~A Septim for Your Thoughts~
By the time that Brynjolf made it back to the Cistern, he was dead tired. Vex, on the other hand, walked across the bridge that led to the entrance of the Ragged Flagon with a spring in her step. Flopping back into his bed, Brynjolf watched her go through narrowed eyes. She almost made it seem like they had gotten back from a leisurely evening stroll, not a systematic hit on each vendor in Markarth followed by a long journey back to Riften on two plucky mounts that put much more bounce in their gait than was necessary. Feeling the deep ache in his lower back, Brynjolf was reminded of why he didn't like horses that much – not to mention the rocky terrain of the Reach.
"I'll be in the Flagon, counting our spoils, when you find the strength to move again," Vex threw over her shoulder. She added with a smirk: "Old man."
Brynjolf grunted. He didn't move a muscle; he just listened to Vex' retreating footsteps, the bang of the door being shut, and the gentle lapping of the Skeever-waste-and-Divines-know-what-else-infested water of the Cistern.
Home sweet home.
If he was being truthful to himself, Brynjolf knew he was getting a bit too old to run jobs like the one he had just been on. Picking pockets and swindling the sops in the Riften marketplace out of their last septim were one thing, but free-running through the notoriously steep streets in Markarth was quite another. It came down to his pride. He didn't want to admit that he couldn't push his body to the same limits that seemed so easy just a few years ago, but he also couldn't ignore the way that he ached for days afterwards when he tried. How could he continue to be second-in-command when even the bumbling new recruits could run circles around him?
Speaking of new recruits, there were so many of them that the Cistern was becoming crowded from all the beds. Deals were being made with fences in other holds to set up waypoints where thieves from the Guild could spend the night. Of course, this lead to the concern that members could choose to permanently stay at these residences, hoarding their loot there without giving the appropriate due to the rest of the Guild. However, the current Guild-master had pointed out that it was simple enough already to stash away goods in a cave or a ruin; having these waypoints wouldn't change the behaviour of those wanting to cheat the Guild.
"If they want to follow Mercer Frey's methods, then they choose his fate, as well," the Guild-master had said calmly, with a steely glint in his eye. "The only thing that separates us from the bandits is our honour. Anyone who forgets that will learn the lesson the hard way."
It wasn't just because the man had restored the Guild to its former glory that Brynjolf respected him. He truly was the best one out of all them to take on the job as head of the Guild, and if anyone could see them through the growing pains, it was proving to be him.
Success – for so long the term had been foreign in their line of work. Brynjolf had been one of the most skeptical of Delvin's theory that the Guild was cursed with bad luck. And then he had somehow gotten wrapped up in that Nightingale business, pledging his soul to the Daedric Prince Nocturnal and joining the ranks of a society that he used to think was a myth. Funny how that worked out. Regardless, it was a steep price for putting luck back on their side, and he was damn well going to enjoy it until he is no longer able. After all, just like he'd once complimented the Guild-master when the man was just a new recruit, larceny is in Brynjolf's blood, too – and would be until someone bled it from him. Aches and pains be damned.
Satisfied with his decision, Brynjolf let his eyes fall shut. It could have been only moments or hours later, but they snapped open again. There was the sound of something heavy being dragged across the stone floor, punctuated by the occasional clink. Lifting his head, he tried to see what was making the noise, but he couldn't see anything in the murky darkness. Only the candles by the ladder were still left burning. All around him, the snoring and deep breathing let him know that his fellow thieves were all asleep. He paused, waiting to see if it was just his imagination, a remnant from a dream.
Silence.
Then – sssss, clink!
Brynjolf made to get up, biting back a groan as the muscles in his side went into spasm.
Suddenly, light flooded in through the door to the Flagon, accompanied by Delvin Mallory whispering, "I've got the key. Need help with that, boss?"
Brynjolf relaxed as he heard the Guild-master, Alexandros Amante, murmur, "I've got this one. I left the smaller one by the door."
Well, that explained the noise. If Xander (as he preferred to be called) had just gotten back from looting that ruin he had set out for a few days ago, he was probably dragging the treasure over to the vault. In the dark as he was, Brynjolf allowed an affectionate smile to surface. One of the first things Xander had done as Guild-master was to organize an aggressive approach to filling the vault that Mercer had emptied. Thanks to Xander's initiative, the vault was near to brimming with gold.
