On the third night, Brynjolf had a dream. That alone would have been fine. He had lots of dreams, some that he proudly told to the whole Guild when the chance arose, and some he preferred to keep to himself. His dreams could usually be sorted into two categories – the ones where he managed to steal the damn thing, and the ones that sent him down the shame pit and ended up with the angered cougar face of Maven Black-Briar being the last thing he saw.

On this night, he had managed to steal the damn thing and he greatly regretted it. This he would never tell the Guild. Especially Delvin, the son of a blasted daedra.

He was perched on the rooftop of Mercer's house, a feat he liked to perform to prove to himself he could outflank his own guildmaster. The night was ripe, the moons dancing in the sky in perfect balance of Masser's crimson and Secunda's gold, extending a silent invitation. He watched them, pondering. That alone was odd – Brynjolf never needed to ponder anything. He was all about action. Contemplations were for the weak. Yet here he was, watching the skies, deep in thought.

Someone joined him there. He shot the person an alarmed look, then recognized the silhouette contrasting the torch lights rising from the city below. At his side sat Rune, shoulders stooped and face turned downward to the silent streets. Brynjolf let out a relieved breath. It was just Rune, nothing to be afraid of. It was just…

He froze. Not only had Rune invaded his private spot that he reserved for moments of triumph, but Brynjolf accepted it?! Since when was he so benevolent toward the cheerful youngster? No, that was… wrong.

He patted Rune on the shoulder, brows furrowed a little more than he normally would. "Whatever might you be doing here?"

His companion flashed him the brightest of smiles. "You've done it, Bryn. You've finally done it."

"Done what?"

"Performed the greatest theft in history," he said, face so angelic that it made Brynjolf want to melt on the spot.

Now we're talking, the redhair thought to himself, finally easing up. So this was about business. Nothing to be afraid of. But there was this unsettling flicker in Rune's eyes, and he did not like it one bit. What kind of theft was he talking anyway?

"Remind me what I did?" he asked with utter cautiousness.

He winced as Rune suddenly pulled him into an embrace, arms wrapping tightly around him. He could feel his breath tickle his skin as the youngster whispered in his ear. "You stole my heart."

Brynjolf sat up abruptly, struggling against the blanket he had somehow managed to wrap around himself so tightly that it threatened to squeeze the life out of him. By Nocturnal, this was not happening to him. For the past three days, the whole Guild had been laughing at him! He would not stand for this sort of ridicule any longer. On this day, things would go back to normal.

He scrambled out of his bed, giving wide yawns to the semi-empty Cistern. Niruin watched him out of the corner of his eye, hands on his bow, not missing a single mark. To Brynjolf's utter annoyance, the archer's lips quirked up in a smile at the sight of him.

"So happy to bring you to good humor on this morning," he growled, eyes two caustic slits.

"Indeed!" the elf quipped, slinging the bow over his back as he approached Brynjolf and patted him on the shoulder. "Heard Maven is considering adding a publishing company to her name. Apparently, Skyrim people are finding a sudden interest in literature."

"Yeah, and I suppose I can look forward to a life of a celebrity. What a wonderful idea."

"Come on, Bryn, chin up! Life's beautiful! For you, it could be blooming roses. Look, there's your better half!" He winked as the door from the Ragged Flagon opened, revealing a somewhat ragged Rune. If memory served Brynjolf right, he was returning from a heist. But the very sight of Brynjolf made Rune brighten up with a smile that was maybe too wide for his own good and the redhead quickly turned away.

"I shall be going," he muttered and made for the ladder to the Riften graveyard. Morning romance was the last thing he needed, especially now that Maven was on his tail. He would have a good word with her. Knowing Maven, she would pour gold over him and make him a statue if it brought her more fame and wealth. And he needed to prevent that.

He rushed outside, stealing his breakfast from Thrynn's tray before the former bandit could notice a thing. Nibbling on a piece of Eidar cheese, he greeted the citizens outside, many of him his loyal and ever foolish customers that he needed to pamper. The smile on his face was entirely forced, but fortunately, none of these simpletons realized it. He stopped just before the Black-Briar Meadery, quickly constructing a convincing speech that would not sound as though he was undermining her authority (which he indeed was, and Oblivion help him if he found a way to destroy it once and for all). But as his hand touched the brass handle of the entrance door, he paused, lips suddenly widening in a triumphant grin. She hated to be ridiculed, did she not? The answer was at hand, and it would solve so many problems at once. Of course!

