Hello, Again

Sorry it's been so long!

Freja slammed open the cellar door of the Frozen Hearth, the Winterhold inn where Karliah holed up with the contact who would be able to decode Gallus' journal — yet another elf named Enthir. Freja's light blonde hair was matted and wet, mixed both with the sweat of exertion and the cold snow that was falling outside. Her agitation was obvious, and Karliah's lips formed a thin line in disappointment upon seeing her for the first time in two days.

"You've failed," she said, more a statement than a question. Freja's strange, savage look, her heaving chest, and the ratty state of her clothes suggested as much.

Yet Freja slammed the wooden door behind her, shaking her head with annoyance. "I sure as hell didn't. I got what we needed — luckily before Brynjolf could. He showed up."

"He did?" Her short, dark hair swung as she turned her head in Freja's direction. The slightest tone of surprise and worry painted Karliah's voice. That was as much as she would give up; she was ever-composed.

"Yes," Freja said, leaning over the wooden table in the center of the room. Her breathing steadied slightly. "Mercer must have caught wind of this somehow, and sent him… Maybe Mercer's playing him, maybe —"

Karliah rounded the table, staring at Freja. "This doesn't look good, Freja. You have to consider the possibility that Brynjolf is the enemy, like Mercer. I can't have you distracted. The future of the entire guild hangs in the balance. Right now, it's not important what he knows or what he doesn't know."

Freja was going to retort, as she always did, but she was tired. She'd had this argument with Karliah one too many times. She'd agreed to help exonerate Karliah, and to put all her personal issues aside in favor of the guild. She wanted to deliver them from Mercer's evil almost as badly as Karliah did. And write now, Brynjolf was becoming a distraction she couldn't afford. Maybe he was working with Mercer… Or maybe he wasn't. And if he wasn't, he would figure this out when the time came. He wasn't stupid… Though since she left him unconscious on Calcelmo's laboratory floor, he was probably in jail in Markarth. Or worse — in Cidhna Mine, earning his freedom through hard labor.

"You're right," Freja said, finally meeting Karliah's eyes. "No more hindrances. What's the next step?"

Karliah turned to Enthir, nodding in his direction. "Using what you found, Enthir here will help us decode the journal. If Gallus wrote anything down that will lead us to understand what happened, then our next step will be to inform the guild. This could be the final proof we need."

Freja nodded, reaching deep in her pocket for the charcoal etching she took from Calcelmo's laboratory. The one that she knocked Brynjolf out in order to obtain. She cringed slightly as she handed it over, and Karliah handed it into Enthir's pale, wrinkled hands. Could things ever go back to the way they were?

For the next fifteen minutes, Enthir paged through Gallus' journal, grunting occasionally, sucking air through his lips with frustration, and whispering indecipherably. Freja paced while Karliah stood as still as a corpse.

Then, after what seemed like an eternity, Enthir decidedly shut Gallus' journal, half cackling, and half coughing.

"Well?" Karliah said, her voice even in tone.

"It says here that Mercer had been using the guild's funds and violated something called the Twilight Sepulcher, whatever that means…" The words meant nothing to Freja, but seeing Karliah's eyes widen underscored its importance.

"What's the Twilight Sepulcher?" Freja said, facing Karliah.

Karliah simply waved her off. "Not now," she said quietly.

Freja rolled her pale eyes as she crossed her arms against her chest. Her patience was wearing thin. "I'm starting to get sick of that answer." Not long ago, she'd been a newly-made thief on the run from a group of shadowy killers. Now, she was a newly-made fugitive on the run from the group she was just learning to call home. When would it stop?

"You've earned more than enough answers," Karliah said quietly, "but when the time is right." Pulling a dagger from her side, Karliah swiftly moved towards Freja. A jolt of adrenaline ran through Freja's veins, and she took a few steps back, expecting Karliah to come after her for a moment.

"Relax," Karliah whispered, cracking one of the first smiles Freja had ever seen. "This is for you." The dagger she presented to Freja was thin but elegantly crafted, with a surprisingly dark metal and a very ornate handle. "I want you to have this Nightingale Blade, as a token of my appreciation for all your help." She held it out to Freja, and With a bit of skepticism, Freja took it slowly.

"We've accomplished all we needed to. Now all that's left is to inform the guild."

Freja nodded, smirking a little. "How, with a note? Maybe sent them a carrier pigeon?"

"No," Karliah said with an air of excitement in her voice. "Meet me at midnight at the Ragged Flagon. In the old tomb that doubles as an entrance for the guild."

