Author's Note: Sorry for the delay, life is unkind. Thank you for the lovely reviews and the surge of subscriptions.

I think I've finally finished outlining Archer's complete tale. It's scary big, people. Be afraid - or excited?

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The Fortunate Favourite
Chapter Three: The Thief's Proposal

The day Archer returned to Riften, Brynjolf was in the foulest of moods.

Most of his evening had been spent with Mercer. The two of them had been as thick as thieves of late, if you'd pardon the expression, assessing the state of the game in and around Riften since Aringoth had quietly bowed out – and all their pieces, so carefully and painstakingly placed, had one-by-one begun to fall.

It was to be kept in mind that Mercer was a meticulous man by nature. He never did anything quickly. The decision to send Vex into Goldenglow had not come lightly, and ever since that failure, every move made to bring the damage under control had to be handled with the utmost delicacy. No one in their organization was a stranger to cause and effect, but as thieves they were generally very, very good at avoiding the consequences of their actions. Aringoth's sudden shift had unbalanced things, and they were all of them in a scramble to put things to rights.

And now, to add insult to injury, a number of local business owners had taken it into their heads that the traitorous old elf had the right idea, and were ready to follow suit. A few mornings past, Brynjolf had woken to find he had a little civil uprising on his hands when the three biggest thorns in his side – Keerava, Haelga, and the boorish Bersi Honey-Hand – had been most unwelcoming during his last scheduled, and very sociable visit. Each of them in turn had skipped his small talk and refused him the month's rent with the same tight, arrogant smile.

Mercer had not been surprised, not in the least, when he'd been given the news. In truth, Brynjolf was not much taken by it either, not after all the hem and haw and hesitation of his last visits, but the encounter had left him vexed to no end. He couldn't remember the last time a soft word and teasing smile had failed to inspire Haelga to reach for the coinpurse she kept knotted to her belt, all with a blush darkening those pale, painted cheeks.

And the day his charm and silver-tongue failed him was one to be considered very carefully indeed.

Mercer was of a mind to pull this noxious weed of rebellion before it had a chance to sprout and spread among the other shop owners. Brynjolf thought a more subtle touch was needed. He didn't fancy the idea of having someone bloody Haelga's comely face over a few lost septims, even if she was a cruel harpy when it suited her. Mercer was right about sending a clear message to these indignant – tenants – but there was no use in denying that Brynjolf disagreed with this iron-fisted approach. In time, they had argued, their voices raising louder and louder over the thunderous rush of the water flowing into the cistern, until all at once Mercer's voice had dropped to an ominous low and he'd made it perfectly plain that the unruly shopkeepers were to be dealt with one way or the other.

Even after all the years Bryn had spent with the guild, the steel in Mercer's eyes could still put the fear in him when the moment was right, and he felt once more that lanky, grinning wretch who'd been caught picking the right pocket in the right city. Now here he was, a fully grown man and thoroughly put in his place. But before he could let his frustration goad him into saying something he would later regret, he waved Mercer off and stalked out of the cistern, grumbling curses and catching furtive glances the whole way.

"You two at it again?" Delvin asked him as he entered the Flagon, his smug grin hiding nothing.

Brynjolf sat down at the table across from his old friend. "Must be Tirdas," he said with an easy smile. Instead of waiting for Vekel, he reached over and swiped the bottle of dark ale right out of Delvin's hand. The old thief made no move to stop him, and only watched with amusement as Brynjolf proceeded to take a deep swallow from what had only moments before been his ale.

"Time to smarten yourselves up, Bryn. You're beginning to worry the children."

Brynjolf put the bottle down on the table before him, and watched Delvin motion for Vekel to bring them two more. The old thief then leaned back in his chair, folded his arms over his chest, and studied his friend critically. Brynjolf had to wonder just what it was that he saw – and then decided he didn't want to know the answer.

"What would you do then, Mallory?" he asked instead, an attempt to shift focus.

