A/N: This chapter is slightly longer than normal. I didn't want to split it up, so I hope you guys don't mind!

Thanks again for your support. :)

The carriage ride home was long and bumpy. Vex complained throughout most of it, but Karliah was too tired to care. Her bones ached from days of sitting on an uncomfortable wooden seat, Alora's head resting on her lap. Sleep had not touched her eyes since their night in Falkreath. Exhaustion clouded her vision, and shadows darkened her skin. How Vex could remain her usual sardonic self was beyond Karliah's comprehension.

But Vex worried too, Karliah could tell. Whenever Alora stirred, Vex would jolt upright, only to be disappointed. She would then slouch and cross her arms, brows pushed together in frustration. Vex wanted Alora to wake, if only for Brynjolf's sake. Or perhaps she had grown fond of their future Guildmaster after all. Even if that were true, Vex would never admit it, and Karliah was not about to ask.

A light breeze ruffled the blankets draped over Alora. Karliah tucked the fabric firmly around her leaden form, hoping to keep her as warm as possible. The innkeeper at Falkreath had graciously supplied them with a spare set of clothing, given that Alora's cuirass and greaves were in a dreadful state of disrepair and she had nothing else to wear. The salvaged bits of her Nightingale armor were now packed in Karliah's bag. Though it would be impossible for Alora to ever wear it again, she didn't think it appropriate to dispose of the set. If Alora wished to throw it away, then she could do it herself. It was not Karliah's choice to make.

The carriage hit a rather large rock then, causing Vex to nearly fall off her seat. "Watch it!" she snapped at the driver. "We've got fragile cargo back here."

Karliah placed her palm on Alora's brow, silent in her agreement.

"Beggin' your pardon, ma'am, but roads in the Rift are 'specially rugged. Comes from all the rain, you see," said the driver.

Karliah's face brightened. "We're nearly home, then?"

"Yeah, I'd say so," the driver replied. "Another day, give or take."

Vex looked at Karliah, and when she spoke, her voice conveyed a sincerity that Karliah had not thought her capable of. "Do you think she'll wake before we get back?"

Karliah brushed a strand of hair from Alora's face. "She looks better by the day, but I do not know."

Vex clamped her hands together and watched Alora with vacant eyes. The fact that she couldn't do anything to help bothered Vex deeply. Karliah knew, because she felt the same way. All they could do was wait, and hope.

Another night passed. Karliah sat uncomfortably, elbow propped and supporting her head. Vex was asleep, stretched out on the opposite bench, her arm dangling over the edge. One bump in the road and surely she would tumble right off. Karliah smiled, imagining Vex flailing on the floor of the carriage, screaming obscenities at the driver for something that wasn't his fault.

A yawn passed Karliah's lips. Her eyelids began to droop, and suddenly the weight of three sleepless nights crashed down on her. Dawn was close, the frozen stars were melting; but Riften would be upon them soon, and a few hours' rest would do her good. Slowly her body succumbed to sleep.

In what felt like mere seconds later, Karliah felt herself being shaken awake. "Karliah! Karliah! Wake up, damn it!"

"Whaddayouwan?" Karliah grumbled. Her eyes were bleary when she opened them. She blinked several times, and Vex's face swam into view. "Are we home?"

"It's Swiftknife," Vex urged. "Something's wrong."

The nervous edge in Vex's voice snapped Karliah out of her trance. Something was indeed wrong—Alora's breathing had become labored. Callused fingers curled and uncurled, and every so often, her legs would twitch.

She appeared to be suffering from a nightmare, and though Karliah doubted that was the case, she resolved to treat her as though it were true. Gently she stroked Alora's hair, instructing Vex to soak a rag with the water flask. She did so without question, and Karliah was grateful.

For several minutes Karliah dampened Alora's forehead with the cool rag, murmuring reassurances as if this were her child and she a mother. Vex held down her legs to stop them convulsing. Eventually, Alora's breathing began to slow, and Karliah sighed in relief.

Then, to her astonishment, Alora's eyes fluttered open.

Brynjolf was tense.

Karliah and Vex were taking far longer to return than he had anticipated. In an effort to free his mind from worry, he had taken it upon himself to re-establish the Guild's footholds in all of Skyrim's major cities. Brynjolf was amazed at how many distinguished clients were knocking on their door, asking for services and promising influence in return.

