Frostfall, 4E 172
Livius, the smith for the Guild, will always go on about the feel of an ebony weapon, its sharpness and its durability, and how no other make of weapon in the world can possibly stand up to it. Technically, Mercer knows he is correct.
Yet Livius has not dealt in Dwarven swords, which were built for resilience and strength as everything else was with the Dwarves, nor has he seen Chillrend. Glass swords, while they certainly are to be admired for their strength and sharpness, do not quite compare to ebony swords. Chillrend, however, is an exception. Chillrend is not most glass swords.
Mercer does not know the history behind the blade. He knows that it is old, dating back at least 200 years, to the time of the Oblivion Crisis, but beyond that, he knows nothing. Where and when it was forged and who first owned it, and whom it was passed down to, and how it came to be abandoned in Skyrim, he has no knowledge of. But one does not need to know the history behind a blade to respect it; Mercer finds it ridiculous that one would favour an old, weak sword over a new, but strong one. Chillrend may not necessarily be the oldest sword out there—but it is one of the strongest.
He had a taste of its true power for himself mere minutes after he came across it and elected to test it. An enemy had been sneaking up on him; he had turned around and, not being at an angle to plunge it into their chest, had merely been able to make a solid slice across the abdomen. The sword, the only one Mercer knows to make any sort of noise, had hissed as it had done so, a sound he had liked. It had also, he had noticed, emanated a strange sort of vapour—harmless, but a fascinating effect. When it had cut his opponent's abdomen open, the enemy had turned blue and almost frozen, which was an effect Mercer recognised as belonging to frost-enchanted weapons. However, they had also been briefly paralysed. Those two seconds of paralysis had given him just enough time to move and plunge it through their neck.
After that point, there had simply been no other option than to take it. His Dwarven sword is good enough, and a much-appreciated gift from Gallus, but Chillrend is utterly unique and was much too sharp and strong to resist. Initially, wielding it together with his Dwarven sword was troublesome, as dual wielding two swords always is, but Mercer is a master swordsman, indisputably the best in the Guild, and he learned. That he can now wield two swords as easily as most men wield one pleases him greatly.
Of course, to retain such a skill requires continual practice. Mercer spends much of his free time, as he has ever since he found the blade, practising in a small, secluded area a few miles south of Riften, taking full advantage of the training dummies he paid the right people to set up for him. Occasionally, whenever he feels like a spar, he drags someone along, but most people are reluctant to join him—generally because they know he'll beat them bloody. Gallus is the only one who ever regularly agrees. Besides, Mercer generally doesn't do well enough with people—to say the least—to want any company.
Chillrend hisses through the air, a description more literal than Mercer ever thought it could be, and cuts easily through the brittle fabric of the training dummy. A double-edged blade that had blunted somewhat in the evident years since its abandonment, Mercer sharpened it himself as soon as he got back to the Guild from the job he found it on. He would never have trusted Livius with it; Livius is a competent smith, but he does not know how to sharpen an enchanted weapon, and he does not hone weapons to the same edge that Mercer does. No, Mercer was always resolved to keep the blade entirely to himself; the other members of the Guild know of its existence, but they also know far better than to question him about it. Gallus is the only one who dares.
His left arm plummets down with the blade, but he keeps it at the ready as his right arm, holding the Dwarven sword, also swings down to cut through the training dummy. In the next instant, he raises both arms, crossing the two swords in a move that would trap a weapon between them if he was fighting an enemy. After that would come a veritable pushing contest, as he struggled to push the weapon out of their hands while they struggled to break his grip. It is not the most effective of moves, but it has its purposes, and so he practises with it.
The move, when he performs it, is not as fast as it could be. Sighing, he drops his arms and then does it again. Execution is everything, and what good is a flawed execution? He recalls the words one of his training masters back home in Northpoint said to him and his brothers and sister once—"Don't practise until you get it right. Practise until you never get it wrong."
