Hey and thank you to all you awesome people :) Have a chapter, celebrate the weekend a tad early.
-)
The next morning I awoke to a raspy voice barking "Get up, Elfling!" and several solid objects angrily thumped on my midsection.
"Oof!" I grunted as my stomach lurched. This was not the morning for that.
I managed to make it to the side of my cot before introducing the contents of my stomach to the stone floor of the Cistern. "Sweet Mara!" swore my attacker.
"That's not supposed to happen," someone else commented from across the way, in the usual manner of the Cistern.
"Morning sickness is hardly a strange occurrence," a third voice commented, farther than the first, closer than the last.
"Wait, shit!" The raspy voice, this time with a tad bit more concern. "Ty, you're not pregnant, are you?"
A bucket was brought into my line of sight (mercifully, because I was hurling again), as a smoother, lilting accent added, "If she's pregnant, we've got bigger problems!"
"She's not pregnant," scoffed the Angel of Mercy who was holding the bucket. I recognized his voice. Sounded a lot like his brother, but less accented. "I'd smell it. It's Thu'um."
I could practically feel the brows furrowing. "The Thu'um can make her sick?" someone asked, at the same time the smooth accent asked, "You could smell it?"
"Aye, Thu'um," I agreed all in a rush, now lifting my head and coming face to face with Farkas' concerned gaze. "When I use it…" Grimace. "…too much or too little."
"Go on, Morwyn," Farkas said, setting the bucket down now. "I can take it."
I drew in a shaky breath and barked, "Fus!"
The force blasted him back, but since he didn't slam into anything, it didn't hurt much of anything (or anyone). Almost immediately after the release of power, my stomach stopped churning and I could sit up. Mercer and Brynjolf had been watching the exchange with concerned gazes (albeit one more than the other). "Laas," I murmured, releasing even more of the built-up power, and also reassuring myself that I was, in fact, not pregnant. Now the idiots had me all worried. (Of course I wasn't, but still.)
"Feeling better?" Farkas commented, now back at my bedside. Azura only knows how often he'd done this over the years.
"Thank you, old friend," I said to him as I stood, going toe-to-toe with Mercer now. "What is it you need, Guildmaster?"
"Go jump in Lake Honrich first, but I need you to meet me and Brynjolf outside the Bee and Barb in full regalia…"
"Done and done," I said, gathering my Guild armor into a knapsack (Mercer had thumped my boots and my swords onto my gut, I realized). "Just don't do that again, eh?"
"Lesson learned," Mercer agreed hurriedly.
-)
"Everyone clear on the plan?" Mercer asked.
He, Bryn, and I were standing outside the Bee and Barb in full Guild armor. Brynjolf and I both had our hoods up, but Mercer's was down around his shoulders. (Granted, if I had his reputation, I would so take advantage of it too.) Lady Black-Briar had "requested" (read: demanded) an audience with the Guildmaster, and so Mercer in his infinite wisdom brought along his two most terrifying operatives—Big, Bad Brynjolf and the (in)famous Dragonborn.
"Crystal," I said, as Brynjolf nodded emphatically.
"Then walk with the Shadows," Mercer said as he pushed the door open. "And eyes front."
Maven Black-Briar was sitting at the table in the center of the room, flanked by her two sons, Sibbi and Hemming. Sibbi was a huge chunk of Nord muscle without much brain to go along with it, and Hemming had been groomed to take over Maven's empire from birth. The end result, however, had made him more of a sycophant than an heir. Hell, Ingun had more of a spine than her eldest brother.
The Bee and Barb was mostly deserted, which wasn't uncommon when Maven Black-Briar deigned to fraternize with the common folk. Keerava watched her (and us thieves) with a wary eye, while Talen-Jei repeatedly swept the same patch of floor as he eyed the two groups. Aela and Farkas, our backup in case things when south, were lounging by the bar, seemingly engrossed in their mead, but actually watching the action intently. Marcurio, the mercenary in the corner, was the only one of the usual patrons to still even be in the room.
Maven surveyed we three thieves with a tight-lipped mask as we approached her table. I couldn't help but note the odd rhythm of our strides. Brynjolf's, loud and purposeful, clearly not trying to play the part of thief. Mercer's, an even, firm stride that could just as easily terrify a man half his size as disappear into the shadows. Mine, a predatory lope, graceful and deadly as an arrow's flight. Mercer stood at point, Brynjolf on his right, me on his left.