Delvin chuckled. "Me? I'd get to the bottom of whatever is going on 'round here right quick before something else goes wrong, that's what I'd do."

"There's you and your curse again." Brynjolf sat back to watch his friend, but instead of the sly smile he'd expected, the old thief's grizzled face was unusually dark, his jaw set.

"No, I'm not talking about no curse," Delvin said, ignoring Brynjolf as he arched his brow. "I mean Mercer. There's something what's got him playing it too safe lately. I got a slew of jobs piling up and no one to run 'em. Goldenglow's got them all spooked."

"Aye," Brynjolf agreed, "a terrible thing." He sighed, knowing that if his three great thorns topside persisted in their sudden fit of conscience, it would only serve to worsen the shortfall of morale the guild had been suffering from of late. If there were easy solutions or quick ones, he could not see them through the jaded haze the past few weeks had sunk him in. Mercer was not to be blamed for the state their little family was in. Perhaps Vekel had been right when he'd said that the world was changing – and perhaps there was simply no place in this new world for people like them.

"Oh cheer up, eh?" Delvin said, offering him a smile. "It's getting late. Nothing to do for it now but drown our troubles 'til tomorrow. Here's Vekel now, good lad."

The barkeep put two bottles of the same dark ale on the table. He then pulled a slip of yellowed parchment from the pocket of his apron and handed it to Bryn. "Came for you while you were with Mercer," was all he said before he went back to his counter and his favourite filthy rag.

"What's that, then?" Delvin asked, as meddlesome as ever.

Brynjolf read the few words on the parchment. He frowned. "Something that needs taking care of," he said, and stood.

Delvin laughed, shaking his head. "Another one? Isn't it about time to give that up?"

"Mercer's orders," said Brynjolf with an apologetic smile. He left the ale untouched on the table and called to Vekel. "When did you say this arrived?"

"Must have been a few hours ago."

Brynjolf was certain that Delvin watched him closely as he left the Flagon, but as a man who had spent a lifetime watching other people as they went about their daily lives, he was also quite certain that nothing, not his face or his gait or the way he held his shoulders, conveyed anything but ease and indifference to another of Mercer's overcautious precautions.

What he'd said to Delvin was true: Mercer wanted the city gates watched, and had put Maven's considerable influence to work doing just that, slipping gold into enough of the right hands up at the barracks until all the gate guards on every shift were reporting to him.

Most times, there was nothing to be reported at all. It was nothing sinister Mercer wanted, and that was what made it all so terribly easy. If a traveller walked through the gates – north, south, or dockside – Mercer wanted to know about it. Since taking Falkreath from the Imperials, the Stormcloaks now controlled every road that led to and from Cyrodiil, and Riften saw few travellers these days. But for months now, the gates had been quietly watched. Dozens of discreet enquiries had turned up nothing of interest to the guild master. The slips of paper had come and gone, each one in its turn pointing to Imperial peddlers, Bosmer hunters and Orc mercenaries, all whom had come and gone in their own due time as well.

No sign of a little Breton in Stormcloak blue, no sweet-faced girl with a secret bigger than she was.

Until tonight, it appeared.

Only Delvin knew why Brynjolf continued to take a special interest in the task, just as it was Delvin who always seemed to know a little bit of everything – and all of it none of his business. But the old thief could usually be counted upon to leave well enough alone. His offhand comment, harmless though it was, kept nagging at Bryn as he made his way out of the underground.

Not wanting to risk the cistern again, lest he be drawn back in for another round with Mercer, he took the long way, the winding maze of dark tunnels that led to the canal, where the torchlight played tricks on the unwary and the denizens preyed on the unwise. The air was close here, and damp, smelling of foul things left unearthed for far too long. He was glad to finally come to the exit that led to the lower walkways of the canal, but as he reached for the latch on the heavy door, he realized the guardsman's note was still crumpled tightly in his fist.