Freja whipped her head around carefully. "What?! You want to just walk into the Ragged Flagon? They think I'm dead or a traitor, and they definitely think the same of you."

"It's time. You wanted to get to Brynjolf… now's your chance. And I'll need both of you for what comes next. If he's stayed as loyal to you and to the morals of the guild, as you seem to believe, then it'll be easier than you think."

Freja shook her head. Nine be damned.

"Get up, you ginger-haired idiot! Or I'll send you straight to Cidhna Mine!" A ragged voice yelled, waking Brynjolf from his unrestful slumber. He turned on his straw cot towards the metal bars that held him in this rat's nest. A thin, old man with sagging, wrinkly skin stood on the other side with a wooden tray in his hands. This was the first food Brynjolf had seen in days, yet it didn't entice him much. It was some type of cream-colored slop.

"I'm not quite interested in whatever you've got there, lad. 'Preciate the gesture, though. Feel like absolute royalty down here." It was a little known fact that underneath Understone Keep, there were cells to hold those prisoners who were awaiting their sentence, whether it be losing a limb, work in Cidhna, or the ultimate punishment. Brynjolf wasn't necessarily worried, but he was having difficulty formulating a plan to escape. They'd taken everything from him, except for the few lockpicks he always kept hidden.

"Who are you calling 'lad'?" The old man said, a tone of amusement in his raspy voice. His eyes shone from his sunken eye sockets, and he slid the wooden tray underneath the tiny space at the bottom of the cell for Brynjolf. "You should be interested... It's my famous mutton stew. I think you'll like it very much."

Brynjolf sat up, letting his bare feet touch the dirty ground. He wore only a pair of ragged pants; everything else was taken from him. His reddish hair hung in a messy braid at the nape of his neck, and he sat shirtless, his wide, muscled body remaining still. Brynjolf felt very curious all of the sudden. Why would the cook deliver the food personally? Didn't they have guards coming down to handle that?

The old man turned away, walking faster than he had before, and Brynjolf rose from his cot to inspect the food that was left. Frowning as he approached, it was just the slop he'd seen from afar and a dirty, wooden spoon. Sighing, Bryn closed his eyes for a moment, trying not to let frustration overtake him. Leaning down to grab the food that his body was craving (no matter how disgusting it looked), his mind quickly drifted away to the circumstances that brought him to his incarceration.

Mercer was right.

He'd gone to retrieve the lexicon, and he'd been foiled by an unseen foe. The memory was hazy, but he knew that someone was there with him as he slipped into unconsciousness...brushing their lips to his...whispering words. Freja?

Perhaps. But he couldn't be sure. And right now, the most important point was getting out of there. Sighing, Bryn sat on the bed with his tray of stew. Picking up the wooden spoon, he shoved it into the mushy concoction, scooping up a huge helping. Bringing it to his mouth, he winced at the taste. It was burnt and mushy...but it was food. Taking another bite, his teeth suddenly bit down on something hard, and he spit it out into his hand, coughing.

Then, he smirked.

The old man had hidden a key in the stew. And Brynjolf was one step further to making out of here. At sundown, he would take his chance to escape, and he'd be back to the guild by midnight.

Freja had never felt so anxious in her life. She crept through the graveyard near the back entrance to the guild; it was nearly midnight, and she and Karliah would be meeting soon. Coming upon the mausoleum that held the false tomb, Freja stepped inside, leaning her back against the cool stone. She couldn't force herself to pull the chain and enter the false tomb yet... She was too nervous. If another thief exited or entered now, Freja wasn't sure what she would do. She felt more secure waiting for Karliah so that they could face the guild together. Otherwise, things could turn ugly.

Feeling tired, anxious, and vulnerable, for one of the first times in weeks, Freja let the tears form in her eyes. She wished for a moment she could've gone back to the beginning, to the moment she decided to take up with the guild. Instead, she could've gone somewhere else, like Morrowind, or Solthsteim. She could've found a new identity, a new way to live, another—

"Show yourself," a deep voice suddenly said. Freja froze; she'd lost herself in her distress for a moment. Someone was standing just outside the mausoleum... They must have heard her. "Face me as I deserve to be faced, lass." How could she be so stupid? A thief, a mistress of deception, and she didn't hear someone creeping up? This was what grief and pain did to her.

Taking a deep breath, Freja stood up from leaning against the wall of the mausoleum and moved to the doorway. Standing just outside was him.

Bryn.