Talking ceased while Delvin and Xander finished their work.
"There," Delvin said at last. "That's the first lock. You'll still need Bryn's key, though."
Xander chuckled, low and rich, and Brynjolf was surprised at how it affected him. "Unfortunately, he's asleep."
Delvin's laugh was much louder – and definitely did not elicit the same reaction from Brynjolf. "Good luck with that."
"Indeed," Xander replied, and Brynjolf could imagine the roguish smile on the Imperial's face as he said it. Brynjolf shut his eyes tight, wearing an expression that anyone could take for pained.
A few moments went by, and then the light dimmed once more as Delvin exited and closed the door behind him. Hesitant footsteps rang out in the Cistern, and Brynjolf quickly lay back down, following the impulsive thought that told him not to be caught sitting on the edge of his bed, eavesdropping. Besides, he was curious as to how Xander intended to wake him. The footsteps stopped just at the edge of the screen that shielded his bed from view. Brynjolf waited. His mouth went dry.
An eternity seemed to pass.
"I thought you were supposed to be a thief, lad," Brynjolf rasped. "If I was half-deaf I could've still heard you stumbling around." He cleared his throat, hoping that the other man took the rough quality of his voice as being due to sleep.
The feather-stuffed mattress dipped as Xander sat down. "Why should I sneak in my own home?"
Brynjolf was suddenly all too aware of the fact that he had fallen asleep in his leathers – the stale scent of sweat and the road-dust that clung to his skin. He wondered what kind of ruin Xander had been exploring this time. Whether exploring Ancient Nordic or Dwarven ruins, the man always came back spotless, as if he were impervious to dirt. The only time Brynjolf had seen Xander covered in blood was when they had been fighting through the Falmer on their way to stop Mercer; other than that, the only proof that the Imperial found himself in battle often was the dried blood that had caked into the engraving on the hilt of the dragonbone dagger that he always carried at his hip. For living in the Ratway, the Imperial's hygiene habits were impeccable.
"What did you need?" Brynjolf kept his eyes trained in front of him.
A hand rested on his thigh. Several heartbeats passed. The next words were soft: "The key, Bryn."
The red-haired Nord forced a cheery tone. "Is that all, lad? Why didn't you just ask?" He quickly slid out of bed, no longer able to withstand the warm pressure on his leg.
Xander stood up, as well. His enigmatic smile was hard to discern in the dim lighting. "I just did." Then, he turned around and started walking, not even looking back to see if Brynjolf was following.
Suddenly, Brynjolf had a queer feeling that they weren't just talking about the key. Nevertheless, he followed.
He remembered the day he first saw him in the marketplace. It was late afternoon, and Brynjolf was getting ready to pack it in, but he decided to observe instead.
From his stand where Brynjolf was selling his "Falmer-blood Elixir" (also known as cheap shite), he caught sight of a slim, blond man talking to Brand-shei at his stall, perusing the Dunmer's "treasures from Morrowind" (also known as even cheaper shite). Brynjolf had been taught well by Mercer, and Gallus before him, about how to size up a mark, and now that he was in his forties, he was a master at it. He could tell that the man's leather armour was brand new, and from the way he was standing in it, it wasn't properly fitted. The hunting bow on his back, however, looked well-used; it would have to be re-stringed soon. A quiver of iron arrows rested on his back. Yet, Brynjolf could tell he wasn't an experienced archer when the man made a gesture with his hands – they were far too soft and lacked callouses. There was something in the economy and grace of his movements that spoke of an inner confidence, regardless. When Brynjolf caught the way the dark-haired Nord woman outfitted in steel armour standing a little ways away from the blond looked at him, he knew.
This mark was important somehow.
That's when it happened. The blond leaned in to examine something Brand-shei was showing him, while his left hand discreetly slipped an amethyst off the table and into his pocket. The Nord woman didn't bat an eyelash; she just stood there, arms crossed, frowning at anyone that walked too close. Brynjolf grinned, then, and it threatened to split his face. A thief! A well-off, important, thief – here in Riften! Obviously, the man was unassociated with the Guild…
But Brynjolf was planning on changing that.