"Mercer Frey," Maven greeted, not bothering to stand from the table as we reached the opposite side. "Brynjolf Ceylonson. Tiberia Morwyn."
Each of us nodded at the mention of our names. Mercer did not lower himself to her level; instead, he leaned both hands on the tabletop, same way he did on his desk in the Cistern. Bryn and I both folded our arms across our respective sternums, but Brynjolf met the threat firmly squared up and head-on, while I rocked to a hip and exposed nothing more than my shoulder on down.
"Lady Black-Briar, what can we do for you?" Mercer asked, carefully polite.
"You can tell me what one of my heirs is doing in your… organization." Maven was clearly furious.
Our faces gave nothing away, but mentally, my brow was furrowing. Maven had been a benefactress of the Guild for years, her family for generations. What was the difference now? Surely it couldn't be as petty as Ingun throwing her lot in with us.
"Ingun came to us, asked to help in the war effort," Mercer replied evenly. "She knew the risks."
"You did not have the authority to do such a thing!"
"Lady Black-Briar, you must understand." Mercer's eyebrow quirked, perfectly on cue. "We assumed Ingun had your permission. Isn't that how your family has always worked?"
Maven didn't like being outlogicked. It showed on her face. I made a mental note to play Daggerfall High Stakes Poker with the woman if I ever got the chance. "You should have known I would never allow her into such a…" She dropped off.
"Such a what?" Mercer prodded.
"Such a fickle profession," she finished, rather diplomatically, given the circumstances. "You are to release her immediately."
"Whoa there, now," Brynjolf interjected, his accent smooth and dangerous. I could tell he had just stopped himself from tacking 'lass' onto the end of that. "The Thieves Guild isn't something you can just walk in and out of. Once you're in, you're in for life."
The corner of her mouth twitched. "You will make an exception for…"
"We make no exceptions," Mercer interrupted with a tone of voice akin to a bell tolling.
An uneasy silence settled over us. My cue. "There's a storm brewing, Lady Black-Briar," I said, almost flippantly in my disinterest. "You'd best prepare yourself."
Her overly-thin eyebrow quirked. "Are you threatening me, Madam Morwyn?"
"I wouldn't dare," I said, my face the traditional, Elven mask. "Merely giving you a friendly piece of advice." I paused, then realized what she'd called me. If we were going that route, might as well pull rank. "And it's Lady Morwyn, thank you."
Mercer's face still gave nothing away, but Brynjolf was having issues hiding his smirk. Maven seemed a tad surprised to discover I actually had a title, but whatever. "Regardless," she said, whirling on Mercer again. "This isn't up to discussion."
"You're absolutely right," Mercer agreed, still smoothly dangerous. "Ingun is a junior member of the Riften Thieves Guild and you're just going to have to live with it."
It happened in the blink of an eye.
Sibbi's hand went to his sword, and my wolf instincts kicked in. I vaulted across the table, quick as a flash, and watched several blue digits clamp themselves down across Sibbi's throat, seemingly of their own accord. The entirety of the pub was now staring at us, Sibbi caught in the act of unsheathing his sword, my fingers clamped on his throat, squeezing just enough to remind him I could easily finish it, but not enough to actually hurt.
"Do not threaten my Guildsiblings," I growled, and with one more squeeze, violently released his throat and padded back around to take my place by Mercer's shoulder.
Maven was visibly shaken by this display of power, though she tried to hide the extent of it. "You do not want me as an enemy, Mr. Frey," she warned in a dangerous alto.
"Not sure you're useful as an ally, either," the Guildmaster quipped nonchalantly.
"Your little organization is still alive thanks only to me…!"
"And do you think we need you now?" Mercer interrupted, deadly calm and perfectly reasonable over Maven's rising hysteria. "Our influence is being restored all across Skyrim. Are you truly so egotistic that you think you are the only benefactor we have?"