He scurried back to the Cistern, eyes frantic with sudden ardor at the prospect of peace, and people promptly fell back to clear the way for him. A number of raised eyebrows welcomed him as he shot into the underground Guild lair and buried his upper half in his chest. He had put the so-called story at the very bottom of it, refusing to risk a single look, but now it was a treasure. A key to the way out.

And he read. He studied every single letter of it, every line and curve, ignoring calls from his guildmates announcing that "Brynjolf has finally lost it!" and "Rejoice! The Guild is now walking the path of love!" He only paused when Mercer Frey, the Guildmaster himself, stopped by, looming as much as his slight Breton figure allowed him.

"And I presume we are baking strawberry sweetrolls tomorrow?" he purred, but underneath it was that hoarse, threatening growl that only Mercer could produce. "Shall I be your witness when the two of you finally exchange them and slide them over each other's lower member?"

Brynjolf paled at that, cursing the Breton for pronouncing the last word with such distinct tastefulness. By the time the Guildmaster left his dumbfounded second-in-command to his thoughts, the whole Cistern was roaring with laughter and the redhair felt waves of hot and cold wash over him in turns. He clenched his fists, but did not stop. This needed to be done.

After several hours that felt like eternity, he finally emerged from the depths of the underground complex, gripping a folder with a handful of papers inside. The first thing to welcome him at the round central plaza was the sight of Mjoll the Lioness, the self-righteous paladin savior of Riften, followed by her lackey Aerin and a person he had not seen before, clad in the standard Riften guard armor. They passed him, Mjoll shooting him a look of utter disgust. The new guard threw him a somewhat irked look.

"What're you lookin' at?!" he snapped, catching Brynjolf off-guard. He silently congratulated the man for turning the Guild against himself. "Ah, let me guess. Someone stole your sweetroll!"

You're dead meat, the thief swore to himself, turning around. It was time to finally face Maven, and all the aces were in his hands.

As soon as he entered the meadery, a pungent smell filled his nostrils and made his brows wrinkle. How he hated the stench. It reminded him of Vex's socks when she took them off after a heist, and that alone was a smell that hurt just to remember. He sailed through the small crowd of people at the front hall where all the supposed business occurred and entered the rear parts where the real business took place. And business he meant.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," he heard a familiar raspy voice utter behind him and turned around to face Maven herself. How she had managed to creep past him was beyond his understanding. "Our newest little star. I hope you didn't come to discuss increase in your commissions as there will be none. I haven't heard of any Guild contribution lately. But then again, if you and that whelp you keep do a public performance, I might consider not stomping on your head."

"Oh dear Maven, if only you knew," Brynjolf purred, giving her the softest and most compassionate smile he could produce. "I have taken the liberty of doing a little inspection in the house of my newest admirer and I must say I am deeply concerned. After all… you wouldn't want this to end up in the wrong hands."

He handed her the folder. She snatched it without asking. People like Maven never asked and he was more than grateful for that. Upon scanning the first paper, her face slowly grew from smug to unsettled to utterly outraged. He found the change in her expression quite amusing. But then again, when one gets to read their own love story, things can quickly escalate to the fires of Oblivion. Especially when it contains phrases like:

Maven smiled and wrapped her arms around the plump little girl, caressing her round, rosy cheeks. "I can only be myself with you," she sighed softly, burying her head in the other one's hair. "I would trade all the mead in the world for you. I would give you the whole of me. No, I will give you the whole of me! I have to have you! Please!"

And on it went. Maintaining a serious expression took Brynjolf tremendous effort. Maven was shaking with anger, and for once, he was thrilled by it. After all, it is not every day that one gets to fool Maven Black-Briar, cornered by her own pride. Sweet Nocturnal, forgery was such a beautiful craft. Brynjolf was seriously considering a shift in profession.

"Not a word of this will get around, or there are going to be some mysterious disappearances of people that no one will ever miss." She clutched and crumpled the papers, storming off into the streets. Brynjolf grinned to himself inwardly. Things were going according to the plan.

It had taken Maven less than an hour to convince the right people to take care of the paperwork and the uncomfortable woman as well. No one would damage her reputation – that was a rule the whole Riften knew and honored, or else there would be consequences. A beautiful rule, Brynjolf thought to himself. One that was easily exploited when you knew your way around.

