Brynjolf tested the drawer a second time, just to confirm that it was indeed locked. It was a strange feeling, sitting at Mercer's desk and sorting through possible leads, and each drawer called to him with the possibility of what might lay inside. Unlocking them wasn't the problem. It was Mercer knowing that he'd tampered with the desk, and his curiosity wasn't worth going down that road. There was also the matter of respect. Perhaps they didn't always see eye-to-eye, but Mercer was the guildmaster, and there was no sense prying into the man's affairs.
He read through several scraps of paper, cryptic words hinting at jobs from those too shy or cautious to contact the guild directly. A word in the right ear would get their offer to the nether regions of Riften just as effectively as formal contact.
Brynjolf handed one of the leads to Vex, and sat back, again studying the drawers. He'd often sat here while Gallus leaned over the desk, the man working and glancing up at him with a smile. They'd talked news, weather, theft, religion—anything. He couldn't believe that Karliah had returned after such a long absence and with blood on her hands. Not for the first time, he wondered whether Mercer and Prim would find the woman on their trip, and what the consequence would be. Certainly neither of them would go down without a fight, and Prim was a companion.
But why had Mercer taken her?
Fragments of reason drifted through his mind, incomplete, and perhaps it was better that way. As much as he respected Mercer, he imagined the man's head an unpleasant place to be. Cynicism and harsh practicality were qualities he'd rather not embrace too fully as he recognized them in his boss, and there was also the contempt that came all too easily to the man.
He reached out and tested the bottommost drawer, the only one that he hadn't yet checked. It slid open, and with surprise, he found himself staring at a pile of discarded paper. Information on Goldenglow, he realized. Goldenglow, and Honningbrew, and a map peppered with x's. For a moment, he didn't comprehend what he was seeing, and when realization struck, he stiffened. Just how many places had Mercer searched or had others search in an effort to find Karliah?
"Shit," he mumbled, refolding the map. The entire drawer was a testament to Mercer's work on recent events and his hunt for the woman who'd nearly destroyed the guild, but there was more. Quick fingers located a series of documents that clearly had nothing to do with Karliah. No one was mentioned by name, but their content and organization in a separate pile made him freeze.
"The Companions recently took on a new recruit," he read. "She's already made a name for herself by saving a village from frost wraiths. She owns Breezehome in Whiterun..." He flipped to the next letter, mouth dry. "I've found what you wanted. A bounty was put on a woman's head for stealing from and supposedly killing the king, but it was only circulated in select circles. They didn't want word to get out about the cause of death. They...Shadows take it!" Brynjolf cursed, replacing all of the documents and slamming the drawer shut.
Since when had Mercer taken such an interest in Prim, and why in Oblivion was she lumped in the same drawer with Karliah? So little captured the man's attention these days, most guild jobs never even reaching his desk. It might mean nothing since the master thief was thorough by nature, but Brynjolf's gut twisted.
"Playing king while Mercer's gone?"
He looked up to find Delvin licking jam from his fingers and grinning, a roll in one hand.
"I'm not playing at anything," he sharply replied.
"Oh? And what's got you all worked up? Don't tell me Maven needs something. She's been a real pain in the ass lately."
"I wish it were Maven."
"That bad, huh?" Delvin adopted a more serious expression, gritty voice lowering. "You haven't heard word from Mercer yet, have you? They've only been gone a day."
"No," Brynjolf dismissed. "But don't you find it strange that he took Prim with him?"
"Ah, so that's what it is," Delvin nodded, as though he'd known it all along. "Caught my eye, alright. When was the last time Mercer even did a job? He only handles the real special cases, and with our luck lately, there hasn't been much demand for that. If you're hung up on this little trip, you'd best get your britches straightened. Your girl's been doing a damn fine job proving herself, and it's probably best that Mercer isn't just bitching around the cistern."
"That's exactly my point. Mercer scoffs at almost every job that comes across this desk, but sometimes that certain job comes along."
"Not lately," Delvin ruefully noted.
"Aye, and how many members has he done more with than give the formal speech? He barely spoke a word to the last recruit. The only things he considers worth his time are clients like Maven and now Karliah, who he's obsessed with finding. He was the same way with difficult jobs when gold ran through here like water."
"He was always a picky bastard," Delvin agreed.
"And once he picked a job, he had to win. When something captures his attention, it's never half-way."
"That's...I see what you mean, but Prim can handle herself."
Delvin bit into his roll, and Brynjolf calmly studied the desk once more.