For the next hour, Brynjolf kept a careful eye on the newcomer. He watched as he perused the market stalls and placed an order at the blacksmith's. At last, when the stranger ducked into the Bee and Barb (followed by his bodyguard), Brynjolf decided it was time to make his move.
When he walked into the inn, the man was sitting at the bar, talking to Keerava. He walked over slowly with a smirk on his face, enjoying how the look on the Argonian's face morphed from initial fear to feigned annoyance. He hadn't forgotten the inn's debt to the Guild, but he would find a way to deal with that later. First, the stranger.
"You've never done an honest day's work in your life for all that coin you're carrying, eh, lad?" he whispered, leaning over to speak close to his ear.
To his credit, the man didn't jump. He turned his head slowly – and Brynjolf's eyes widened in surprise. The man was very handsome, that much he could tell from a distance, but now Brynjolf noted the features that he hadn't distinguished before. The most prominent were the three scars that marred the otherwise unblemished, tanned skin: one across the lip, one stretching across the bridge of the nose, and one trailing under his eye. At first glance, one might think they could have been caused by a sabre-cat's claws, but they were too irregularly spaced – a blade, then, and the pattern couldn't have been unintentional. The other notable feature was far less tragic: his eyes were heterochromic, with one eye being brown and the other blue. Brynjolf would estimate the man's age as being late twenties, but the look in his eyes betrayed experience beyond his years.
"I would hardly call it work, regardless," the man replied, and he lifted his hand to show that he was twirling around a gold and sapphire ring. Brynjolf wondered which unsuspecting citizen of Riften would be missing that come morning.
All of a sudden, Brynjolf was yanked backwards. He came face-to-face with the scowling Nord woman from the marketplace. "Keep your distance, filth."
Brynjolf raised his eyebrows and smiled. Filth? He thought that he was dressed quite nicely, actually.
The man seemed amused. "It's fine, Lydia. Let us talk."
For a moment, Brynjolf thought the woman might disobey, but then she muttered, "Yes, my thane." After that, she stalked over to an adjacent table and sat down, glaring at them as if to tell her thane that he couldn't stop her keeping an eye on them. Brynjolf smiled at her before taking the other stool at the bar.
"A thane, eh? So, which little hovel is it, then?"
Keerava placed a mug of mead in front of the man, and he took a generous swig. "Whiterun," he said lightly after he put the mug down, as if the admission were of little consequence.
Brynjolf whistled. "Little hovel, indeed… So, how did you swing that job?"
The man took another drink and was quiet for a while. He muffled a burp with his fist, causing Brynjolf to smile again. He was just about to inform the man that he didn't have to worry about manners when the man intoned, "I slew a dragon."
Nothing else was said for several minutes. Brynjolf wasn't sure whether to laugh in his face or be impressed. When he looked up, he saw that Keerava was watching them intently, wiping a mug with a rag that looked like it had been used to clean a chamber pot. After that lovely image, Brynjolf kept his eyes glued to the counter, studying the grain of the wood.
At last, he found his voice: "Are you telling me that you're the…?"
"Dragonborn? Everyone else seems to think so." He actually sounded bitter.
Word had traveled fast about what had happened in Helgen and the dragon that had been killed outside of Whiterun shortly afterwards. Then, word had spread from Ivarstead that the Greybeards had summoned a Dragonborn up to High Hrothgar. Not much was known about the identity of that person except, because Riften was in Stormcloak territory, there was much grumbling about the Dragonborn supposedly being an Imperial.
Brynjolf looked up to see that the man was watching him. He looked into his striking, oddly-coloured eyes. "You really are, aren't you?"
The corner of the man's mouth twitched. "I'd show you my Thu'um, but I don't think that Keerava here would appreciate it."
Brynjolf looked into his eyes for a few seconds more before he made his decision. "Listen, I have something that I think you can help me with…"
"Does it have anything to do with this?" The man flipped the ring up into the air and caught it in his fist.
"Definitely – and there's a lot more where that came from."
"Go on. I'm all ears."