He did not need to read it again to remind himself of its contents. Branded into his mind, those few words, and he found himself at the mercy of their curious implication. It was all he could do to check the eagerness in his step as he walked out of the stone alcove, the groan of the frozen iron gate all but announcing his presence to the guards on patrol. He broke no law being out after dark, but all the same, he had no intention of being seen. He pulled up his hood, and made for the stairs near the southward gate, tossing the note into the waters of the canal as he went.

The streets were deserted this time of night. It was a rare thing now for him to come topside past sunset, and for a moment he scarcely recognized his own city. Cloaked in darkness and utterly still, every railing and rooftop was touched with white frost that gleamed in the passing torchlight as the guards went about their routine patrols, restlessly moving to keep winter's chill at bay. A few weeks past, on the night he'd come to fetch Vex from the meadery cellar, he'd been blind to all but the shadows he'd slipped through, his focus solely on what he was there to do. As if for the first time that year, he saw the simple beauty of winter in Riften, and he paused, the same queer feeling coming over him as the night of the Goldenglow job, when he'd stood over Lake Honrich to see the dragon in the northwest and had known it for what it was, harbinger of a coming that none could escape.

A cheerful thought, that, one that sent a shudder straight through him, and he was of half a mind to leave the traveller – girl, Breton, south gate – until the morning, when he heard a door open, the inn's southward door, a familiar sound made lonely as it echoed far in the winter stillness.

His cloak scarcely whispered against the stone as he ducked into the shadows that clung to the soot-stained wall of the blacksmith's shop. The softly glowing embers of the forge worked to his disadvantage, blinding his thief's eyes to the darkness that stretched beyond. Sparks danced across his vision as he carefully crept along that narrow strip of shadow beneath the blacksmith's awning. With the forge at his back, he stopped again, lingering in a strange pocket of heat that brought a thin sheen of sweat to his upper lip on that cold night of early Sun's Dusk.

He saw her then as his eyes adjusted, saw the small figure cut against the gloom near the inn's darkened doorway. Slouched against the wall, face tipped to the stars. The cloak and hood well hid the stranger's identity, and the shadows did the rest.

And so he did the only thing left for him to do: he stood back to observe. With his back to the stone archway of the dockside gate, he kept a close eye on the strange figure, even as the minutes ticked away and a chill began to settle in his bones for the stillness.

And when a patrolling guard walked past, oblivious to the thief in the shadows, Brynjolf reached out.

"Care to make a few septims, lad?" he asked, keeping his voice low. "Come back around the market and chase that little dove back inside. I'd like a word with her."

The guardsman said nothing and continued about his patrol, but he did as he had been bid and stopped to talk to the girl, blocking Brynjolf's view of her when. What was said between them was too quiet even for his keen ears, but after a few moments of conversation, the girl nodded and stepped away from the wall. But instead of going back inside, she followed after the guard as he led her around the far side of the plaza and across the canal.

And as the light moved across her, even though her face was shadowed, Brynjolf realized in one moment of terrifying clarity that he recognized the ashen cloak, the blue dress, the surety in her step –

"The way they walk, what they're wearing," he'd told her once, "a dead giveaway."

– and he knew then that all his waiting, all his wondering had finally come to its end, and his real troubles – well, those were only just beginning.

With his palms sweating and his brow knit in curiosity, Brynjolf trailed behind at a safe distance, watching as the nameless guardsman escorted the girl to the entrance of the temple. Hiding in the shadows on the other side of the high courtyard wall, he heard the doors open and close, and could not help but smile to himself beneath his hood. As the guardsman went past, he paid him double the coin he'd originally intended. A job well done deserved as much.

He waited a good long while before he climbed the steps. It was risky to enter the temple through the front doors, and he could hear Delvin cursing his name clear as day in his head as he slipped through.

The air within was warm and heavy, smelling of herbs and curling smoke, and the candles had mostly gone out. But there was no mistaking her now, the young woman slumped in the pew with her back to the door, her hood folded down to show her dark hair tucked away from her pale face. It crossed his mind to approach her, to sit beside her, frighten her though he may, but he held back, remaining near the exit with his back to the wall, mindful of the loose board that would give it all away.