In Alora's absence, Brynjolf had managed to commission a weighty contract in Windhelm. Torsten Cruel-Sea, head of one of Skyrim's most prominent families, had requested the Guild's help in retrieving a valuable family heirloom. The heirloom had been stolen by a rival guild of Altmer—after they had murdered Torsten's daughter, Fjotli, to get it.

"The way I see it, you retrieve our family locket, and take out a rival guild in the process," Torsten's letter had said. "If you agree to this task, I will ensure that the Guild has leverage in Windhelm once again."

The best person for the job, Brynjolf realized, would have been Alora. She was a fine archer and did not hesitate to kill if necessary. But since he could not send her, he asked Niruin to do it instead. He, too, was competent with a bow, though his stance on killing was far more lax than Alora's. It had taken much prodding and bribery, but eventually the elf agreed to complete the job. He returned soon after Karliah and Vex left, bearing a fat coinpurse and new footing in Windhelm.

After Niruin's success, the Guild was busier than it had been since Gallus's days as Guildmaster. Delvin was drowning in contracts, issuing them out like free sweetrolls. Once or twice Brynjolf caught the old Breton cursing Vex under his breath for leaving him with all the work.

"We can't keep up with all these contracts, boss," Delvin had said. "The Guild needs more recruits."

"Are you complaining about that?" Brynjolf joked.

Delvin grinned wolfishly. "Not at all, Bryn. Not at all."

But Brynjolf heeded Delvin's words, and set out to survey the streets of Riften. He re-opened his stall, sold phony elixirs to the gullible, and kept an eye out for sneak thieves. Within the week or so that Alora had been gone, he managed to reel in two new recruits: a snarky Breton woman named Yannic and a young Imperial man called Natch Foxfeet. Both newcomers were adequate thieves, but there was much room for improvement. Brynjolf sought out his top trainers to show them the ropes and hone their skills.

And yet, throughout all of the excitement, his mind always wandered back to Alora.

It was easier to avoid thinking of her during the day, when there was work to be done. But at night, his mind refused to calm, and it showed. Dark circles spread under his eyes, and once or twice he dozed off while working. His worry over Alora, combined with the sudden run of success in the Guild, was becoming too much for Brynjolf to handle.

One morning at breakfast, he found himself praying to the Dark Lady for peace of mind.

"What're you muttering about?" Delvin wanted to know, taking a seat across from his friend.

"Not now, Del," Brynjolf snapped. "Don't you have a bath to take?"

"Ouch," said Delvin, his lips quirking in a smile. "That cuts me deep, boss. Real deep."

Brynjolf sighed. "I'm sorry. I'm just—"

"I know," came the reply. "The work is taxin' all of us."

"There's so much that has to be done, Del," said Brynjolf, rubbing his temples. "We need more recruits; the two I fished out won't be enough. Then there's the matter of dipping our toes into the other major cities. And Alora's coronation..."

"Assuming she's alive."

Brynjolf shot him a poisonous glare. "Talk like that again and I'll make you train the recruits."

"Message received." Delvin took a swig of watered-down ale. "Have you told everyone?"

"Told everyone what?"

"That Swiftknife's to be our new Master, o' course."

"I hadn't even thought about that, with all that's been going on," Brynjolf admitted. "D'you think I should—"

But before he could finish his thought, Maul came barreling through the Ragged Flagon entrance. Maul was Dirge's brother and Maven Black-Briar's right-hand man. Though technically not a full member of their outfit, he still watched the streets for the Guild, reported sightings of possible recruits, and delivered messages. Lately he had been coming into the Flagon daily, bringing more contracts for the Guild than ever before.

"Got these for ya," Maul grunted, thrusting a stack of envelopes into Brynjolf's hand.

"Add those to the pile of things we'll never get done," Delvin muttered into his tankard. "I've already got a stack of contracts taller'n me."

"It's a good problem to have," Brynjolf pointed out, shuffling through the letters. "Hold on—Del, I think this one's from Vex."

Delvin promptly started choking on his drink. "What?!"

With nervous hands, Brynjolf drew his knife and cut open the envelope. The message was simple, penned in Vex's messy scrawl:

Alive.

Brynjolf exhaled, silently thanking Nocturnal. The weight of his heart lightened considerably. Alora was alive and safe in the company of Karliah and Vex. She would be home soon. He could breathe.

"Let me read it," Delvin insisted, taking the parchment from Brynjolf's hand. "Well, would ya look at that?"

Brynjolf took the message back and tucked it into his belt. "I think it's time I told the Guild about our new Master."