The last tumbler clicked into place, and then Brynjolf opened the door to the vault with a tug. Next, he helped Xander pull the two sacks of treasure in. After that, Brynjolf's muscles decided to protest again, so he stretched his lower back while Xander poured the loot onto the pile. Once the job was done, the shorter man unceremoniously plopped down onto the pile, ignoring the septims that scattered everywhere.
Brynjolf swept his gaze over their hoard before finally settling back on the man lounging on top of it. "Well, now. Isn't this a pretty sight?" He meant the gold, of course.
Raising his head, Xander gave him a knowing look. However, he said, "It's nice… but it's not enough."
"What do you mean?" Brynjolf asked with a frown. "This is already more than even Gallus stashed away."
"Exactly. Call it insurance against another downturn."
Brynjolf laughed. "I thought we were thieves, lad, not businessmen."
"Wasn't it you that assured me they're the same thing?" Xander fixed him with a wicked grin.
He crossed his arms and pretended to survey their spoils again. "True enough."
They descended into silence once more. When Xander spoke again, it seemed to pierce the quiet like the clever jab of a dagger: "Does it hurt?"
Brynjolf just stared at him uncomprehendingly.
Xander sighed. "Come here." Brynjolf didn't move. "Come here. That's an order." The other man's tone was so rough and demanding and compelling, that Brynjolf couldn't help but acquiesce.
From there, Brynjolf was told to sit in front of the other man with his back to the man's knees. By now, he had an idea of what the Imperial intended to do, but he still had trouble biting back a pleasured groan when Xander started massaging his shoulders.
Xander chuckled, causing a puff of warm air to blow across Brynjolf's neck. "You know, you wouldn't hurt so much if you just bothered to stretch once in a while."
The Nord's eyes were closed, and he hummed, lost in the sensation. "I'm just getting old, lad."
"Horse shit. You could still best me and most of the other men here, besides. I've seen you fight, mind; your blade's faster than the winds of Kynareth." His voice took on a teasing lilt: "Not bad for a man in his sixties."
"Watch it, now! I'm only five and forty."
Brynjolf could almost hear the smirk in Xander's tone. "To hear you talk of it, I would have guessed the former." A pause. Then – "I'm three and thirty, you know." Before Brynjolf could react, his red hair was swept out of the way and he felt lips press to the back of his neck. They were gone so soon that he wondered if he had imagined it. Brynjolf decided not to say anything.
Xander continued his ministrations for a while before abruptly stopping. His hands went limp on the bigger man's shoulders and he heaved a sigh.
Brynjolf tilted his head back. "Is something wrong?"
"Nothing." The look in his eyes betrayed otherwise.
Grabbing a coin on the pile, Brynjolf held it up under Xander's nose. "Septim for your thoughts?"
With a wry smile, Xander closed his fingers around it and examined the effect of the flickering candlelight playing across the surface of the gold. "Luck is a fickle mistress," he said, half to himself.
"I believe we have long since established that."
Xander went on as if he hadn't heard him: "When I was a boy in Cyrodiil, I lived in an orphanage in the Imperial City." He paused, as if gauging Brynjolf's reaction, but Brynjolf didn't dare reply lest he decide not to continue; the Nord knew only bits and pieces of the esteemed Dragonborn's life before he'd set foot in Skyrim.
"I was close with one of the caretakers there," Xander continued. "She was an elderly woman, and her vision was clouded by cataracts. Regardless, she could always tell it was me by feeling the shape of my face, hearing the sound of my voice, and even smelling my scent nearby. One day, to my surprise, she told me that she was sure that I was a favourite of Dibella. The proportions of my face, she said, were sculpted with care; the sound of my voice could change the will of the Gods; and my scent would always draw others to me."
Brynjolf found that he didn't fault her conclusions.
"But I disagreed." The sudden change in Xander's voice was jarring. "I didn't think I was so special. In fact, the other children would pick on me for the colour of my eyes and my delicate features. Some of the other boys even called me a girl. I shunned the company of others and spent much of my time either by myself or talking with the caretaker.
"I'll never forget what she did after I told her all that. She laughed. She told me that that was why she was sure I was a favourite. She told me that favourites of Gods are blessed beyond measure, but that the trials that they must face are greater than most. 'Gods are jealous lovers,' she told me. 'Their love is more fulfilling than any mortal's, and the gifts they give are plenty – but they also can't stand to be parted from their loves for long.'
