Twilight shadows stretched long as the trio stepped into the ancient Dwemer ruin. Clearly, Mercer had already been there—a group of bandits that had been camping in the entrance now lay slaughtered, the remnants of their fire scattered across the stone floor.

"Come on," Karliah urged, heading deeper into the ruins, "Keep on your guard. We might be able to sneak past the Falmer, but I've no doubt Mercer has primed every trap he can find to try and stop us."

As the trio crept deeper, Ma'joraa saw the Dunmer wasn't kidding. A crossbow bolt would have pinned Brynjolf to the wall had he not ducked with lightning speed, and all three Nightingales got their cloaks singed when a fallen Dwarven mechanism sparked, igniting the pool of oil beneath it.

In addition to the traps, there were the Falmer. The blind beings shuffled in the dark, their makeshift dwellings lit only by the glow of phosphorescent mushrooms that grew from the walls. The thieves were able to creep past most of the pitiful things, only dispatching a few particularly in-the-way creatures with deadly, silent efficiency.

At long last, they stood before great double doors at the deepest part of the ruins, pausing to catch their breath while Karliah checked the map.

The statue is just through here, the Dunmer signed, wary of speaking lest Mercer overhear. Ma'joraa, Brynjolf, are you ready?

The Nord's face was a picture of grim determination. Ready as I'll ever be, he replied.

Ma'joraa clasped her amulet of Talos, steeling her nerves and offering a swift prayer. I'm ready.

For Gallus, Karliah signed, and together the three slipped through the door and into the grand cavern.

For a moment, Ma'joraa could only sit in awe at the majesty of the statue. A great bronze Snow Elf sat cross-legged, holding a book upon its lap with its left hand and bearing aloft a lit torch with its right. A stairway littered with several Falmer corpses led up the visage's left arm to its stern, regal face, the wide collar of its robes forming a sort of platform to stand on.

And there, one boot braced against the statue's chin, was Mercer Frey. He was using his sword to pry the second eye from its socket, his back turned to the Nightingales.

Alright, I don't think he's seen us yet, Karliah signed as the gem thudded to the platform beside Mercer. Brynjolf, guard the door. Ma'joraa, you help me climb down that ledge and—

"Karliah, when will you learn you can't get the jump on me?"

The trio froze at the sarcastic drawl that echoed through the cavern. Mercer Frey leaned on his blade, eyeing the intruders with disdain. His gaze swept over Karliah and Brynjolf contemptuously, before settling on Ma'joraa.

"Well, you just refuse to realize when you're beaten, don't you rookie?" He remarked. "When Brynjolf first brought you before me, I could feel a sudden shift in the wind. I knew from the moment I laid eyes on you that things would end with one of us on the end of a blade."

Give us the Key, Mercer, Ma'joraa signed, and perhaps Nocturnal and the guild will be merciful.

"Hah!" Frey barked, "What's Karliah been filling your head with? Tales of thieves with honor? Oaths rife with falsehoods and broken promises? Nocturnal doesn't care about you, the Key, or anything having to do with the guild."

Maybe not, the Khajiit admitted, but at least we still have our honor.

"By the gods, you're even more naïve than I thought," the Breton sneered. "It's clear you'll never see the Skeleton Key for its true purpose—an instrument of limitless wealth. Instead, you've chosen to fall over your own foolish code!"

Ma'joraa flattened her ears, baring her teeth in a challenge. If anyone falls, it will be you.

"Then the die is cast," Mercer declared, readying his weapon. "Karliah, I'll deal with you after I've rid myself of this rookie here. In the meantime, perhaps you and Brynjolf should get better acquainted."

To Ma'joraa's left, Brynjolf stiffened. He drew his sword, turning toward the dark elf. "What—what's happening to me? I'm not doing this, I swear!"

"Brynjolf, he's using his Nightingale abilities to control you!" Karliah parried the Nord's blade, leaping nimbly back out of range before glancing at the Khajiit. "I've got this! You get Mer—watch out!"

So focused was she on her companions that the Dragonborn failed to notice Mercer swiftly descending from the statue. Ma'joraa flung herself sideways, avoiding a thrust that would have impaled her. Unhooking her battle-axe, she blocked the Breton's next slash with the hilt, though he struck with enough force to send shockwaves through her arms. The Khajiit met his next blow, and sparks flew as the two weapons ground against one another before she shoved him backwards.

"Is that all you've got?" Mercer taunted as the two circled one another, each looking for an opening.