"Aye," Delvin agreed. "And I'll be right behind you."

Brynjolf rose and disappeared into the Cistern. Minutes later, he returned, the entire Guild trailing behind him.

"What's this all about, eh, Bryn?" Vipir asked, leaning against the bar. "Yannic and I were in the middle of our pickpocketing exercises."

"Is that why my lockpicks are missing?" Cynric blurted. "You little—"

"Everyone, everyone! Pipe down!" Brynjolf shouted. "I have an important announcement."

"Let me guess: you're leaving the Guild to fulfill your lifelong dream of becoming an exotic dancer," Thrynn goaded.

Brynjolf chuckled. "No, unfortunately not." He wrung his hands. Speechmaking was not one of his talents. "I've gathered you all here to discuss the matter of Mercer's succession."

Soft murmuring broke out. "We thought you'd be the new Master, Brynjolf," said Tonilia. "That is what you and Mercer agreed to?"

Brynjolf nodded. "Aye, once upon a time, when Mercer named me Guild Second, he said that if anything were to happen to him, I would be his successor...unless someone of greater aptitude came along."

More whispering circled the room.

"Shut up, would ya?" Delvin chided.

Delvin's support gave Brynjolf confidence. "Most of you know that I've never had the desire to lead," he continued. "I'm good at what I do, in the position I've got. But I'm not the best person to succeed Mercer." He took a deep breath. "Karliah, Vex, Delvin, and I have all talked. We feel that, for the Guild to have its best chance, our new leader should be Alora Swiftknife."

He expected arguing. He expected objections. He expected anything but the silence he received. Maybe this would be easier than he thought. "Alora is strong, capable, and a damn good thief. She owed us nothing, yet gave her unwavering allegiance from day one. She was willing to put her own life at risk to secure our stance with Nocturnal. And," he smiled slightly, "She personally stabbed Mercer Frey in the neck."

Several of them chuckled. "Are you serious?" asked Rune.

"I saw it with my own eyes, lad." Brynjolf took a breath; the moment of truth was upon him. "The Guild...is home to all of us. We're a family, despite what Mercer would have told you. And since we're a family...I want to hear your voices." He cleared his throat. "If you believe that Alora Swiftknife should not be our new Guildmaster, speak now."

His eyes swept the room, locking on each member of the Guild, waiting for someone to object, but no one spoke. The only sound in the room was the popping of Vekel's cookfire. "No one's got anything to say, then?" he queried. "No? Good." A grin crossed his face. "Alora will be home from her mission soon. Let's give her a welcome she won't forget."

"Depends on how much she drinks, Bryn," Delvin commented.

Everyone laughed, and Brynjolf joined them. "All right, you lot. Back to your assignments."

When everyone filtered back to the Cistern, Brynjolf turned to Delvin. "I think that went well."

Delvin snickered. "Top notch, boss. You and your words of honey."

"Better than words of ale," Brynjolf drawled. "Lay off the drink. It's not even noon."

"Aw, shove it."

The next day, Brynjolf was worse for wear. He finally managed to get a full night's rest, but the amount of work that awaited him in the morning made him feel as though he hadn't gotten a wink. Piles of contracts littered the Guildmaster's desk, to be sorted and assigned. Payments had to be divided. Several of the Riften townsfolk owed the Guild money, and Brynjolf had to ensure that they honored their debts.

In the midst of all the chaos, a strange Bosmer decided to come wandering into the Flagon. He presented himself as Syndus, and asked if they were in need of a bowyer.

"I was looking for work in Windhelm when Torsten Cruel-Sea recommended I come here," the elf explained. "He said the Guild was growing again, and wont for merchants."

Although the elf could not have come at a worse time, Brynjolf was not about to turn him away. The Guild did need merchants, and more than that, fences. So, he enlisted Delvin's help. Delvin knew business, and he trusted him to set Syndus up right.

With Delvin busy, Brynjolf resolved to sort the contracts, a job originally designed for the Guild Thirds. And, although he was grateful to Vex for helping Karliah, he wished she were there to help staunch the flow of work.

By nightfall, Brynjolf was completely overwhelmed. Maul had come in not once, but three times that day bearing letters from potential clients. Among them was another special request, this time from Clan Battle-Born in Whiterun. Brynjolf was busy working out the details of the task when Delvin came running into the Cistern.

"Bryn!" Delvin wheezed. "Come quickly!"

Surprised, Brynjolf put his quill down. It must have been urgent if Delvin was running. The man hardly ever stood up, let alone ran. "What is it, Del?"