He rubbed his hands in satisfaction. Upon entering the Cistern, he learned that Rune had mysteriously vanished from the Ratway complex, but that did not worry him. He would be back sooner or later, and when he arrived, everything would be over.

Brynjolf unpacked his best set of the Thieves Guild armor. He had never worn this one. Its buckles were shining like a mirror, the leather was clean and unscratched and the lacing did not need any mending, unlike the one he usually wore. It had some extra pockets and belts to attach a good number of weapons, both inside and outside. This time, Brynjolf chose to make the daggers attached to his feet as visible as he could. A number of darts, pins and tiny knives were clipped to the hem of his sleeves. Up where they were, they served no real purpose, but to a normal person, the sight alone would be enough to make them squirm like a cornered skeever. He nodded to himself, satisfied with his reflection in the stale Cistern water, and headed out once more.

At the prison entrance, he greeted the guard, exchanging the prearranged sign. Everyone else knew better than to look his way. Three guards in the central block were too busy with playing a game of dice. The prisoners were generally the ones he had sent there previously, averting their eyes and clutching their fists in silence. The woman he sought was at the very back, in a fortified cell guarded by a pile of steel-hard muscles clad in a few scarce leather straps. Next to him was a giant warhammer, propped against the moldy wall.

"Whatever you want, get out," he grunted as he cracked his knuckles.

"I wish to speak to the prisoner," Brynjolf said in a conversational tone as though he had not heard the threat. The man stared at him incredulously. Obviously, Brynjolf was the first person who ever tried to oppose him.

"Are you deaf? Get. Out."

"Maven Black-Briar sent me," the thief shrugged.

"Riiight. The same Maven Black-Briar that told me to only let her in?"

Brynjolf put up an angelic smile. He just loved his type. "Mmm, better check your orders, darling. Things can get pretty fickle around here."

"I'm sorry, what did you just call me?"

The redhair groped about his pocket and leaned to him as he withdrew a pouch. He weighed it in his hand, letting the ringing sound fill the space between them, then pressed it into his bear hand. "I called you a darling," he whispered. "Now, do we have a deal?"

The man stared at the pouch, most likely seeing such an amount for the first time in his life, and that's when Brynjolf knew he had him. His smile widened and he gave the man a light pat on the shoulder. "It is yours," he affirmed. "So do we have a deal?"

"Y-yessir!" the man blurted out as he made way for the thief, propping himself against the neighboring cell and pretending nothing had happened. Brynjolf took his original place, watching the person behind the bars out of the corner of his eye.

"So," he addressed her, adopting an unsettlingly casual tone, "we finally meet again, my fair lady."

"You!" she spat, pressing herself to the damp wall at the back of the cell just to keep as far away from Brynjolf as she could. "You're the one who…"

"You know very well who I am," he told her, fingers sliding over the hilt of one of his many daggers.

"A blasted, vengeful…"

"Now now, let us calm down, shall we?"

"And what good will that do me, hm?!"

"Perhaps it will give you back your freedom." He waited, hiding his smile as he heard her exhale. There was a momentary silence, then she took a step closer.

"I'm listening," she said.

"Good. Your task is simple. I'll get you a quill and some papers, you'll write me a story. How does that sound?"

"And where's the catch?"

"None, except it must be written just as I tell you."

"So what would the story be about?"

"I want you to write how I broke Rune's heart and he came to his senses." Brynjolf could not believe himself. Here he was, asking a crazy woman to write him a story just so he would be free of his nightmare. She took a while to respond, making his uneasiness feel unbearable.

"Sorry," she said at last, "but I can't do that."

"Then I guess I'll just have to provide Maven with some solid evidence that you are indeed trying to take her place," he shrugged, turning to her with a smile. The woman paled visibly and stretched out her hands in a gesture of defense.

"No! You can't! You wouldn't…"

"Oh I would. So?"

"Please! You must understand! I had to do it!"

"You had to do what?"

"Write that story! Spread rumors… you know! He said you'd kill him! And he'd have my head! He looked like such a nice young lad at first, how was I supposed to know he was with the Guild?! Riften is such a rotten place…" She started sobbing. Ugly as she was, the tears made her frog face look even worse. Brynjolf usually liked sobbing people. They meant profit. But not this time. Despite himself, he pressed his face to the bars, eyeing her with keen interest.