"At the time, I didn't understand why she had told me this. I began to understand when the next day, a husband and wife stopped by to see me. I had been adopted. I didn't want to go, but one reprimand from the headmistress, and I gave in. She assured me that they were very rich, and that I would never want for anything. When they took me to their house, and I saw the grandeur, I thought that she might be right. I was wrong.
"The woman was nice enough, but she was feeble of mind, and she shied away whenever her husband so much as looked at her the wrong way. The man was a tyrant. He drank far too much brandy; though, his mood was the same whether he was drunk or sober. He beat me often. If I threatened to tell the guards, he beat the woman in front of me, and when I cried for him to stop, he would turn on me. He's the one who gave me these scars. He held me down on the dining table and cut me with a steak knife in the middle of dinner, saying that he couldn't stand to look at my 'baby' face any longer."
By this point in his story, Brynjolf had unconsciously turned around so that they were sitting face-to-face, and he had taken hold of Xander's hand. The other man, if he was aware of the contact, gave no indication; the look in his eyes belonged to a man that had forgotten how to cry long ago.
Swallowing thickly, Xander resumed, "Eventually, the woman took to bed with an illness and died. After that, I had no reason to stick around, and I ran away. In order to eat, I learned how to manipulate and steal. As I grew a little bit older, I was introduced to other ways to make a pretty bit of coin." He barked a mirthless laugh. "Not all people thought that my scars ruined my good looks."
Brynjolf wanted to say that he thought they made him even more beautiful, that they showed his strength both inside and out, but he didn't. He just gave the man's hand a squeeze and hoped that Xander would understand. It made sense now, when Brynjolf thought about it, why Xander had refused when the face sculptor in the Ragged Flagon had offered to remove the scars. When something has so many memories tied to it, removing it would be like killing a part of yourself.
"Anyway – then, I came to Skyrim." Xander forced a cheerier tone. "I was told that it was a land of riches just waiting to be exploited. Well – you know what happened with that." He chuckled. Then, making a bipolar shift back to being serious, he said, "But the words that my caretaker said to me all those years ago still haunt me to this day. I mean, in my adventures, I've associated with Aedra and Daedra alike, made bargains using my soul countless times, travelled to Sovngarde and back, and defeated the World-Eater to boot. Not to mention my dragon blood, and the fact that I can devour the souls of other dragons.
"If Gods really are jealous lovers, then my afterlife is going to be a party."
Brynjolf couldn't help it; he shook with laughter.
"What?" Xander didn't look pleased.
Once he had settled down, Brynjolf answered him: "I was just thinking that if anyone could swindle their way out of that mess, it would be you. You've still got both feet firmly planted on the soil of Tamriel, lad; enjoy it while you can instead of worrying about which being is waiting to ravish you on the other side."
With a snort, Xander abruptly stood up. "Sometimes, I don't know why I bother with you."
"Who else would stop you from twisting that pretty little head of yours straight off?" Brynjolf quipped with a grin.
Xander pursed his lips, but Brynjolf could tell that he was amused. "You're right on one account at least. I should enjoy my life while I still can." Then, he fished an Amulet of Mara out of his pocket and hung it around his neck.
Brynjolf's vision seemed to narrow to a point, and all he could see was the amulet. Words escaped him as static filled his thoughts. Before he knew it, he was being tugged up and shoved against the wall, Xander's lips covering his own, giving and demanding in return. Slim as the man was, Brynjolf could feel his wiry muscle through his light armour, and it was driving him mad. Even the burn of their stubble rubbing against each other's succeeded in increasing the passion. It was urgent, and it was desperate, and it was over all too soon.
Xander pulled away and rubbed off the residual spit with the back of his hand. "Thanks for the talk. Goodnight."
The static remained as Brynjolf just stood there and watched the Imperial walk away like nothing had happened. Shaking his head, he closed up the vault and walked back to his bed, feeling like he was dragging his feet through quicksand.
He knew one thing for sure: sleep would not come easy tonight.
"What happened to your face?" Vex demanded as she sat down next to Brynjolf in the Flagon the next day.