Delvin doubled over, taking in huge gulps of air. "Karliah—Vex—they're back."

Brynjolf didn't need to be told twice. He covered the distance between himself and the Flagon entrance within seconds, pushing open the door with such force that it slammed against the stone wall.

"Hey, watch it!" Vekel scolded.

Brynjolf ignored him and plowed his way to the two women standing by the Ratway exit. "Oh, thank Nocturnal you're back," he gasped, unprepared for how happy he was to see them.

"Yeah, thank the Dark Lady indeed," Delvin quipped. "Vexy, d'you have any idea how much work you left me with?"

"Not enough for you to stay sober, apparently," Vex retorted. Her voice shook with exhaustion; both women looked even worse than Brynjolf.

Delvin grinned. "How could I? I've been drinkin' myself to death, it's been so miserable without you."

Vex rolled her eyes, and Brynjolf laughed. "It's good to have things back to normal. Well, for the most part. There's much I have to fill you in on, and Alora's coronation to prepare for..." He furrowed his brow. "Where is she, anyway?"

Karliah and Vex exchanged glances. "There's...something we have to tell you," Karliah said gently.

Brynjolf started to speak, but Vex cut him off. "Before you lose your mind, yes, she is alive. I didn't lie to you."

He exhaled. "Then what is it, lass? I can handle it."

Karliah shot Vex a look that clearly said keep your mouth shut, I'll handle this. "Well," she began, "The good news is, she completed the job. The Key is safe."

"That's all fit and fine, but that doesn't answer my question."

Karliah seemed to turn over every word in her mouth carefully before speaking it. "Well...your intuitions were right, Brynjolf. It's very good that you sent us after her..."

Brynjolf listened with increasing apprehension as Karliah related her tale. It was just as bad, if not worse, than what he had expected. Alora had been critically injured, inches from death, and if Karliah had not found her, she would have met her demise. Only luck and Karliah's magic saved her life. As she spoke, Brynjolf knew that Karliah was beating around the bush when describing the extent of Alora's injuries, but it was no matter. He would have the truth soon enough.

Moreover, he was angry; angry with himself for not going with her, and angry with Karliah for sending her, even though in his heart, he knew it had to be done.

"I need to see her," he said, throat tight. "Where is she now?"

"Outside the door," Karliah replied, gesturing to the Ratway exit. "She wants to see you...alone."

When no one moved, Vex spoke up. "That means get out, all of you."

"Alright, Vexy, we can take a hint," Delvin muttered. "Let's give 'em some privacy." He took his drink and made for the Cistern, followed by Dirge, Tonilia, and Vekel.

"We'll go and get her," said Karliah. She vanished into the Ratway, Vex right behind her.

When they returned, Alora was between them. Her arms were draped over their shoulders, and a scarf shaded her face. Karliah and Vex seemed to be supporting most of her weight, but when she did take a step, her right leg crumpled.

Brynjolf covered the distance amidst them in two great strides. He took Alora into his arms, allowing her to fall into him. Karliah and Vex took their leave and disappeared into the Cistern.

They were alone.

"Lass..." he whispered. Then, slowly, he cupped her supple cheek and brought her lips to his. He marveled at the softness of her mouth; the way it molded perfectly to his, and how she tasted of honey. He could have lost her, he could have lost this beautiful creature that he was lucky enough to be holding.

Brynjolf broke the kiss. "Alora, I—"

"Don't let go of me," she murmured, and caught his mouth once more. He chuckled and smiled into her lips, resting his hands on the soft curve of her hips. She made a noise in the back of her throat, a low, humming sound. Her mouth opened and she bit his bottom lip.

A rush of heat colored Brynjolf's cheeks. His heart hammered against his ribcage, threatening to burst forth. Alora absently—or purposely?—rocked her hips into his, slowly running her hands down the length of his chest.

Alora was so close to him that he could feel the beat of her heart, slowly increasing as she kissed him. Her mouth was desperate against his, moving in time, stealing his breath. He groaned as she ran her tongue along his bottom lip. What was this woman doing to him? He couldn't stop, and neither could she—they were enraptured, wrapped up in each others' bodies, so aware that they could have been parted forever.

Brynjolf moved his lips away from hers, planting soft kisses on the line of her jaw, slowly making his way down to her neck. He held her hips firmly against his, and she closed her eyes tightly, begging him to continue.