"He could push her to be the best thief in Skyrim," the redhead mused. "But he's never shown concern when someone fails and gets themselves killed or jailed either. She has a lot to learn yet."
"I think you might be reading into this too much, Bryn," Delvin cautioned. "Don't get me wrong. I understand why you're concerned. You've got to admit though, she handles work beautifully, and she hasn't been shy about slapping her success in Mercer's face. If she kept her head down and came to me for jobs, it'd be different, but that's clearly not her way."
No, it wasn't. Brynjolf knew that Delvin had good points, and accepted them. He wouldn't open the offending drawer again, and quickly rose from the guildmaster's chair. The once favored seat hadn't felt welcoming for a very long time.
"If you want a second opinion, Prim's close with Sapphire," Delvin suggested. "Maybe she's said something about Mercer. Sapphire!"
The woman looked up and made her way over to them, eyes dancing between the two men.
"Do you need something?" she asked.
"Just your good advice," Delvin cheerfully replied. "You and Prim are fairly close, aren't you? Lady matters and all that?"
"Lady matters?" Sapphire frowned. "Just what do you want to know?"
"Ignore, Delvin," Brynjolf interrupted. "It's nothing like that."
"We want to know if Prim's said anything about Mercer," Delvin blurted. "You know, like difficult jobs or if he's pushing her too hard. Threatening her. Maybe other things."
"Ah huh," Sapphire drawled, voice flat as she studied the man.
"Eloquent, Delvin," Brynjolf sarcastically sighed.
"Look," Sapphire continued. "I don't know why you're asking, and I'm not sure it's my place to say anything. Fortunately, there's nothing to share. What do you think we do? Sit around and gossip about men all day?" She was definitely taking this the wrong way, but damage control was pointless as the woman plowed ahead. "She talks fondly about all of you, even Mercer, if you must know. I think she has a soft spot for him, even if she complains about him being a bastard. She's determined that he'll admit she's a good thief. Were you expecting something else?"
"No," Brynjolf tried to rectify. "She's told me the same. We were just trying to get a more balanced opinion, and the two of you seem close."
"She...By the nine, I should not tell you this," Sapphire muttered, but she was smiling.
"Out with it, love," Delvin encouraged. "You can't take something like that back."
"She has a name for Mercer when he's scowling for no reason. She uses it to keep herself relaxed when he has her on edge."
"Well?" Delvin pressed.
Sapphire's grin widened.
"Don't you dare let him catch wind of this, but...Mercer muffin."
"Mercer muffin?" Brynjolf repeated.
Maybe talking to Sapphire had been a brilliant idea. The ridiculousness of the name cut through his tension, although he was still uneasy about the entire situation. Mercer chasing Karliah. Karliah chasing Mercer. Prim standing in the middle of it all with little warning that she'd been goading Mercer on the entire time, or maybe she knew it, the reckless lass. If Mercer's interest in her went beyond that...well, he didn't want to think about it.
"We were drinking," Sapphire smiled. "I'm not sure she was being seriousness, but it was worth a good laugh. She has a good sense of humor about the coals Mercer throws at her."
"Muffin," Delvin digested. "He wouldn't take kindly to that."
"I won't tell you some of the names I've heard you called, Delvin Mallory" Sapphire smugly added, sauntering away. Delvin suggested a drink, and Brynjolf accepted, hoping that wherever Prim and Mercer were, the shadows were protecting them.
Prim heard Mercer rouse from sleep. The bed creaked as he stood, although his feet were silent on the floorboards, further masked by the sound of wind skidding over the inn's roof. She kept her eyes closed, content to wrap the blankets tightly beneath her chin and sigh into the chill air. He would probably force her awake at any moment in his eagerness to be done with this business, but no one touched or reprimanded her. Perhaps he was feeling merciful this morning.
The scraping of wood heralded the opening of the room's single shutter, a gust of cold wind making Prim's eyes snap open.
"Son of a bitch," Mercer cursed, quickly slamming it shut.
"What's wrong?" she asked, sitting up.
"See for yourself."
He stood there in gray pants and a black tunic, smoothing back his hair with a scowl. His boots were on in an instant, but he forwent his armor, marching from the room with a dark cloud over his head. Curious, Prim eased out of bed and cracked the shutter open. Outside, the world was white, wind whipping snowflakes through the air and clouding the landscape beyond. She could discern little, and damn but it was cold. She sealed the shutter and followed Mercer's lead, emerging from their room in pants and a tunic, still wiping sleep from her eyes.