Mercer cannot say his old life in High Rock gave him much to draw on for his new life in Skyrim beyond a hatred of court politics and intrigue, but that was useful advice indeed, coming from a man who certainly knew what he was doing. The words always come back to him whenever he is getting frustrated during his training and motivate him to keep pushing forward, sometimes past the boundaries of reasonable limits. If Mercer is known for anything other than his temper, it is undeniably his stubbornness, and that pleases him.
Twenty, twenty-five, thirty—fifty times in total he repeats the move until he is certain he has got it down pat (and having grown up being trained by the knights of High Rock, Mercer considers himself a good judge of these things). Then, another fifty, to make absolutely certain. Many hate having to maintain a skill—Mercer, perversely, enjoys it. He can't explain why—he just does.
He is preparing himself to perform a set of a different move entirely when he hears footsteps approaching in his direction. Familiar sounding footsteps they are, but nevertheless, caution is tantamount and so he spins around and readies the swords. As he's been practising for nearly two hours on end, he feels he could easily take on whatever steps out of the trees. That feeling is not unjustified; nobody in the Guild wants to get on the wrong end of his blade, a fact that gives him no small amount of pride.
"One day, Mercer," a voice from the shadows says amusedly, "I'll approach you when you're not expecting it and you won't draw your swords on me."
Mercer lowers the swords, feeling his mouth twist into its usual scowl. The owner of the voice no doubt sees it because he laughs and steps out of the shadows, casually crossing his arms. He is an Imperial man of no more than average height, slender and graceful-looking, his eyes light blue, his hair short, straight, and pitch black, and his face—as Mercer has heard other people describe it—pretty rather than handsome. He smiles lightly at him, unperturbed by his scowl, and raises a thin eyebrow.
"You can never be too careful," is Mercer's response, somewhat defensive but also rather snappish. Gallus' smile widens into a grin.
"Even around very old friends?" he questions. "You must know my footsteps by now, man. I know yours, and I don't raise my dagger to you."
Mercer raises a challenging eyebrow right back at him. "That would be because you're a fool," he tells him. "You're the only man in our profession I know who takes hardly any precautions for his own safety. Sometimes I wonder how you have survived this long with your recklessness."
Gallus chuckles and shrugs, coming closer to him so that he is standing within speaking range. "But I have survived, yes? It has not done me any harm so far, has it?"
He shakes his head, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. "So far," he repeats. "One of these days, Gallus, you'll do something wrong, and you'll pay the price for it. You mark my words."
"That day will come when it will come," Gallus says carelessly, "and when it does, you'll be with me to help me get out of it. You always have been in the past."
He doesn't bother suppressing the urge this time and exaggerates it so that Gallus can see in the darkness what he is doing. The man laughs. "You have my loyalty, yes," Mercer concedes, "but I repeat, you are a fool. What shall you do if I happen not to be there when that day comes? Are you so foolish as to ignore that possibility?"
"Do you think that little of me?" Gallus asks him in turn, with mock offence. "I may be an incautious man, Mercer, but I'm not that terrible. No, if you're not here to have my back, then I promise you I will be more careful. But that day has not yet arrived and you are still here with me. I have plenty of room to do as I will."
"You tempt the gods more and more with every word you speak," Mercer says, shaking his head again. He sheathes his blades and folds his own arms. "Anything could happen."
"Almost anything," Gallus corrects him. He eyes Chillrend. "I can't yet imagine a situation where I'd be on the wrong end of your blade, for example."
He will concede to that, at least. "No, nor can I," he admits.
In the dark, he can see Gallus grinning. "Touching," he says cheerfully. "May want to be careful with that, Mercer. You're starting to sound human."
"I may put my blade to your throat if you breathe a word of that to anyone," Mercer immediately says. "There's a situation for you."
"Ah, but could you slit my throat?"
"Do you want to tempt me?" Mercer retorts. His hand even goes to the Dwarven sword, the same sword that Gallus made a gift for him. The Imperial man takes a step back, but Mercer can see on his face that he's not taking a bit of this seriously. This is how it is between them—he doles out endless vitriol and biting, acerbic sarcasm, and Gallus holds his own but uses his perennial charm and politeness as his weapon and shield. Most of the Guild doesn't quite understand the dynamic, especially because you couldn't have two men less alike in personality, but after nine years, the two of them understand it very well.
