Hey readers, this is my very first fanction I've written about the Elder Scrolls series and also the first I've posted here on . Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoy the first chapter. Reviews are always welcome, as well as question, comments, and grammar correction. ^^;
The dark had been something Brynjolf had been accustomed to long before behind thrown unceremoniously into the Riften jail at a young age. He was only seventeen, a wide-eyed boy with bloody red hair chopped to his jawline when he was caught with his hand in the pocket of a Thalmor. He'd never been so much as even seen before that moment, but a man beside him had caught his hand and jerked it back violently, giving away his cover. His arms were seized as he struggled, but the soldiers of the hold were older, stronger than he. So he was tossed in the hole for a half a year, alone. Some of the guards pitied him, telling him war stories as he listened quietly, never responding but always immersed in them.
And then one night another prisoner was thrown into the cell next to him, lips dribbling with blood and bruises across his cheekbones. He was a man older than himself, and the way he grinned through the pain intrigued Brynjolf. And then after the guards left him, the man was on his feet, hands pressing to the walls of brick behind him, searching for something Brynjolf didn't know. And he found a lockpick stowed away within the cracks.
The Nord stared on, mouth shut and head tilted. The man wound his hand around to the front of the lock, easing the lockpick into the keyhole and beginning to tease it like a familiar lover. The sight was oddly fascinating. The Breton picked his way out in a matter of seconds, easing the barred gate open and tossing back his mane of light brown hair, wiping the blood away from his face with the back of his hand.
And then in the flickering shadows of torch light, he strode towards Brynjolf's cell, head held high.
"Stupid kid got himself locked up, didn't he? Weren't you the one who tried to pick the pockets of that damned Thalmor a while back?" The Breton put a hand on his hip, nose wrinkling in distaste.
The young Nord stared right back, emerald eyes glinting and brow furrowing.
"What's your name, little man?"
"Brynjolf, sir." His thick accent wound his way through cracked words, causing the older man to sneer.
"Mercer Frey, head of the Thieves Guild. I think we could use someone moldable like you."
And in an instant, Brynjolf's cell door was swung open. Mercer seized his forearm, pulling him roughly along with him, back into his empty cell. Mercer pulled hand on the broken shackle on the wall, and the old bricks crumbled down to leave a space just large enough for them to crawl through.
And they did; traveling through the tunnels flooded with water that ran under Riften. Everything was soaked with the smell of old ocean and rotting wood. But then as Brynjolf's knees began to feel weak, the man in front of him pushed open one of the wooden doors they'd nearly passed by.
A tavern? No, the Ragged Flagon. The orphans had made up legends about this place; tales spun for boredom and quiet wonder. The Nord had expected them to be just that; tales. But this seemed real to him. Especially when the back of his head was grabbed and twisted around, forcing tears to his eyes. He was pulled to a man's face, and felt his stomach drop when he was forced to meet the man's yellow glare.
"Vekel doesn't like strangers snooping around the Flagon," he snarled, tensing his huge hand around the redhead's neck.
Brynjolf heard Mercer sigh behind him, sounding utterly annoyed by the display.
"He's not a stranger, just a dumb kid. I'm taking him in, so piss off, Dirge."
The man released Brynjolf, who barely stopped himself from crumpling to his knees from the height he was dropped from. Dirge bent to his level, teeth bared like a wild animal as he hissed.
"I don't care if you're best buddies with the Guild Master. I'll still smash in your skull if you try anything."
The words were muttered into the Nord's ear, sending anger down his spine. He stood up, hooking the man square in the jaw with his left fist, causing him to stumble backwards into a few stacked crates. Behind him, Mercer barked a laugh and grabbed his arm hard.
"I think he'll fit in well," a brunette Nord woman chimed in, smirking at Brynjolf as Mercer dragged the boy away from the furious man and into the cistern. The redhead looked back long enough to see the woman wink at him and give him a sly smile. And he gave her a lopsided grin back.
Mercer pushed him through the door of the cistern, and Brynjolf stumbled into the room, his bare feet sliding unsteadily on the slick stone floor. The huge room seemed to be flooded, housing beds and chests along torch lit walls. It was empty except for the two men, and Mercer slammed the door shut behind him.
"This is it. Nothing special and it's fallen in to quite the disrepair in the past years. Follow me."
His voice was commanding and loud, and its quality hurt Brynjolf's ears in a way that he almost found pleasing. He obeyed the guild master, who walked over to a table and rifled through its drawers, yanking out brown leather armor pieces and shoving them at him. He kicked boots out from under the table, and Brynjolf scooped them up.
"Get dressed."
"Aye." The Nord lifted off his shirt, shoving on the leather and feeling oddly weighted down by it. He jumped into the pants, tying them up as Mercer flipped through a book on his desk, his face lined with annoyance. The Nord slipped on his boots, strapping them and then finally buckled on the bracers, face red with embarrassment as he realized the man had been watching him for the last half of the show.