Mercer was at the inn's counter, near the far end of the fire pit, where the man from the night before was feathering logs for the fire. The Nord sported a wild mane of blond hair and a beard, his pants wet as though he'd been out in the snow. There was a younger man as well, red-haired and watching Mercer with hawkish eyes from the shadows. Iddra was preparing food at the counter, and addressing Mercer with reserve.
I'd better make sure he doesn't offend anyone, Prim thought, making her way over.
She walked across the room, and noted a collection of locals scattered about the tables, huddled together and chatting while casting curious stares her way. They had bags of belongings with them, making her think them the tent-dwellers from outside, seeking shelter from the storm.
"We usually get one or two of these per season," Iddra was telling Mercer. "It might be done tomorrow or the next day. It's hard to tell. I wouldn't dare go out in it, sir. These storms blanket the whole region. You'd get caught and freeze to death for sure."
"A blizzard, is it?" Prim asked, joining them.
"Aye, ma'am. A right horrid one. You'd best talk some sense into your friend here."
"We'll wait it out," Mercer stated before Prim could respond.
"Well, we'll have plenty of time for our talk this morning," she tried to smile. The thought of being trapped in the inn with the entire village and Mercer was not the most appealing of situations. She leaned against the counter, her stomach growling. "Will breakfast be ready soon?"
"Soon enough. There will be plenty, and plenty of mouths to feed too. We can talk now, if you'd like. What exactly would you like to know about the dark elves?"
She caught Mercer's eyes, and deferred to him, holding her tongue while he spoke.
"Did you overhear why they met the Dunmer woman?"
"Nah, not really. Gold was passed between them though. It looked like the lady was in charge. She was a quiet one. She didn't even drink with the men. Kept to her room most of the time, but she was nice enough and paid well. Very well."
The last bit was accompanied by a telling stare, but Mercer showed no response.
"When did she arrive?" he pressed.
"Two days before they did. I don't recall exactly which direction she came from..."
Sodding divines, Prim mentally cursed. If Mercer had bothered being a little more polite, there'd be no need to grease the wheels with money. She said nothing though, choosing to let Mercer bend a little closer to the innkeeper with stern eyes.
"We'll be staying here until the storm is over," he reminded the woman. "We might be inclined to spend more coin on drink if we feel it's worth our while. Did the dark elf come from the north?"
"Through Windhelm," Iddra slowly spoke.
The young, red-haired man had moved closer, standing behind the woman's shoulder and glaring at Mercer.
"Is there a problem, mother?"
"No. Our guests are merely interested in those dark elves that were here. This is my son, Kjeld."
"Good morning," Prim chirped. "Looks like we'll be snowed in together for awhile." The man said nothing, frowning when Mercer showed no response to his threatening demeanor. If only the fool knew just how little Mercer likely thought of him. "Can you tell us anything else about the woman, anything at all?"
"She wore dark armor and had a bow. Seemed sort of angry when she was talking with the men. They only stayed, all four of them together, that one night. Then they left. She headed back toward Windhelm, and the other three went west. I remember so well because it's unusual to see so many dark elves at once."
"That's very helpful," Prim smiled. "Thank you. What do you say, Mercer?" Her attention was on the guildmaster now, her head tilted to meet his gaze. "Shall we relax and wait for breakfast?"
"There isn't anything else to do," he replied, walking away.
Kjeld continued to glare daggers at Mercer's back, and Prim hurried after the man, joining him at a corner table where they could keep an eye on the rest of the room. Strained energy radiated from the master thief, but whether due to the storm or what they'd just learned, she couldn't tell. His gaze had darkened considerably with Iddra's description of the previous guests, and he seemed oblivious to Prim's presence until she spoke.
"It's definitely Karliah, isn't it?"
"Beyond any doubt," he growled. "How much do you know?"
"Enough to understand how serious and personal this is. Delvin and Brynjolf told me what happened to Gallus and the guild. And you," she cautiously added. Did he have a scar where Karliah had shot him? She stared at his tunic in thought. "She was your friend?"
"You could say that," he replied, noncommittal.
"You know, I understand why Brynjolf would want to track her down. She hurt people he cared about and betrayed the guild, but I wonder why you want her dead so badly. She betrayed you too, and Gallus was your friend, and I understand that. I just..." She considered her words carefully, wary of angering the man when she sensed his hackles rising. "I hope you won't hold bluntness against me, Master Frey."
"When have you ever done anything but speak your mind?" he returned, words measured. "It takes more than an observation that I'm colder than Brynjolf to anger me. Please," he sharply drawled. "Share why you think I'm out here in this inn."