"Maybe not," Gallus concedes. Mercer's hand drifts from his sword and he crosses his arms again.
After a brief silence, he asks, "Has the result of the vote been determined yet?"
Gallus nods. "It has. That's why I came out to speak to you. You should have been there for it, Mercer."
It is his turn to shrug. "I was unwilling to wait around," he says. "Deciding on a new Guildmaster is the higher-ups' business, not ours. Let them get on with it, I say."
His old friend snorts and steps out of the shadows, heading over to a nearby rock to sit down. Mercer joins him, happy for a break. As he sits next to him and examines him in the moonlight, he notices Gallus looks terribly pale, paler than he usually is. He makes no comment; Gallus is a forthright man—paradoxically enough—and he will make mention of it at some point.
If nothing else, there are no secrets between the two of them.
"You should have seen the tension in there, at any rate," Gallus comments, looking directly ahead. "You could have cut through it with Chillrend—or smashed it with one of those great war hammers the Nords are so fond of—and there would have been plenty left over. When Lorchel came in from the Cistern to announce it…" He shakes his head. "A few people looked like they were going to piss themselves. I know I felt like it."
"I didn't need to know that," Mercer says wryly. "So, who are we bowing and scraping to now? Lorchel?" Lorchel is a Bosmer woman that even Mercer has some respect for, and his respect is a thing hard earned; she's indisputably one of the best in the Guild, probably its longest-serving member, and would make a good Guildmaster.
Gallus grows still paler, and he shakes his head, looking at his feet. Mercer can tell from his body language that he's nervous and uncomfortable, and he begins to suspect. "No," Gallus says. "Not Lorchel. Not even one of the higher-ups."
"You're telling me they voted in a junior to be the new Guildmaster." Mercer's tone is flat. He knows the Guild's history and he knows that this is a rarity, to say the least.
"They did." Gallus looks up at him, an awkward smile playing around the corners of his lips—so much for his suave demeanour. "Will you believe it, Mercer? It's me. The majority vote was for me."
Mercer does feel some genuine surprise, but at the same time—he's not surprised at all. He lets neither emotion show and instead cracks a smirk. "Will I believe it? Just how thick are you?"
Gallus raises an eyebrow at him again. "Thick?"
"Are you surprised? I myself am not. And I doubt anyone else is, either."
"But—why?" Gallus looks genuinely confused. He gesticulates somewhat wildly with his hand. "Why?"
Mercer doesn't bother containing his disbelief at this. "Are you honestly telling me you didn't see this coming?"
Gallus nods and Mercer throws back his head and groans. "My gods, you are thick," he says exasperatedly. He looks down, piercing Gallus' light blue eyes with his green ones, and shakes his head. "You're the best thief in the Guild, Gallus, there's no denying that. You're so brilliant with people that you've made friends—and close ones—out of your marks, for fuck's sake. You bring in more coin in a month than most thieves do in a year. You've proven yourself a natural leader when you've been given the chance. You know all that. And you come to me and ask me why you're the new Guildmaster? Are you fishing for compliments?"
"No! Absolutely not!" Gallus immediately protests. His tone is slightly desperate, but Mercer can tell it's sincere. He rolls his eyes again.
"So you're thick, then," he says. "Gods above. How does a man like you manage to be so intelligent and so foolish at the same time? Of all your accomplishments, I daresay that just might be your greatest."
The smile that crosses Gallus' face is genuinely pleased and embarrassed. He looks down, blushing furiously.
"I know all that," he admits. "It's just… gods, Mercer, you and I haven't been in the Guild ten years. We're not thirty years old. The higher-ups are every bit as good as you and I. I'd have voted for Lorchel if I'd had the chance."
