Stuff gets a little bit darker in this chapter, I swear there will be happiness once Mercer is dead! Again, thank you to those amazing supporters of this story!

Chapter Twenty Five

Twisted Every Way

They set out for Irkngthand the next morning in more or less silence. Brynjolf tried to ease things over with Phaeril after their argument, but every time he tried to talk to her it ended in awkward politeness from the both of them which achieved very little other than making them feel incredibly uncomfortable. So after that he gave up and brooded in his own thoughts for the journey.

Phaeril as right though. She could ride faster than him even while wounded, though her health was doing much better now that Frederick had been healing her. Brynjolf highly suspected though that the majority of her skill at riding was due to the fact her horse was unnaturally fast and definitely did not come from Skyrim. Which, as far as he was concerned, was cheating. And either way, he preferred his sturdy (stolen) horse, even if it was slower – it could weather snow storms and climb mountains. He'd like to see Phaeril's whispy fast little horse just try and get through a blizzard.

Regardless, they made camp at the end of the day in clearing in a forest, and he tried to help with putting the tents up.

Perhaps learning how to put up tents was something a father was meant to teach a son, in which case he was severely lacking given his father had been absent for the better part of his life. Or maybe it was something one learnt if they spend a good deal of time in the wilderness, which he couldn't particularly say he'd done either because he quite liked to stay in inns when travelling and he wasn't hunter. So perhaps it wasn't all that surprising that he had no idea what to do with a tent.

He did try. He really, really did try and be useful. But after tripping over one of the ropes for possibly the tenth time, Brynjolf gave up and banned himself from tent putting-up duties. So he sat himself down in front of the fire they'd set in the campsite. He skewered a chunk of meat from the deer Phaeril had hunted and butchered for them, and started roasting it with a rather absent-minded look on his face.

After a while Frederick sat himself down nearby and cocked his head as he gazed at the food he was cooking. "You're a surprisingly good cook," he murmured a few moments later.

Brynjolf scowled at him briefly. "What do you mean surprisingly?"

"Well, if it's anything like your ability to put up a tent... never mind," Frederick continued with a laugh.

Brynjolf glanced at his friend, who was observing their bosmer companion deftly wrenching a rope into place on a tent on the other side of camp. Evidently she had much more experience surviving in the wild than him. She'd told him once she'd hunted to get by when she needed to, but whether that was true or not he didn't even know.

"So... Phaeril," Frederick started rather tactlessly.

The redhead's lips remained sealed as he poked the meat diligently. The blond, however, seemed reluctant to give up and pressed on.

"What's going on there, hmm?"

"I wish I knew," Brynjolf mumbled glumly. Then he sighed heavily and scratched at the back of his neck. "Trying to get anything out of her is like getting blood out of a stone."

"It might not help that you have a temper to match a dragon," Frederick suggested unhelpfully.

"You'd get mad too if you had to put up with her seizing up like a clam every time you try and talk to her about your relationship."

"No, I wouldn't," he said, then his lips curled into a smile when Brynjolf stared blankly at him. Frederick added almost smugly, "I don't go for women."

The redhead rolled his eyes and shook his head. "You are the worst friend sometimes."

Frederick grinned briefly but then sobered and gave him a serious, genuine look. "I think she loves you." The blond's lips tugged into an ironic smile. "Funny then because she's just like you and refuses to admit it."

"I do admit it," Brynjolf whispered with a frown, his eyes landing fixedly on the meat again because holding his friend's gaze was making him squirm and made it too personal. "But I hate that I even have to admit it in the first place."

When Frederick didn't reply, he glanced at him ever so briefly and saw him raise an eyebrow, prompting him to continue. The redhead pursed his lips before adding, "she killed Gallus, I can never forget that."

"I wouldn't expect you to forget it," Frederick said gently. "Forgive, perhaps, but-"

"It's tearing me apart," Brynjolf interrupted with a growl of frustration. "I never stopped thinking about her and yet I never stopped hating her either for what she took from me."

He perhaps shook the meat a bit too roughly in his anger, because the spit swayed a little bit and almost fell of it's rack.

"If she'd only tell me what Mercer held against her..." He cursed and hung his shoulders helplessly.

"I don't know much about courting women," Frederick started softly, "but I know how to read people, probably better than you do." The blond's eyes narrowed and he chewed on his lip. "I think she's close to breaking."

Brynjolf sighed and glanced at her once more. Maybe he should try and talk to her again, preferably this time without pissing her off or getting angry himself, because from experience he'd learnt that that didn't help.

"There's only so much you can bottle up inside before the truth comes spilling out," Frederick added softly. Brynjolf knew it was true, and not only of Phaeril.

o0o

Phaeril's horse was definitely strange. It was unlike any horse Brynjolf had ever seen, and he had been outside Skyrim and seen the leaner ones they had in some of the other provinces.

Hers was sleek and lean, bristling with pent up energy and speed. It had a black, shiny coat and Brynjolf was fairly certain it's eyes flashed red every now when it thought nobody was watching. But she seemed to love that horse, however bizarre it looked, because she hadn't left it's side for a good half hour or more. Which was why he chose that moment to approach her. The horses were tied up on the edge of their camp and she was alone apart from the animal she was patting affectionately.

"Interesting horse you got there," he started casually as he approached her. Then, to try and ease over their awkwardness, he added, "lass."