Here was the major bluff. True, we'd been regaining footholds in many major cities, and true, some of our old contacts were starting to shake off the dust and get moving again, but it was slow going. Markarth had already been reestablished as an Influenced city, we had a major job in Windhelm that had just rolled in, and the Companions had agreed to watch the Thieves Guild's back in Whiterun, so long as their Harbinger was a member. They weren't too thrilled about it, but found it more dishonorable not to watch my back. Problem was, we needed the Black-Briar family if we wanted to keep our pull in Riften.
All of a sudden, Maven's facial features snapped into a deadly mask. "Then I do believe our business is permanently concluded."
As she rose from her seat, Mercer rose to his full height as well. He was taller than the Lady Black-Briar by a good several inches, but her commanding presence made him seem smaller somehow. And that's saying something—past Guildsiblings have literally pissed their pants talking to him.
"As you wish," Mercer said amiably, holding out his hand to close the deal.
She shook it, and I could tell from where I stood that her grip was formidable. Mercer made no indication it hurt. "I run this town," Maven said to him, under her breath. I wouldn't have heard her without the Beast Blood. "You will regret this, Mr. Frey."
Mercer smirked, and rasped, "I doubt it."
Maven snapped her fingers and turned on heel, heading towards the door. Hemming immediately fell into step next to her, but Sibbi hung back. He menacingly cracked his knuckles, saying "I'm gonna enjoy this." as he glared right at me.
I didn't even have to lift a finger: Brynjolf slammed into him with the force of a stallion at full gallop. The collision sent the both of them to the floor and one short, grappling fight later, Brynjolf's knee was pressing into Sibbi's gut, his hands around his throat. "You threaten the lass again," Bryn growled, so low even the Beast Blood was straining to hear him, "and you'll end up tarred and feathered. Are we clear?" Sibbi nodded, which was rather difficult given his current state of affairs. "Wonderful." Brynjolf violently let go, and the other Nord scrambled out the door with his tail between his legs.
Mercer had been watching the situation with veiled interest, his arms folded pensively across his chest. "Now what, boss?" I asked.
"Things will be tight around the Flagon for a while," he replied with a shrug. "Everyone will be running jobs double time. Nothing we haven't dealt with before, I can assure you."
"I never liked her," Brynjolf commented in Maven's general direction.
"Me neither," I agreed. "She's rather… suspicious, don't you think?"
"You don't get to the head of a family like hers without losing at least a bit it," Mercer reminded me.
"I'm not talking in generalities, here," I said, pausing for thought. "She's suspicious of us."
Bryn's brow furrowed. "Who wouldn't be? We're thieves!"
"Dragonborn, it's probably just you she's suspicious of," Mercer told me as we three began to trek back to the Cistern. "She's cozied up to the Thalmor, got friends in the Imperial City. You'd best watch your back."
"Isn't that the motto of Riften?" I lamented.
Mercer split off from us, heading back across town towards the secret entrance, leaving Brynjolf and I standing alone outside the front door to the Bee and Barb. "So, lass," Brynjolf said, leaning against the railing. "What did Odahviing have to say?"
I let out a sigh, leaning against the railing beside him. "Dragons talk in circles; it's exhausting trying to have a straight conversation with one."
Bryn laughed, asking, "Sounds a lot like some other people I could mention…"
I laughed despite myself, accompanying it with a playful shove. "This is what you get for courting the Dragonborn, icebrain,"
Bryn didn't shove back, merely dug his heels into the ground to keep himself from falling over. "But seriously, lass. Are you alright?"
I sighed, the weight of Odahviing's words coming back to me. "Yeah, I'm alright. Apparently it's perfectly normal for female dragons to live in a permanent state of hysteria and wrath…"
A look of horror crossed his face. "Those poor male dragons…"
I snorted at that. "They're angrier than the male dragons, bigger and badder. But also fewer."
"I suppose they'll have to take what mercy they can get, 'ey lass?"
"Aye… But they're also the vahlokke of the dov. The guardians."
Brynjolf cocked an eyebrow. "And that means… what, exactly?"
"Not sure," I said, staring down at my boots. "Odahviing wasn't exactly clear on what half of this all means. He made it sound like the dovah equivalent to the Companions—living with honor, the life of a warrior, and all that—but there's something he's not telling me. I can feel it."