"Kren sosaal!" Ma'joraa snarled. Break and bleed!

The Breton just smirked at her defiance. The Khajiit glimpsed illusion magic swirling between the fingers of his free hand before the light bent around him and he vanished from sight. "Let me show you the true power a Nightingale can wield."

Ma'joraa looked about wildly, but there was nothing she could use for cover to keep Mercer from blindsiding her. Karliah was still fending off Brynjolf, who was trying desperately to telegraph his attacks to make it easier for the Dunmer to avoid.

"Laas," The Khajiit whispered, "Yah Ni—"

Her Thu'um was choked by a scream as a bolt of searing agony lanced through her midriff. Ma'joraa looked down at the blade that protruded from her side, renewing and worsening the previous wound as it was twisted cruelly.

"All too predictable, rookie," Mercer hissed in her ear. He wrenched his blade free, leaving the Khajiit to crumple to her knees. The Breton readied his weapon for the killing blow.

"Wuld!"

At the choking call of the Thu'um, the wind came to Ma'joraa's aid, shoving her forward and sending her sprawling onto the stairs. Mercer's blade struck the stone beneath where she had been.

"I see you have some tricks of your own," Frey remarked, "Perhaps I underestimated you."

He kicked aside her battle-axe, which had fallen from her hands, leaving Ma'joraa with only her dagger to defend herself with. The Breton easily drove the severely-wounded Dragonborn backward up the stairs with blow after blow that she could only just manage to parry. He was playing with her now.

Suddenly the Khajiit's back hit the face of the statue. They were at the top. She was cornered. There was nowhere else to run.

Mercer approached slowly, like a panther stalking its prey. "Like I said before," He drawled, "It really is a pity. You have the potential to be one of the best thieves in all Tamriel."

Ma'joraa pointed her dagger at him while her free hand clasped a healing spell to her side. She trembled from pain and exhaustion, her eyes wild and desperate, but also full of heartache.

"I've seen the way you look at me you know," Mercer said quietly, lowering his weapon slightly as he closed the distance between them. "The way your eyes change, as though you don't know what to do with the feelings I give you."

His hand reached forth to cup her cheek, and Ma'joraa's ragged breath caught in her throat as healing magic webbed between his fingers.

"Come with me," He urged, his voice velvety soft. "With the Key and your Voice, we can be the greatest pair of thieves Tamriel has ever seen. We can be together, isn't that what you wanted?"

The Khajiit was frozen in shock. The rational part of her screamed to drive her dagger into his throat, but to her own horror, another, more insistent part was tempted by his offer. He was so close, so warm, his touch so gentle…

From below, a cry rang out. Ma'joraa looked past the Breton and saw Karliah clutching at her sword arm, her weapon clattering to the floor. Brynjolf came at her relentlessly, his blade stained with her blood, and the Dunmer rolled desperately out of the way.

"Ma'joraa," Mercer's soft timbre brought her attention back to him, his calloused thumb tracing feather-light along the outline of her cheekbone. "What do you say? Can we be together?"

Paralyzed by indecision, a tear escaped the Khajiit's eye, dampening the fur of her cheek. She looked down again to where Brynjolf stood over Karliah, and realization hit her like a ton of bricks. Down there, that was her family. And Mercer was willing to throw them aside to get what he wanted. Even if she did accept his offer, what would stop him from doing the same to her?

Ma'joraa returned her gaze to the Breton. Her heart felt as though it was being torn in two, tears coursing openly down her stricken face as her lips parted.

"Fus."

For the first time perhaps in his life, genuine, primal terror showed starkly in Mercer's gaze. He started to lift his weapon, but too late.

"Ro…DAH!"

The force of the Thu'um shook the entire cavern. Mercer Frey was blown from the ledge, and Ma'joraa felt a single sob rip forth as he reached out for her. His fall was broken, as was his back, by one of the many boulders that lay strewn across the floor far below. The sound was like that of a dry branch snapping, echoing through the cavern.

Brynjolf stumbled as the spell on him was broken. His blade drove into the floor beside Karliah's head.

"I'm free," He realized, "Lass, oh gods, I'm so sorry—"

"Don't be," the Dunmer reassured him, holding her arm as she staggered to her feet. "It's done. Now we need to get the Skeleton Key and the Eyes and get out of here. I don't like the way those pipes are leaking."

Indeed, the shockwave from Ma'joraa's shout had disturbed the fragile ceiling of the cave. Dust and small pebbles rained upon them, the groans of the Dwemer piping reverberating through the ruins.

