A/N: Alright, this is probably the most mature story I've posted to date, so I feel obliged to post a little disclaimer for any kiddies that follow me.

Skyrim is rated M, and I have reflected that in this story. I don't write smut as a matter of principal, but this story WILL contain language, suggestive themes, and graphic violence. You have been warned.

The halls of Snow Veil Sanctum were still and quiet. The draugr either slumbered restlessly or had been thrust back into Oblivion on the end of a blade. The tomb watched with interest as two of the living crept through its halls, pausing on either side of a doorway as they readied their weapons. One, a Breton male, signed to his companion.

She's just through here. Ready to fight?

The other, a Khajiit female, gripped the hilt of her steel battle-axe in one hand, and the blue amulet of Talos about her neck with the other, before signing a reply.

Ready as I'll ever be.

The she-cat darted through the doorway, but before she could even lift her weapon, she felt a sudden stab of pain where her left shoulder met her chest. She looked down, baring her teeth in derision at the arrow embedded in her light armor. The Khajiit ripped it out, tossing it aside and preparing to charge, but her limbs were already starting to feel heavy.

"Ma'joraa?" Her companion exclaimed as she crumpled, her weapon clattering to the floor as the poison invaded her system, but her ears were ringing so loudly that she did not hear him.

Ma'joraa, the Last Dragonborn, could not feel her body. She could move only her eyes—her other limbs were deadweights, and she could only watch as her companion confronted their target alone. To her surprise, they seemed to be talking, though both their weapons were poised to strike.

At length, their target downed a phial of something, and vanished from sight. The Khajiit's companion remained on guard for several moments, before lowering his weapon and turning to approach her.

"How interesting," He drawled, leaning on his blade as he studied the Dragonborn's prostrate figure. "It appears Gallus's history has repeated itself. Karliah has provided me with the means to be rid of you, and this ancient tomb becomes your final resting place."

The Breton knelt at her side, running an almost gentle hand along Ma'joraa's feline brow as he continued. "But do you know what intrigues me the most? The fact that this was all possible because of you."

Ma'joraa's eyes were wide and scared, and the man seemed to notice that.

"It's a pity, really," He murmured, cupping her cheek in his calloused hand, "You showed such promise. You could have easily been the next guildmaster, if only you hadn't stumbled upon this. I could have showed you so much."

The Khajiit whispered something, and the Breton leaned down.

"Hm? What's that?"

"Lah…Haas!" She wheezed out, and the man winced as he felt his already-depleted energy drained even more. But the Thu'um was weakened along with its owner, and could neither incapacitate the man nor strengthen the Khajiit.

"Mm, nice try," the Breton smiled down at her, "But not good enough."

His hand snaked around to the back of her neck, unclasping the blue amulet of Talos she wore before heaving himself upright.

"Farewell, rookie," He said, pocketing the necklace and readying his weapon. "I'll be sure to give Brynjolf your regards."

The she-cat tried desperately to muster another shout, but she could only lay helplessly as the man she had thought was her friend stabbed unmercifully downward.

A ginger-haired Nord leapt upright as the door to the Ragged Flagon banged open, startling the occupants within.

"Mercer, you're back!" He exclaimed, sheathing his dagger. "How did it go? Did you get Karliah? Where's the lass?"

One look at the Breton's stricken face confirmed his worst fears.

"I'm sorry, Brynjolf," Mercer Frey said softly, opening his hand to reveal a blue amulet of Talos. "Ma'joraa saved me from Karliah, and she would have survived if that bitch hadn't poisoned the arrow."

Brynjolf felt as though the air had been driven from him. Ma'joraa, the silent, dragon-voiced lass he had grown so fond of, dead?

"…Was she in pain for long?" He rasped, his voice cracking as he took the amulet.

"No, thank the Divines," Frey replied wearily, "She faded within minutes. She was a good recruit; you did well in bringing her here."

"Perhaps if I hadn't, she'd still be alive," Brynjolf muttered, before turning and heading into the darkness of the cistern.

Once he was well away from the other members of the guild, the Nord let his back hit the wall, gripping the amulet so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He sank to the floor, burying his face in his hands and sobbing quietly.

"Oh, lass, I'm so, so sorry…"