Two of the kids from Honorhall Orphanage blew by us, then, laughing and playing tag in the streets. Funny, my childhood had never been as carefree as that. I always had the weight of my family name on my shoulders. Perhaps being an orphan wasn't so much of a curse, especially now that Grelod the Kind had taken the celestial dirt nap. (Gods bless Avalon.)
Brynjolf watched them go with a different look on his face. "Lass, he's trying to protect you," he said to me.
"He's doing me no favors," I replied, then paused. "Everything all right?"
"Hmm? Of course." Brynjolf snapped his attention back to me. "Sorry. Raynor and I used to do the same thing when we were kids." He gestured loosely after the two orphans. "Odahviing mention anything else important?"
I paused, mulling it over. "Do you remember what I told you out in the Ratway, that day I became a wolf again?"
He nodded slowly. "Aye, the Draconic prophecy?"
I nodded. "The opening—nol yol se aaz, vedod se kiin—I've been translating it wrong."
"Might explain why it didn't make any sense. So what does it actually mean?"
I drew in a breath. "From the Fire of Mercy, the ashes of rebirth…" I made a rolling motion with my hands, signifying the rest of the prophecy. "But apparently Paarthurnax never bothered to tell me what that meant."
"Sweet Talos, you sound angry…"
Absurd laughter bubbled up from somewhere deep in the recesses of my soul. "It's the dragon equivalent to puberty."
Brynjolf burst out laughing, as much from what I'd said as from the sheer absurdity of it all (he told me later). "Merciful Talos, no one ever bothered to mention to you you'd have to go through that twice?"
"That's not even the best part," I warned, still laughing hysterically. "The best part is—it's literal. A hatchling grows into a wyrm by being set on fire, and rising from its own ashes."
Concern replaced the mirth in his eyes. "They said the Dragonborn came back from Sovngarde burned from head to toe…"
I nodded quietly. I'd never told the whole story before. "I was sent back to Nirn on the winter solstice. I spent the longest night of the year curled in the snow on the Throat of the World, under Paarthurnax's wing." I shuddered at the memory. "And I… I don't know what happened that night, but I remember falling asleep a charred mess, and waking up with newly healed skin, and feeling… off. Like something deep in here…" I thumped my chest with my fist. "…had changed."
Brynjolf was shaking his head in disbelief. "How can anyone survive that…?"
I shrugged, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "I don't know. Paarthurnax figures it was my Dunmer blood, mixed with the Dovahsos, mixed with the fast healing of the Beast Blood."
"So what… what started it? Alduin?"
I nodded, staring at my knuckles, now, my voice no more than a whisper. "His soul, Bryn. It was awful, like a void all its own. I didn't absorb it—I couldn't..." I felt a gentle squeeze on my shoulder, as if to say, 'I'm here.' His clan ring dug into my armor. "And it was like a whip as the winds of time took it. He lashed out, struck me, and next thing I knew… fire. Fire everywhere…"
We were quiet once again in the warm Riften sunshine. No one traveled this far out of their way, unless they were going to the Pawned Prawn, and merely our Guild armor was more than enough of a deterrent for most. We were more or less alone in this waterfront city.
"Fire took everything I ever loved from me, too," Brynjolf finally said, unusually quiet. "Raynor, my parents, most of the Clan, our home in Falkreath… everything."
"Guess we're not so different, you and I," I said for not the first time.
He smiled wanly. "I knew there was something I liked about you."
"BRYNJOLF! TIBERIA!" Our names cut through the air with frightening clarity.
We both whirled to face the noise, finding one Vipir the Fleet, looking rather winded. "We need you down in the Flagon." Pant pant. "Right now!"
"On our way," said the Nord and the Dark Elf in unison, already on the move.
The three of us made our way down to the Ragged Flagon by means of the secret entrance from the Cistern. The entire bar was up in arms, weapons out, Mercer present, and one hooded, robed figure sitting in a chair, hands bound before him. He must have heard the three of us enter, because he glanced up just as we reached the open floor of the bar, our own weapons drawn. I realized he was dressed in Thalmor robes and immediately became three times as suspicious.
"Good Day, Lady Tiberia," he said, raising his face to the light now.
Even in my shock and anger, I never forgot my manners. "Good Day, Sir Ondolemar."
This party just never ended.