Brynjolf just grunted and took a gulp of his ale, not particularly wanting to tell her that the red marks on his face were actually stubble-burn caused by their Guild-master kissing the living daylights out of him. One did not tell Vex such things without a masochistic desire to be mocked for the rest of one's life.
"You ain't having an allergic reaction, are ya, Bryn?" Delvin came to his rescue, pulling up a chair. By the twinkle in his eye, Brynjolf had the sinking feeling that Delvin knew all too well the real reason. After all, Vex had shouted at the Breton on more than one occasion for trying to watch her while she bathed. Brynjolf wouldn't put it past him to have been listening in on the exchange the entire time.
"Not likely," was all that Brynjolf said.
Suddenly, Vex whistled. "Well, would you look at that."
Without looking, Brynjolf had a pretty good idea what had caused the reaction, and sure enough, when he turned in his seat, Xander had walked into the Flagon, that damnable Amulet of Mara still prominently displayed around his neck.
"Got any bites yet?" Delvin called out to him.
Xander smiled that mysterious smile of his, the one that promised nothing. "I have a few options."
He walked away to go talk with Tonilia about moving some goods.
Vex said low enough that only Delvin and Brynjolf could hear her. "I had no clue that the boss was looking for marriage. Maybe I should make him an offer."
Delvin scrunched up his mouth in thought. "Eh… It's pretty steep competition from what I can tell. Rune and Sapphire have already approached him."
Brynjolf said nothing. Delvin and Vex turned to look at him at the same time, both smirking. He suddenly realized what they were doing.
"Damn you both."
They burst into laughter.
"Oh, c'mon, Bryn! You've always been sweet on him – from the moment you decided to recruit him, I suspect," Delvin teased.
Vex added, "This is your one shot. Do you really want to muck this up?"
"I still say damn you both." Brynjolf got up, anyway.
He heard Vex and Delvin laughing at him as he walked away, but he paid them no mind. Steeling himself, he approached Xander and Tonilia. The fence raised an eyebrow at him as she saw him coming, but he just gave her a half-hearted smile. He placed a hand on Xander's shoulder and, calling on all the courage that he possessed, said, "I'd like a word with you."
Xander, as always, didn't show his surprise as he turned around. He just smiled. Damn him, too, Brynjolf thought, for knowing I would do exactly what he wanted in the end. Together, they went out into the Ratway Vaults, where nobody would overhear them.
Once they were there, Brynjolf slammed the blond up against the wall and repaid him for his teasing the night before, putting all of his frustration into the kiss. When he pulled away, he was happy to see that for once, Xander looked disoriented.
"I want to marry you," Brynjolf said, his voice low and intense. "I'm not one for all that tripe that that priest Maramal preaches about the 'Blessings of Mara', but I damn well know that I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I want your face to be the last I see before I go to sleep, and the first I see when I wake up in the morning. I want to love you, and comfort you, and fight beside you – and the Divines know we'll probably steal together, too. I want to be the one that will always remind you to live in the moment, because we'll be experiencing each moment together."
There – he had said it. And there was an expression on Xander's face that Brynjolf had never seen before. He could only hope that it was happiness.
"Is that all?" Xander asked, a smile playing on his lips. "Why didn't you just ask?"
"I just did."
And just like that, Brynjolf found himself once again participating in rites the very next day that he would have never believed himself capable of. However, while he looked over at his soon-to-be husband standing next to him in the Temple (and Maramal spouted off the requisite tripe that Brynjolf ignored in favour of ogling his lover), he found that he didn't have any regrets in the slightest. Actually, he found that pledging himself to Xander was much easier to do than pledging himself to a Daedra that he hadn't ever had much faith in.
After the wedding (and receiving many loud congratulations from their fellow Guild members), they retreated to their new home, Honeyside, on the other side of Riften. Once the door was securely shut behind them, Xander continued their tradition by pressing Brynjolf up against it and kissing him silly. When they separated, Brynjolf realized that he had something in his hand that wasn't there before. He opened his fist to see that it was a shiny gold septim.
"Septim for your thoughts?" Xander smirked.
Brynjolf grabbed him by the collar and proceeded to show him exactly what he was thinking.
Perhaps Xander was right; good business and thieving sensibilities go hand in hand. After all, Brynjolf was sure he had just made the best deal of his life.