She tensed a little and didn't face him, her forehead pressed to the horse's as her hands cupped the side of the creature's face.

"Where'd you get him?" he continued awkwardly.

"Where do you think?" was the somewhat bitter reply she gave him. He fixed her with an unimpressed look, not that she saw it or far less might have cared. But truthfully he probably knew she'd gotten it from the Dark Brotherhood anyway, it certainly looked evil enough for it.

Phaeril sighed softly and pulled away, her gaze flickering to his ever so briefly. "And, it's her," she corrected and turned to walk away.

He followed her further into the forest, and when she didn't stop he grabbed her hand as her name slipped from his lips. Her body went rigid, but she didn't wrench her hand from his even as she stopped walking. They were completely alone and he wasn't sure that was a good thing.

"Brynjolf," she started softly. "Don't-"

"I know Mercer blackmailed you to kill Gallus," he interrupted, and he cursed himself softly that he still wasn't able to keep his damn emotions in control.

Everything came back to her, and he only hoped he wouldn't lose his temper again – because he knew the moment she felt threatened she'd curl up into a defensive, prickly ball again and he wouldn't get anything out of her.

Her hand fell from his and she turned around slowly to face him. Her brow was creased and she wrapped her arms around her body, almost like a defensive mechanism, so he continued gently. "What happened?"

"It doesn't matter any more," she whispered. Something in him snapped and he stepped towards her, towering over her small frame.

"Don't give me that crap," he spat. "Mercer used me to get at you, tell me-"

"He would have killed you," she interrupted angrily. Her eyes flashed with something he couldn't identify and he stared at her in silence for a good few moments, his posture softening before he reached to touch her.

"No, don't." She jerked away from him, her body still so tense, defiant and hostile to him. "That person you fell in love with before, it wasn't me." She glanced down at the ground and when she spoke next her voice was a whisper. "You honestly don't know the first thing about who I am."

"Then tell me about you," he pleaded. She looked up at him almost reluctantly.

"You wouldn't want to know."

"Stop saying things like that," he growled and grabbed her by the shoulders. She froze under him, their faces inches apart. She was so close he could smell her earthy scent and feel the warmth of her body against his.

He couldn't stop himself. Try and deny it as much as he might have liked, but he hadn't stopped thinking about her since the night they spent together so long ago. And he ached for her more than he liked to admit, like he'd been celibate for the twenty five years of her absence.

Brynjolf cupped her face roughly in his hands and pressed a crushing kiss to her lips. She didn't resist him, her hands coming up to grasp onto his armour as he forced her mouth open with his tongue. A gasp escaped her as one of his hands trailed to her thigh, hitching it up around his waist as he pushed her against a tree and took her roughly, desperately.

It wasn't romantic or pretty, and he buried his face in her shoulder, refusing to meet her gaze as twenty five years of longing and wanting her overwhelmed him. He didn't even know if it was really what she wanted, but she clung to him desperately the entire time, fingers digging into his skin and every little gasp from her lips driving him on further, stronger.

When he jerked to a finish he held her for what felt like hours, panting into her hair and keeping her so tight in his arms it was like he feared if he let her go he'd never see her again. But he eventually pulled back to look at her, and when she wouldn't meet his gaze he let her go. Phaeril collapsed to her knees on the ground, her hair messy and her body covered in sweat as he did up his breeches again. She buried her face in her hands and Brynjolf was filled momentarily with the horror of wondering if he'd forced himself on her, but when she spoke she dissolved his fear.

"My parents were tribal bosmer from Valenwood who did not support the Aldmeri Dominion or Thalmor occupation of our forests," she said in little more than a whisper. "My mother fled with me to Skyrim when I was a teenager, the rest of my family eventually died in the purges."

"Phaeril..." He never considered what the other races might feel like under the Thalmor rule. Most nords associated the bosmer as being just as bad as the altmer and didn't even consider that there might be some bosmer who resented their home being occupied by the high elves.

"My mother was killed by bandits shortly after we arrived in Skyrim and they took me captive," she continued brokenly. "I escaped my bonds and killed every last one of them during the night. Just as I was finishing," she paused and a sound not unlike a sob being choked back escaped her, "the previous Listener of the Dark Brotherhood found me."

"His name was Xael, a dunmer, and he'd been contracted to kill the bandits." Her body became more rigid and tense as she spoke of him, as if he was able to command fear over her even while not present. "He asked me how I'd escaped my bonds and I showed him. He said I'd be a natural assassin because of my deformity." She gestured towards her hands, presumably to indicate her hyperflexibility and unstable joints.

"He made me his lover and his pet." She looked up at him with a pained expression. "Even as I was infiltrating your guild, I was bound to him."

Brynjolf hesitated at what she'd said. He hadn't thought perhaps that she might have been in love with someone else and just using him, and the thought of it hurt, like a dagger twisting in his heart.

"When I returned after Gallus' contract..." Her voice became thick and choked. "He found out I'd been with you, that I'd strayed from him."

"How?" he whispered.

"I was pregnant." A feeling of pure, unadulterated shock came over him but he didn't get a chance to question her because she continued. "He beat me until I miscarried... Xael died less than a year later in a botched contract."

Brynjolf almost wished the dunmer wasn't dead so he could ring his throat himself. What she'd said had stunned him at first, but then filled him with anguish and hurt for a child he hadn't even known he'd lost.

The only thing he could do was walk away in shock, leaving Phaeril alone and shaking in the woods.