"I'm not pretending to know," she explained, surprised by how open he was to hearing her opinion. She was probably stupid for accepting the invitation. "But I wonder whether this is more about the guild or revenge. You didn't kill her the first time around. She nearly killed you." Oh, and the intensity his eyes betrayed at the comment! "So she nearly killed you and escaped, and maybe you're looking to settle the score. And then there's the guild and how she's damaged it. Practicality or principal? Even if she hadn't been involved in Goldenglow, I think you'd be in this inn."
"That's what you think, is it?"
"Yes and no. I think there's more to it than that, but it's none of my business."
He stared into the fire, reflections of flames dancing across his eyes.
"It is none of your business," he affirmed. "You're as bad as Brynjolf used to be. Always fishing for more information than you'd know what to do with."
"Whatever it is," Prim persisted, ignoring his snide comment. "She's got you wound tight. In my experience, men only become this moody when the woman is a former lover or a wanted lover."
Where had that come from? She wanted to hit her head on the table, but didn't back down when he turned his scathing gaze on her.
"Determined to follow your insight with stupidity?" he sneered. "That elf was not my lover."
"Gallus's," she shrugged. "Sure, but I hear the two of you weren't always so distant."
He peered at her in a manner that warned her something was afoot. Had she been digging herself a hole without realizing it? She thought of Riftweald, the Bunkhouse, and a thousand inconsequential details as he rotated in his chair to directly face her. She felt trapped between him and the wall, and itched to be free, although part of her hummed in anticipation. She blamed it on her more wolfish impulses.
"Since you're so talkative," he began. "Perhaps you'd care to explain why you fled a wealthy family in Daggerfall. Surely you didn't want for anything as a young noblewoman in polite society. Now you're living with thieves in a sewer."
"And that's your business, is it?" she parried.
"I'm making it my business, and I'd watch your tongue. We might not be in the cistern, but I'm still your guildmaster."
"Master Frey," she spoke, smiling despite her reservations. "We're snowed in. I'm hungry, and you of all people are lecturing me on proper behavior?"
"Snowed in," he emphasized. "And I've got nothing but time."
Was that a statement or a threat? She couldn't tell, but found herself almost content despite his scrutiny. Potatoes were being thrown into kettles with onions and rosemary, followed by the fat that Kjeld was trimming from pig hocks. At least they would eat well during their captivity, and Mercer didn't seem nearly as frustrated as a moment ago.
"I'll answer your questions if you answer mine," she stated. "How's that sound?"
"I'm not promising you anything," he gruffly returned.
"Alright. No promises, but an equal exchange of sorts," she amended.
"Agreeable," he allowed. "Daggerfall."
"Daggerfall," she exhaled.
And where did she start with that topic? Perhaps the very beginning was best, when her grandmother had arrived there and married a Breton noble, earning herself a title and a large manor in the city's opulent hub. Then came a daughter, lovely and sought after by many at court until a man finally caught her eye. There was a marriage and affairs, and rumors of something worse. The grandmother talked of horrors and creatures in the dark—a monster that would consume her, making everyone believe her old and feeble-minded. That's what everyone had thought until the nightmares started, the woman's daughter having visions and fevers, and in turn talking gibberish to her own daughter until the girl feared nightfall, when it was always worst.
Prim told the story with detachment, rarely referring to the young girl as herself, as if it had happened to someone else, not her. She could still imagine a monstrous voice calling to her, urging her to open the window and jump. The shadow's eyes had glowed and laughed at her, chasing her whenever her mother proved resistant. Resistance was all they had, but the grandmother eventually succumbed. The woman died screaming about a curse, no cause determined except old age. Prim's mother had not been so lucky. Between the king's fickle brutality and nightmares, she had finally chosen to jump from a tower.
"It was easy to ignore most days," Prim intoned. "Daggerfall was a beautiful city. There were parties and handsome young men. My father insisted on tutors and tried to keep me distracted from mother when she started getting worse. Whole weeks went by without any trouble, and then the creature would come back and walk by my door. Sometimes it would just stand behind my mother, even if no one else could see it. Then it would leave again, and with the politics at court, you couldn't just refuse to move on. My father was implicated in trying to assassinate the king. We were all in danger."
Mercer listened stoically, eating his breakfast and showing little response. Prim shoveled several spoonfuls of food into her mouth, numb but mostly hardened. She hadn't told this much of her story to anyone except Kodlak, and that had been more a spewing of anecdotes that the man had pieced together himself, divines bless him.
"Once my mother died, I was next," she continued. "The creature had rarely bothered me personally, but it hadn't bothered my mother until grandmother died either. So I ran. I left Daggerfall and never looked back. I went to Cyrodiil first, then came to Skyrim."