Completely lost to thought or prayer, she took no notice of him, but whatever or whomever held her so enthralled seemed to weigh heavily, because it was not long after he'd settled against the wall when she sighed wearily, a sad sound to his waiting ears. He watched as she let her face fall into her waiting hands.

"Oh, Maddie," she said to herself in the smallest of voices, "what are you doing here?"

Brynjolf smiled. "That's a fair question, lass," he said, revealing himself.

All of it played out beautifully for him. He would never forget the gasp he was rewarded with then, nor would he forget the way her eyes widened at the sight of him as she spun around.

"You," she hissed.

He grinned all the more at her surprise, and lifted his chin so that she might see a bit more of his face beneath his hood, enjoying the way she clutched at the back of the pew.

"Were you expecting someone else?" he asked. "Shall I go fetch you the priest?"

"I didn't think you'd find me so quickly."

"But you did want me to find you," he said, though it was no question, and she nodded, though he'd sought no answer. Her need of him was written all over her face. He knew too well the desperation he saw there in her eyes, knew that fear and that shame, the sheer emptiness in those jaded and tired eyes.

The girl was on the run, and with nowhere else to go, she'd come to him.

He sighed to himself then and left his place by the wall. She watched him warily, but she didn't move away as he slipped around the pillar and sat down beside her on the bench.

"You look as though you've walked a long road, lass."

"Yes," she said, and nothing else.

A lingering silence fell between them then, a defence they both gladly hid behind, and for a while all he knew was the flicker of dying candles and the burden of Mara's remorse. He leaned into the back of the bench, and kept his arms crossed over his chest to stay his restless fingers. As for Archer, utterly calm but for what her eyes had betrayed, she kept her hands folded neatly in her lap, her rigid back never touching the bench, proper and self-conscious in his presence. However, it was not long before he recognized a tremble in her that he simply couldn't ignore.

"Perhaps you'd best tell me why you came running all this way," he said, trying to be gentle and making a decent job of it. Their previous encounter, brief though it had been, had shown him that the girl guarded her tongue carefully. He entertained no hopes of hearing her tale of woe. And surely enough, she didn't answer him, but instead turned those green eyes on him, and for a moment he was lost in what he was certain was to be the death of him.

But in the blink of an eye, those strange, sad eyes, she let her chin fall and she looked away, and Brynjolf knew with utter conviction that the wisest, safest course of action would be to send this mesmerizing little thing on her way before she did more damage to his life and to his guild than he could readily repair.

But instead he smiled at her and said, "If I remember correctly, lass, the last time you came to me for help, you made quite the mess around here. I never thought I'd be seeing you again."

"Are you disappointed?"

"No, just terribly curious."

"I promise you, no trouble has followed me to Riften," she said.

"A grand promise," he replied, "but I'm afraid it's not yours to make. I'll warn you now, if it's the Thalmor –"

She shook her head. "Not today."

Brynjolf chuckled at that, and the sound echoed through the lonely chapel.

"That's good to hear," he said, "but the question remains, what is it that you want, Maddie?"

She stiffened at his familiarity, but she did not rise to his challenge. More clever a girl than any other currently under his supervision by far, and he continued to be impressed, aye – but he was still far from convinced that she was as innocent as she tried to lead him to believe.

"I just – I need a place to lay low for a while," she said quietly. A single rushed breath that concealed more secrets than it revealed. "I thought perhaps–"

"The Ratway," he said for her. He frowned, and shook his head firmly. "There's naught for you down there but bones."

She gave him a sidelong glare, her mouth twisted. He remembered this stubborn fire. "It's an old man's cell filled with books and rot," she said. "What are those things to you?"

"A few mouldy books?" He waved a dismissive hand. "Very little."

"Then why take his coin for so many years and not mine now? Why deny me?"

"Because I have another offer for you," he said. "One that I'm certain you'll find much more tempting." She blushed properly then, and he couldn't help but grin devilishly at the wicked thoughts that settled in his mind. "We could call it a business arrangement," he clarified for her as she turned those guilty green eyes on him. "One that could be beneficial to us both."