And then wordlessly, the Breton took something paper-wrapped out of his desk, holding it out to Brynjolf, who hesitated, unsure of whether to take it or not.
"Eat up. There's work to be done and I haven't got all day."
The Nord accepted the food, unwrapping it and taking bites of the cheese and bread it contained. Brynjolf wanted to break the bread open, to hold it against his nose and smell it even though it wasn't warm. The cheese was cool to the touch, and the Nord had to hold himself back from eating it all right then and there. He couldn't remember how long it had been since he'd had something to eat, let alone something that was as sweet and soft as the simple crusted bread in his hands. The thought sent a little twinge of pain to him, and he knew Mercer saw it flash through his eyes.
"Been awhile?" His voice was a little softer, but not much. The haughty tone still remained and grated on Brynjolf's nerves a bit.
Brynjolf nodded, a short sigh escaping him as he swallowed.
"You don't need to worry about that anymore; do your jobs right and you'll be walking around this skeeverhole of a town with a pocket full of coin. But get caught and I am not coming back to get you. Understand?"
For some reason, Brynjolf could sense a lie within his last words. But he simply nodded.
"Aye, sir."
"I'm going to give you a piece of advice, kid. You'd better not get yourself involved with Sapphire. I saw how she looked at you. Even for a thief she's a sneaky bitch and I trust her about as far as you could throw her."
"So you fancy her?"
Mercer looked him dead in the eyes, the muscles on his nose pulling up like a dog with a snarl. "No. I mean what I said."
"Aye."
And then the man's mouth pulled up into a smirk. "I want you to do some fishing for me, kid. Her name's Haelga and she's got something that rightfully belongs to the guild; a dagger. Slip in the whore's house and take it. Don't let her talk you into staying if she sees you."
"What was that?"
"Take her dagger, get out. I thought I made myself clear." Brynjolf could hear the man clench his teeth, and he swallowed a grin.
"I'll be back in five minutes."
The guild master narrowed his eyes. "Don't count on it, and don't get cocky."
The redhead grinned, walking towards the ladder off to the side. He pulled himself up, climbing the rungs and pushing the wooden manhole open, easing through it and pulling the chain hanging down to his right. The ceiling slid away, and the thief grinned. Brilliant. Perfectly hidden in plain view right in the cemetery.
Not a soul recognized him as he walked through the streets of Riften, memories hitting him hard as his boots made the wood under them creak nicely. Haelga stood at a market stand, flirting heavily with the dark elf running it. Brynjolf walked past her, swiping the dagger from its holster with a quick flick of his wrist. She felt and suspected nothing as she inched forward, elbows on the counter, head in her hands as she sweet talked Brand-Shei. Like taking a sweetroll from a dead man.
Brynjolf headed back, looping around the walkway and back through the graveyard, down into the cistern again. He lowered himself from the ladder and twirled the warm knife in his hands, smiling toothily at Mercer as the man raised a brow. The Nord placed the dagger in the table, noting the light from the torches slipping away from the metal in an unnatural way, twisting into something more like fire in the reflection it shone. The weapon had to be enchanted; that's why it was something Mercer wanted.
"Alright," Mercer muttered, rolling his eyes. "So you can be fast. But don't think luck like that is going to save your ass in the long run, kid." An orange sack of coin, tied at the top with yellow twill, was pushed his way and Mercer dismissed him with a wave of his hand.
"Isn't there anything else for me to do?"
The guild master stared at him, steel colored eyes icy as they bored into his own green one's.
"Nothing you can handle, little boy." His teeth were gritted, face tensed like an feral wolf.
Brynjolf let a sneer escape him. "I'm more capable than you seem to think, old man."
The strap across his chest was seized, and Mercer tugged the redhead forward, his face deadly serious. Brynjolf could almost feel rage radiating from him. He shut his eyes and tensed, waiting for the strike that never came. Instead, he slowly opened them to see Mercer's teeth bared. He felt himself being further forced into the desk, his hips pressed against the wood as his chest nearly leaned over it.
"I don't employ smartasses, Brynjolf." The way his name hissed like poison from the man's teeth send a shiver down the younger man's spine.
And for a second, the Nord tensed and he could have sworn that the other man was about to close the thin gap between their faces and kiss him. The stray thread of thought made Brynjolf's ears redden, and the other man released him as he opened his mouth cautiously to say something.
"Do a sweep of the city. Steal valuables as you see fit. Break into houses. At this point I don't care if you get caught. Out of my sight."
"Aye."
The Nord backed away, turning around and making his way back up the ladder and to town, his heart still fluttering like a bird trapped in his ribcage.