"And the creature?" Mercer queried, studying a slice of potato.
"Dead." She nailed the word to the table. "The Arcane University was able to bind it into a physical form so that I could kill it. I spat on its corpse too. There wasn't enough of it left for even the crows after I was done." Mercer's gaze shifted, assessing at the venom in her voice. "I didn't know where to go after that. I wasn't going back to Daggerfall, and my grandmother had originally come from Skyrim, so here I am."
"Bleaksnow," he mused.
"I'm not surprised you already know."
"That doesn't explain your little incident with Daggerfall's king."
"If I was already fleeing for my life, why not teach the bastard a lesson? My father was as good as dead because of him, and he...He was just evil," she frowned, shaking her head. "He loved that damned pendant more than anything, so I took it."
"It would fetch a remarkable price," Mercer considered. "And with a story like that, you'd easily find a buyer. Collectors love when goods come with blood and tragedy."
He spoke so flatly, as if he were describing his fork, and Prim would have none of it. The pendant was not for sale, now or ever. It was the only item she'd brought from Daggerfall, and had nearly been lost several times in her journey.
"I'll never sell it," she told him. "Isn't there anything you keep just because it means something to you? Something you've stolen and couldn't sell? It's more than your turn now," she reminded him.
A smirk touched his lips.
"Yes."
Yes? That was it? She glowered, but it had no effect on him.
"Word of advice," he spoke. "Be more specific in your guidelines before upholding your end of a bargain." She opened her mouth to protest, just as he leaned in closer. "I've stolen treasure you've only heard about in stories. Most of it's gone. I even stole the Bleaksnow family heirlooms when the jarl confiscated and locked them away for the day a relative claimed them. They're all gone now," he swiftly added. "Don't waste your time asking."
"You're insufferable," Prim muttered. "...I don't know why I ended up in Riften of all places. There's still probably a bounty on my head somewhere out there. Don't tell Maul or he'll have me shipped off in a heartbeat."
"It got cleared," Mercer stated.
She froze, staring at him in shock. What could he possibly know about that?
"What are you talking about?"
"The change in rulers eventually swept it under the rug. The new king had no interest in avenging his predecessor, and any cut-throat worth their gold knew it." He looked smug, and Prim was left speechless. "You don't know, do you?" he queried, sounding perversely pleased.
"Know what?"
"That you killed the king. He died from a blow to the back of the head."
She paled, the blood slowing in her veins. Why the news shocked her so, she didn't know, but the unexpected information left her floundering. She hadn't meant to kill anyone—would have been horrified by the mere suggestion if she'd known at the time. Now though? She calmed herself, thinking about what she'd been through since leaving Daggerfall and how she'd learned to fight and protect herself. The Companions had furthered her skills considerably, but she'd survived bandits and all manner of dangers on the road even before that. Her hands were far from unstained.
"Good riddance," she dully spoke. "Too bad he didn't know it was me."
Mercer stared at her for a moment before a dark chuckle worked up his throat, quickly ending as he took a long gulp of mead. Divines, but he was attractive like this, out of armor and lounging in the firelight. Had he always been this attractive? Part of Prim whispered yes, knowing it since the day he'd first challenged her to prove her worth. She sighed and listened to the wind outside, smiling as a small child bungled around the tables, kicking a wicker ball. The boy's flushed features found hers, a toothy grin begging her to play with him since the other adults were being so very serious about the storm.
Why not?
She kicked the ball about with him, laughing as the locals swept into a more jovial mood and struck up a lute. There was food and drink, and except for the wind, the storm didn't feel overly burdensome. There was nothing they could do about the situation but grin and bear it, and so they chatted and ate, people dozing off at tables, and once the rooms were filled, setting up mats on the floor.
"Why is your husband so grumpy?" the boy eventually asked.
Prim caught the ball and held it on her lap, the child joining her as she glanced to where Mercer sat, alone and silent. His eyes were half-closed, no on daring to approach him. With a smile, she ruffled the boy's hair and whispered in his ear.
"He's not my husband, and he's not so bad."
But come morning, if the blizzard hadn't lifted, the man might be far less tolerable. She watched him retire early, and eventually joined him, the room dark when she entered. They could only wait and see what morning brought.
Author's note: This scene has been in my head for awhile now, and I had to get it out. I actually have the entirety of everything I'd like to write about Prim and Mercer planned out in my head. It's just a matter of writing it down. I don't plan to rush anything, of course. My thanks to all of you who have been reading along.