"One thing that can be said for this Guild is that it's meritocratic," Mercer informs him. "They clearly thought you were the best person for the job. Although—"
Gallus cuts him off with an amused look on his face. "That sounds like a compliment coming out of your mouth, Frey. Remember what I said earlier?"
Mercer continues in a somewhat sharper tone. "Although I'm starting to think they may have made the wrong choice."
The new Guildmaster laughs aloud and stares appreciatively at him. "Only you, Mercer, only you could deliver a compliment and follow it up with an insult and pull it off so flawlessly. One can't help but admire it."
"It's what I do," Mercer says casually. He's very well aware of the fact that most people would consider him a massive arsehole; he's equally well aware of the fact nearly everyone in the Guild does. They, for their parts, are well aware that he doesn't give half a damn. Gallus, for some reason even he cannot fathom, is much more willing to tolerate it than most. Mercer can't help but think sometimes that his endless patience for people is also going to get him in trouble someday. "Somebody has to keep everybody else's egos in check."
"And you do a very good job of it," Gallus admits, in a more cheerful tone.
"I'm sure I'll do plenty of it now that you're in charge," he tells him, something like genuine mirth and fondness in his voice. There are times when his ribbing becomes more playful, less vicious, and this looks to be one of them. The truth is, he's genuinely glad for his friend, and though he won't say it, he thinks that if he had had the chance to vote, he would have voted for Gallus himself.
Gallus smiles with almost mock gratitude. "I may need it," he admits. "Don't want being Guildmaster going to my head."
"And getting a larger share of the cut," Mercer reminds him.
"That, too," he says with a grin, nodding once.
After another brief pause, Mercer asks him, "What's the first thing on your agenda, do you know?"
Gallus laughs again and says, "Like Oblivion if I do! The others advised me to get a second-in-command, though—somebody to manage daily operations while I handle the big business."
"In other words," Mercer remarks at once, with his usual sarcasm, "to take the shit after you eat."
"I suppose that's one way of looking at it, yes," Gallus says, though he seems a little miffed by Mercer's coarseness. It's nothing especially new; Gallus may not have come from a particularly refined background (though neither did he come from the gutter), but he himself is such a refined man that the filthier side of Mercer's sense of humour always rubs him slightly the wrong way. For his part, Mercer always says he has a stick up his arse with regards to that—and has no problem with describing it quite graphically.
"Well, I can't imagine the higher-ups didn't immediately volunteer themselves as soon as they processed the news." He raises a questioning eyebrow.
Gallus nods, mouth twisting. "They did indeed. Some of the juniors were emboldened to ask as well, can you imagine?"
Mercer snorts. "I don't see why not. If a junior can become Guildmaster, then a junior can become his second-in-command. Do you have anyone in mind?"
There's another silence, in which Gallus seems to be steeling himself for something. He looks up at him and says, "Well, see, Mercer, that's the other reason why I came out to talk to you. I want you to be my second-in-command."
Now, there's an interesting development. Mercer's eyebrows briefly shoot up his head, but he furrows his brow quickly enough and turns away, chewing on his lip as he thinks it over.
Once again, he honestly can't say he's surprised. He and Gallus have been partners since they were nineteen years old, young thieves new to Skyrim and just cutting their teeth in the business. Since they met and Gallus won him over with his charm—really, even Mercer will admit it's impossible not to like Gallus, he's that charismatic—they've done more or less everything together. They've explored and looted old ruins together, they joined the Guild together, they've gone on jobs together. Them becoming leaders of the Guild together is only a natural progression.
And it makes sense, too. They won't need to take the time to develop a rapport or get in sync. Mercer is everything that Gallus is not, and so they'd balance each other out perfectly, which is always good for a leader and his second-in-command. Being in charge together, they could impose some of their ideas of how things should be run around the Guild, and enact some of the grand heists they've been planning for years. Gallus would be answerable to nobody, generally, and Mercer would be answerable to only him. He could go on.