"Your business is none of mine," she said. "I have no interest in– in–"

"Aye, of that I have no doubt," he said, "but you're a natural at it, regardless. Isn't that so, lass?"

"Regardless," she said shortly. Her eyes had lost none of their disdain. "I am no thief."

"A position with the guild can offer you more protection than that old man's cell. There's no safer place in all of Skyrim." He tried to sound reasonable, but it was a bit of a stretch. After all, he'd seen the locks on the old man's door with his own eyes. "I haven't forgotten the favours you've done for the guild. Run jobs for me, and you could earn enough coin to–"

"I have no desire for coin."

"Then what do you desire?"

"Anonymity," she said, and she smiled then, faintly and fleetingly.

And that was when he knew he had her.

"Well, you have my terms," he said. He reached a casual arm out along the back of the bench. She glanced at it warily before sitting up a little straighter. He grinned. "None of my boys will bother you, lass, that I can promise. They're every one of them hiding from something, as well. Part of the trade, I suppose."

"You suppose," she muttered, and he watched smugly as her eyes travelled the length of his frame, from the cut of his hood to his arm so inappropriately close to his boots stretched out beneath the pew in front of them, and when she spoke again, it was to the buckles on his chest and not to his face. "But there is no anonymity in this. I've been to your Flagon, they know my face, and Maven Black-Briar –"

"Don't fret over Maven now," he said. "All this dirty work and drudgery is below her. I doubt the two of you will ever meet." He shrugged his shoulders. "And if it's unavoidable, well, I believe I may have the solution for that."

"And what about the others?"

He raised an eyebrow. "What of them?"

"You might trust them but I do not."

"Trust is not something thieves have in abundance," he chuckled. She was still so focused on her troubles that she did not see the solutions he provided in spades. "Believe me, lass, you're going to fit right in."

"You act as though I've already said yes," she said with a frown.

"So far as I can tell, you can't say no," he said, but her sad little face weighed on him sorely, and he sighed. "We take no oaths to bind us here. You are free to leave whensoever you choose."

"Just as well," she muttered, more to herself than to him, "I'm no good with oaths."

He gave her a grim smile. "Neither am I."

What followed then was a long stretch of tense silence as Archer carefully watched his face, but in his arrogance he knew full well there was nothing for her to find there, even if he could fathom for a moment what it was that she sought. What it was that she truly wanted. From him, from his guild, from the divines themselves.

He only hoped she knew the answer when she finally found it.

After a time, the girl stood, and out of respect, he did as well. She seemed smaller than he remembered somehow, and as she lifted her hood to hide her hair once more, he realized there to be a meekness about her, something to be read in the bow of her head and the sag of her shoulders, the way she looked at her feet instead of into his eyes. That wildfire spark of wilful charm was gone, sputtered out with tears since cried and dried away. And when finally she did look at him, it was with such pale vacancy that he found himself shivering at the hurt and the loneliness he saw in her eyes, and he knew that whatever trouble and heartbreak she claimed to have left behind still kept her up nights, and haunted her dreams with shadows.

"It seems there's no persuading you," she said, so ignorant to all she told him by just looking into his eyes, "so I suppose that means we have a deal."

"Oh, there's always a chance you'll persuade me into anything," he said, laughing heartily then. Her eyes fluttered upwards to follow his echo into the rafters and her cheeks resumed their blushing. "You give up too easily, lass."

She stuck out her hand, tiny and cold in his as he reached out to grasp it, and in that single touch, the deal was struck, as good as writ in blood.

"Will you tell me now what it is you intend?" she asked, her sweet little mouth twisted dubiously.

"What I intend is to hide you in plain sight, sweet Maddie," he said. "Don't you trust me?"

"Trust is not something thieves have in abundance," she said, "but I suppose I'll have to try."

Brynjolf grinned down at her. Oh, but he loved a challenge.