"Care to elaborate?"

"Y-your guildmate! The young one, Rune! He came to me a few days back, just like you! Why does the Guild take such pleasure in threats?!"

There was a click in his mind as the pieces of the puzzle came together. Brynjolf clutched the bars, wiping off a good portion of rust. "Rune made you write it? What for?"

"Well… that's…"

Brynjolf was waiting, his back against a fallen tree trunk. The moons were beautiful again. They mirrored in the glistening surface of lake Honrich, dancing as a freshly wed pair. Despite the season, the breeze was warm tonight, brushing against his skin with the lightness of a dove's feather.

He heard footsteps in the grass but did not have to look up to know who was coming. Rune joined him, settling himself just beside him. His armor was down, his light tunic slightly revealing his shoulder. A sweet smell filled Brynjolf's nostrils. The youngster was freshly washed and perfumed, giving off the scent of pines and lavender.

"Good choice," he told Brynjolf. "I like the scenery. It makes me want to fly over there." And he pointed to the sea of deep blue above, dotted with flickering stars.

"The skies are no place for a thief," Brynjolf snorted.

"Tell that to them," Rune said, gesturing up. The redhair followed the line from his fingertips and his eyes found the Thief sign. Of course. It was the middle of Evening Star and the Thief watched over Nirn. "And by the way, I brought some sweetrolls." He pressed a package in Brynjolf's hand.

"Good," Brynjolf nodded, lips curling up in a smile. "Make your life as sweet as possible while you can."

That made the youngster freeze, staring at him with sudden uncertainty. "B-Bryn… I thought you called me here to…"

"Yes?"

"Well, you know… w-what is it then?"

Brynjolf sat up, fingers interlacing as he leaned to his companion. His face was inches from Rune's. He smiled and bared his teeth like a madman.

"I had a good talk with our seer friend in the prison," he informed him. The words had immediate effect as Rune's face twisted in unconcealed fear.

"B-but… whatever that poor wretch said… you wouldn't believe it, would you?"

"Oh, no. You're right, I always double check my facts. But then again, can you tell me, my dear friend, why I couldn't find my potion flasks? And when I did find them, in the sewers, mind you, they were all broken and their contents spilled over certain very valuable piece of garment?"

"W-well…"

"And to top it off, you had to pull this kind of trick…"

"But you did kind of fall for it…"

"… and make a complete fool out of me?!"

"Umm, Bryn? Let's just calm down, okay? Have a sweetroll, watch the skies…"

"And slide it over my member, that's what you mean?" All the color retreated from Rune's face. "Whatever were you thinking?!"

"Well… y'know… you're a sweet soul… I thought you'd forget by the time you snapped out of this, well… gods, but you really are funny when you get serious."

Brynjolf's face now matched his hair in color and he had to strain himself not to jump at his guildmate and grab him by the collar. He took a deep breath.

"Indeed," he said, his voice now dead calm. "Well, Rune, I am counting to three."

"Oh Bryn…"

"One."

"Come on…"

"Two."

"Fine, enjoy your sweetrolls!"

"Three!"

And he was gone. Brynjolf watched as the youngster darted away, leaving him there with the package. He opened it, examining the frosting. A piece of art. If only he liked sweets.

After a long while of staring at the lake and ruminating over the meaning of life or something along those lines, he gathered himself and made for the city. It had been a long day and this story would live with him as long as Delvin was walking the surface of Nirn. Damn that scheming brat to Oblivion.

He walked through the side gate and appeared just a few steps from the graveyard. A guard was patrolling the area and he could recognize the new recruit. The fool passed him, blinding him with a torch that he held close to his face. Brynjolf scowled and suppressed a cuss. The guard pointed to the graveyard.

"Looking for something in that area?" he asked, clearly oblivious to the Guild's existence. Brynjolf stared at him in disbelief.

"New around Riften?" he said with a hint of scoff. "Let me give you a piece of advice. Don't ask questions. It won't end well."

"Oh, let me guess. Someone stole your…"

Brynjolf took the contents of his hand and smashed them against the man's helmet.

"You did. Just now."

And he walked away.

The next day, a guard mysteriously disappeared from Riften and the Thieves Guild whispered of bittersweet love and broken hearts. And Delvin Mallory's nose became mysteriously fixed.