moment. He still remembered the talk that the brothers had given him on learning that he was bedding their Harbinger. It had involved something about a shovel and an unmarked grave, if he recalled correctly. “Katrin was taken by the Thalmor. Tortured. Nearly killed. We’re on our way to bring her back to Riften.”

Eorlund had set down his hammer at the forge, his face darkening with rage as he listened. He was not a Companion but he had given Wutherad to the girl himself. His corded body vibrated with anger and his voice, gruff as always, was deadly quiet. “What do you need from us?”

Brynjolf met the blacksmith’s gaze, seeing a past loss in the eyes of Whiterun’s most famous blacksmith, one near as keen as his own. He remembered Kat telling him a tale about rescuing a Gray-Mane from the Thalmor…the blacksmith’s son? It explained a lot, he decided as he gathered himself to continue. “I needed to tell you. So you could protect yourselves. We…don’t know if they’re targeting anyone associated with Katrin or if she was the only target.”

Farkas glanced at his brother, both men’s expressions grim. “We’ll send some of our people as escort to fetch Kat. Meanwhile I’ll go to Riften—help protect the whelps.”

Brynjolf didn’t bother trying to argue. Not when the twins were planning how protect his children and help him get his wife back. He glanced at Etienne and noted that the thief was wisely keeping his mouth sealed shut.

Vilkas nodded, his pale eyes steely. “Agreed.” He stepped closer to Brynjolf, his hand closing on the thief’s forearm as he met the redhead’s gaze. “You are our brother by marriage, Brynjolf. We protect our own. And the Thalmor should not have crossed the Companions. It will be a mistake they regret.”

Farkas allowed a feral grin to shadow his lips. “One they won’t regret for long, I imagine,” he purred, already starting down the stone staircase. “The dead don’t have many regrets.”

Brynjolf allowed a shuddering breath to escape as he nodded to Eorlund and Vilkas, already turning to follow Farkas down the stairs. He still had a Jarl to speak with.

##00##00##

Irileth frowned as the doors to Dragonsreach were pushed open, a familiar red-haired thief approaching. Ordinarily Brynjolf only appeared at the Jarl’s palace in the company of Thane Katrin, but this day he was alone. Odd and intriguing. The Dunmer felt a worry begin to burrow into her brain as she glanced at Jarl Balgruff, noting that the Nord had risen from his throne, blue eyes narrowed. Falling in step beside the blonde-haired Nord, she approached Brynjolf.

“Master Brynjolf, welcome back to Whiterun and Dragonsreach. Is your wife on her way?” asked the Jarl, his blue eyes assessing. The Jarl frowned, watching the younger Nord before him. “Something has happened.”

Irileth glanced between Balgruff and Brynjolf, watching as her Jarl read the face of the thief. “Shall I alert the guard, my Jarl?” she asked quietly, a hand resting on the pommel of her sword.

Balgruff nodded slightly, his expression stony. “Come, Master Brynjolf. We shall go to the Great Porch.” He turned on his booted heel, leading the way as he started towards one of the two staircases leading from the throne room. Pausing, he glanced towards his wizard’s alcove, catching Farengar’s questioning gaze. “Farengar! With us,” he growled.

Brynjolf and Etienne followed the Jarl and the court wizard up the steps and out onto the Great Porch, finding the Jarl’s brother Hrongar and the Jarl’s adviser Proventus Avenicci in deep conversation, their words dying as the Jarl and his entourage neared.

“Now, Master Brynjolf. Tell me what has happened.”

Bynjolf glanced at the assorted men standing about, wondering at what Katrin would think of telling them of the events of the past weeks. Deciding that this was not the time to mince words, he nodded. “Thane Katrin and her housecarl Lydia were kidnapped by the Thalmor while near Solitude. Lydia was murdered and Katrin was…” He swallowed, staring down at the ground.

“Is she alive?” asked Farengar, stepping closer. The Nord wizard had tutored the Breton in the finer points of healing magicks once upon a time.

Brynjolf shut his eyes, breathing through his nose as he forced the lump from his throat. “Last I was told, yes. The Companions are coming with me and my men to get her. Since she is Thane to you, Jarl Balgruff, I needed to inform you. In case they are attacking her allies as well.”

Balgruff nodded, staring out across the valley from his perch against the balustrade. “I see. We will see to Lydia’s funeral here, Master Brynjolf. Her husband will have to be told,” he added, rubbing his forehead. “I will see to it personally.” He glanced at Brynjolf, already feeling a familiar pounding behind his left eye. “You are certain it was the Thalmor?”

Brynjolf nodded, noting that Irileth had returned, her body language tightening at the mention of the Thalmor. He remembered Katrin mentioning that Irileth and Brynjolf had fought together in the Great War…they’d likely seen the Thalmor atrocities firsthand. “Yes. And, thank you. I was dreading telling Argis…”

Balgruff nodded again. Informing the husband of one of his oldest friend’s of his wife’s death wasn’t something he was looking forward to. “You have other things to worry about, Master Brynjolf. Do you need a company of guards? Are the children here?”

Brynjolf shook his head. “They are in Riften. Vilkas had promised to protect them and, until he gets there, my people are watching them.. They are as safe as they can be.” He glanced at Irileth, watching the dark-skinned elf with trepidation. He’d always been nervous of Irileth—not that he could put a finger on a reason why other than that Irileth always seemed to be debating whether or not to gut him. “My men and I will be continuing on as soon as our horses are ready.”

Irileth nodded, settling into an easy rest beside Balgruff. “My Jarl, the city is as ready as it can be.”

Balgruff nodded, meeting Brynjolf’s green gaze. “If you need anything, my friend. Katrin is a true friend of this city.” He stopped, watching the thief. No more words needed to be said. He turned to Proventus. “Proventus, fetch the good parchment. We must send word to the other Jarls.” Glancing at Brynjolf he shrugged. “She serves as thane to the other Jarls as well. You needn’t spend your time traveling the length and breadth of Skyrim telling them—we all owe her a debt. You go to her.”

Brynjolf took a shaking breath and nodded. “Thank you, Jarl Balgruff. With your permission, I’ll leave to get my men ready to leave.”

Balgruff nodded. He watched the red-haired thief turn and stride out, his companion in tow. Glancing to the side, he met Irileth’s gaze. “You were right.”

Irileth frowned. “If it is any consolation, my Jarl, I wish I had not been.”

##00##00##

A!A here...oops, I meant to write that Farkas was headed to Riften, not Vilkas. Bad me, no more biscuits. Anyway, apologies for it taking me so long to update on this and my other fills. I'll try to be better about this. :) Thank you for your continued support and patience.

A!A here...how did I never manage to write the story tags for this story? I'm an idiot and I apologize profusely, mods. Thank you, by the way. You are awesome. Shutting up now, I promise. And, yes, in case anyone ever wondered, the title is a reference to the Princess Bride.

Summary: Katrin and her housecarl Lydia are kidnapped and tortured by the Thalmor after the Civil War. In the aftermath, the various organizations that lay claim to the Dragonborn exact revenge. Trigger warnings for rape, torture, and character death. Established relationship with Brynjolf.

Pairing: F!DB/Brynjolf

Tags:
char:Brynjolf
char:Katrin
char:F!PC
kink:Dark Brotherhood
kink:Companions
kink:Thieves' Guild
kink:anger
kink:revenge
kink:angst
kink:character death
relationship:gen
relationship:het

Wait... This story ends here? [crying]

AA here: My apologies, it should have been Summerset Isles. Bad, Katrin!Anon, no biscuit.

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