Ma'joraa staggered down the stairs, retrieving her battle-axe before kneeling beside Mercer's lifeless body. A thin trickle of blood escaped from the corner of the Breton's mouth, sightless eyes staring at nothing.

"Krein dii rii," The Dragonborn whispered, before gently pressing her lips to his brow. "…Lok, Thu'um."

Karliah retrieved Mercer's pack, rummaging through it. "Good, the Eyes and the Key are both here. Now we need to get out of here before—"

The Dunmer's words were cut off as a massive boulder crashed to the floor nearby, along with a small avalanche of rubble and a torrent of water.

"—before the pipes burst," She finished grimly. "Brynjolf, how's that door?"

"No luck lass," The Nord called, "Something must have fallen on the other side. We'll have to find another way out."

Karliah shouldered Mercer's pack, and together the three retreated up the statue as the cavern began to flood, frigid water swirling deeper and deeper.

"'Find another way out' begs the question of 'is there another way out?'" The Dunmer shouted over the roar of the water.

"Til!" Ma'joraa cried, pointing to the ceiling. There!

Above the head of the great statue, a hole had crumbled in the cavern roof, glowing mushrooms and bronze piping leading into the dark of a small passage, perhaps some long-forgotten Dwemer utility tunnel.

"Yes, but how to we get up there?" Karliah asked, eyeing the water that now covered the lap of the statue. Mercer's lifeless body floated briefly, tugged about by the swirling currents, before it was lost to the depths.

"We wait," Brynjolf realized. "I hope you lasses know how to swim."

Watching the water churn ever higher was nerve-wracking, but there was nowhere else to go. Ma'joraa used the time to focus all her remaining energy into knitting together her wound as much as possible.

Finally, even Brynjolf, the tallest of the three, could no longer keep his head above water. The Nightingales swam to the place below where the passage opened, and were finally able to clamor into it, leaving the Great Statue of Irkngthand to drown beneath the ruins. The dripping trio followed the bronze piping upward for what seemed an age. Finally, they rounded a bend and were greeted by the sight of moonlight illuminating the snow and ice of the Pale, a frigid draft sweeping into the cave mouth.

"Gods above, I've never been so glad to see snow!" Brynjolf exclaimed. Ma'joraa managed a chuckle, though the effort sent pain lancing through her side.

"Might as well make camp here for the night," Karliah said, depositing her dripping pack out of reach of the draft. "We could all use the rest. Tomorrow we'll chart our next plan of action."

Now that the adrenaline of battle and the fight for survival were starting to fade, Ma'joraa felt the pain returning, both physical and mental. Mercer Frey, the man she had grown to love, was dead.

But she had loved a man who had never existed, the Khajiit reminded herself sadly. The façade she had fallen for was just that—a lie. To Mercer, she, as well as everyone else, were only ever a means to an end.

"Doing alright, lass?"

Ma'joraa allowed Brynjolf to sit her down on a stout Dwemer pipe as Karliah went in search of firewood. I've been better, she signed wearily, a few tears still leaving searing tracks down her chilled face.

"Likewise," The red-haired Nord murmured. "So much has happened these past few days, it's hard to know which way is up. But we'll get there eventually."

At length, Karliah returned and deposited a large armful of assorted sticks and brush before the two. "Most of that is dry enough I think—the bigger fire we can make the better, if we're going to keep from freezing our asses off in wet clothes."

The Dunmer started to pull a flint from her pouch, but Ma'joraa stopped her.

"Yol," The Khajiit intoned. Rather than cloud in the frigid air, flames flickered through her breath, latching onto the pile of fuel and creating a merry blaze in seconds.

"Never ceases to amaze me," Brynjolf chuckled, removing his soaking gloves and laying them before the fire to dry. "You two get some rest. I'll take the first watch."

The Dunmer and the Khajiit lay across the fire from one another as Brynjolf took up a post at the cave's mouth.

"Thank you for all your help, Ma'joraa," Karliah murmured wearily. "We couldn't have done it without you. Gods, I shudder to imagine what might have happened if Mercer had taken control of Brynjolf and you weren't there to keep him busy."

Ma'joraa didn't even want to consider the possibilities. The pain of her wound had settled to a dull throb as she wrapped her damp cloak about her, the fire's heat warming her face, and allowed exhaustion to drag her into slumber.

A/N: The chapter title translates to 'Sky (above), Voice (within),' a farewell.