Truly, the only real disadvantage Mercer can see is that he'd have to be responsible for the entire Guild and its workings. As Gallus said, he may be in charge—but he handles the big things and the Guild overall. His second-in-command must, by necessity, handle the day-to-day operations that are arguably more important in the grand scheme of things. Mercer has never considered himself a leader, and he doesn't know how well he could do in that particular area—especially because half of it will involve dealing with people. And with the singular exception of Gallus, Mercer doesn't deal well with people.
"Your silence is not reassuring, Mercer," Gallus breaks in. He tries to sound humorous, but there's a distinct note of nervousness in his voice—no doubt, he has some fear or other about Mercer turning him down. Mercer hadn't considered that the request might be that personal, but now that he thinks about it…
"I'm thinking, I'm thinking," he says. He looks back at Gallus. "It's quite the offer you're making me."
"If it's any help," Gallus says, "you'd be getting a larger share of the cuts, too."
Mercer laughs. "That is true," he acknowledges with a nod. "But I think there's more to being a second-in-command than just the benefits. Tell me, are you being meritocratic or are you promoting me because I'm your closest friend?" Sometimes it amazes him that he can say that without boast or inaccuracy, given Gallus' diverse set of acquaintances.
Gallus chuckles, his face flushing. "I promise I'm being meritocratic. I wouldn't have come to you with this offer if I didn't honestly think you could be good at it. I mean, we'll have to work on your, er—"
"People skills?" Mercer suggests sardonically.
"Yeah, those," Gallus says with an embarrassed smile. "But I mean, apart from those, I think you'd do great. And as much as I trust all the other higher-ups—I don't trust them quite as much as I trust you. Which is probably what it comes down to in the end."
"Not if they're incompetent," Mercer remarks. He chews on his lip and glances away again, very aware of Gallus' hopeful, eager eyes on him. He would be hard-pressed to let his friend down, but all the same, he has to think of himself and the practical considerations. He supposes that, when all is said and done, what it really comes down to is whether the benefits outweigh the disadvantages or not.
For some time more, he weighs it all up in his mind, silently debating with himself, while Gallus watches with increasing anxiety to the right of him. A very small part of him wants to humour Gallus on the basis of Gallus being his friend and he doesn't want to let him down, but he ignores that part easily enough. Mercer has always been a pragmatic man, even where Gallus was concerned, and this is a big thing that Gallus is asking of him. Affection must not overrule practicality.
But, finally, he looks back at Gallus again and says, "You know what? I'll do it. Offer accepted."
Gallus' face splits into a wide, relieved smile. "You will? Oh, thank the gods! And thank you!"
Mercer raises an eyebrow. "It wouldn't have been that much of a disaster if I'd refused, Gallus," he says. "There are plenty of others who would be just as suitable."
The Imperial man shrugs, looking embarrassed again. "I know, I know. But I was really hoping you would do this. I cannot wait to see how this Guild runs now that you and I are in charge."
"You don't have to wait," Mercer points out. "You could start changing things tomorrow, quite frankly."
"True," Gallus says. "But I need time to settle in. I still find it hard to believe I'm Guildmaster at all."
"Well, you'd better get used to it quickly. Nobody has any use for a Guildmaster who wanders around in a daze all day."
Gallus laughs. "And with you around, I'm sure I won't be," he says fondly. "But speaking of which, we should get back. The others will be wanting to speak to me, and I'm sure they'll want to know you're now my second-in-command. Then, tomorrow morning…" He pauses and shakes his head, looking stunned. "Gods, I don't even know."
"Tomorrow will come when it will come," Mercer says, rising to his feet at the same time as Gallus. "But, getting back to what we were talking about earlier—see, this is more reason for you to be careful. Nobody has any use for a Guildmaster who has no regard for his own life, either."
Finally, much to his hidden relief, Gallus nods in acknowledgement. "A very fair point," he concedes. "All right, Mercer, I swear to you, I'll be more careful from here on out."
"That's all I'm asking for," Mercer says. Gallus grins at him, and the two of them head back out of the forest and towards Riften in a comfortable, companionable silence.
The previous Guildmaster lasted fifteen years.
Gallus lasted only four.