And he would oblige, slipping his hands underneath her linen shirt. One hand dropped and came to rest on the small of her back; the other roamed the taut skin of her stomach. His lips moved to caress her collarbones, and a small moan escaped her. "Bryn..."

His breathing grew heavy as he realized what was happening. This was moving too fast, she had just gotten home, she was injured—

"What're you doing?" She mumbled, her cheeks flushed red. "Don't stop..."

"Lass," he whispered into her neck. "You know we can't do this here."

"I know, but..." She sighed, and he could feel the beat of her heart begin to slow. "I need you."

"I feel the same way," he said gingerly. "But we'll have time to be together, trust me. I'll make sure of it."

She exhaled slowly. "Okay."

He smiled, but something wasn't right. She wouldn't look at him. In fact, she hadn't made eye contact with him at all.

"Alora?" he ventured, touching her cheek with the tips of his fingers.

She remained silent, leaning her forehead against his chest.

"Lass, look at me."

She took a shaky breath. "There's...something I have to show you." Peering up at him, she curled two fingers around her scarf, pulling the fabric out of her face. The torchlight warmed her skin, and—to Brynjolf's surprise—revealed a long, elaborate scar. Puckered pink tissue swathed her forehead, lined her jaw, spread down her neck, finally disappearing under her shirt. "I—I wanted to show you, before anyone else saw," she stammered. "Karliah—she did her best, but..."

Brynjolf stopped her, trailing his fingers down the length of her scar. "Lass," he said, smiling crookedly, "To me, you are, and always have been, the most beautiful thing on two feet. Nothing could make me think otherwise."

"Are you sure?" Alora swallowed. "They're never going to go away, Bryn. I'll be disfigured forever. I'll—"

He cut her off with a kiss, his bottom lip catching on her upper lip. "I love you," he said. "All of you."

The shock that passed over her face was so fervent that Brynjolf was certain her heart had failed. But then she smiled, and her surprise dissolved into tenderness. "I love you, too."

There was a party that night. Vekel cooked up quite a feast for their Guildmaster-to-be; beef stew, fresh vegetables, and loaves of bread so hot they steamed when cracked open. Cold mead made Alora forget all about the pain in her leg, and Delvin told so many jokes that her stomach hurt from laughing so hard.

No one commented on the scars she now wore, a permanent reminder of her time in the Pilgrim's Path. They did look at her differently, though. It was a strange kind of look, awe, or perhaps respect. Either way, Alora thought it folly. In her mind, she had simply done what was best for the Guild, and that was worth the sacrifice.

And, even though she was having fun, Alora kept looking for excuses to leave. Delvin was getting boisterous, and she wanted time to be alone with Brynjolf. Every so often she would catch his eye, asking a silent question: Now? He would wink at her then, playing his little game, but eventually he stood up and feigned a yawn.

"Well, I'm beat," he said, stretching his arms. "Lass, you'd best be getting to bed, too. Come on. I'll help you."

He bent down and scooped her up. She wrapped her arms around his neck, grateful for his strength. As they left, Alora swore she heard Delvin mumble, "Yeah, they're going to bed all right." She smiled to herself. Old Delvin was too clever for his own good.

"Where are you taking me?" She asked Brynjolf, once they were out of earshot. "This place is anything but private..."

"Well, you'll be Guildmaster soon enough," Brynjolf said slyly. "It only makes sense that the Master would have her own quarters."

He reached the entrance to the Cistern, but instead of entering, he took a sharp right. They stopped at a door that Alora had seen, but never entered.

"This," said Brynjolf, "Is your new room."

"This? I thought this was a supply closet or something."

Brynjolf chuckled. "Hardly."

They entered the room. It was small and simple, with a double bed, dresser, chest, and two small end tables.

"This was Mercer's room," Brynjolf explained. "Vekel and I cleaned it out after you left. I wanted it to feel like yours."

"You mean I don't have to put up with Delvin's snoring anymore?"

Brynjolf grinned mischievously and dumped her into bed. "Oh no, lass. You get to put up with mine."

"Lucky me," she mused, pulling him closer. "Where were we again?"

"Somewhere around here, I think," said Brynjolf, kissing her neck. Then he hesitated, his words soft against her ear. "Are you sure about this, lass?"

She looked up at him, eyes flashing in the candlelight. "Yes," she breathed. "I am."

A smile touched his lips. Then, leaning over, he blew out the candle at her bedside. "I love you," he whispered.

"I love you too," she said. "Now kiss me, damn it."