Disclaimer: Anything you recognize belongs to the responsible parties. Anything you don't recognize probably belongs to someone else. The particular way I've filed off this tale's serial numbers, though, is totally mine, and I'll be a mite ticked off if someone tries to claim it as theirs. That said, please don't sue me over anything in this fic. I don't even own my own soul anymore, so all you'd get is a bunch of legal fees.
A/N: Now to Bryn's POV.
Warnings: Same as for the first chapter.
Chapter Two: Brynjolf
He counted the time in his head.
One week.
Two weeks.
A month.
It had been a full month since Delvin had called the emergency meeting.
Thirty days since he'd read that damnable letter to them all.
A whole month of minimal sleep, chasing down every vague rumor they could, and nothing. Nothing.
It was like their Guild Master had never existed to begin with.
Karliah's contacts in Winterhold and the Pale were coming up dry. Delvin's out in the Reach and Hjaalmarch were just as useless, as were Vex's in Haafingar and Whiterun. His own contacts in Falkreath and the Rift had whispered of a woman matching Nick's description, but further delving had revealed it to be nothing more than sightings of the Dragonborn having finally come out of hiding. Of them all, only Nick herself had strong contacts in Eastmarch, but even after careful questioning, there were still no leads.
It was maddening.
Brynjolf wasn't dealing with the whole situation well, and he knew it. He wasn't sleeping, wasn't eating, and was drinking far too much. But the mead was just about the only thing that drowned his guilt.
I drove her off, he knew. I drove her away when it was the last thing I wanted. The letter – that damnable letter – had been left on a table in the Flagon. It had been read and reread and poured over by nearly everyone in the Guild since Nick's disappearance, and was starting to show the wear so much handling imparted. Brynjolf drained his tankard and picked it up, his eyes automatically drifting down to the bottom.
And if Brynjolf asks about me, about where I went, I'd appreciate it if you said this to him exactly, "Sorry, lad, but I've got important things to do. We'll speak another time."
But they wouldn't speak another time, would they?
His eyes flickered back up the page and landed on the other part that never failed to capture his focus.
But just in case, I'll come right out and say it in so many words: I honestly don't expect to survive the task ahead.
What could possibly be so dangerous that Nick wouldn't expect to survive? Hadn't she managed to hold her own against that bastard Mercer Frey after all? The man had been the best swordsman Brynjolf had ever even heard about – yet Nick had put him down with seemingly no more effort than swatting a fly. She hadn't even gotten so much as a bruise doing it, either.
It had been in that moment, even as Mercer's curse lifted from him and he could finally control his own body again, that he'd realized something.
He loved her.
And not simply the same way he loved all his Guild-sisters.
He was in love with her.
And it had scared him. The feeling had been so big, so all-encompassing, and so unlike anything he had ever felt before that he'd tried to run from it. To hide away from it, like a child convinced of the monster under his bed hiding under the covers.
And in so doing, I pushed her away. The mead wasn't working tonight. The guilt was unendurable and, for the first time in his life, he could almost understand what could drive someone to a skooma dealer. If it could eliminate this horrible aching hole in his chest, he wouldn't hesitate. But he knew better. Alchemy wasn't his best skill, but he knew enough to know that there wasn't anything out there that could help him.
He reread the bottom of the letter again.
And if Brynjolf asks about me, about where I went, I'd appreciate it if you said this to him exactly, "Sorry, lad, but I've got important things to do. We'll speak another time."
How many times had he said that to her after Irkngthand, too scared of himself to actually face her?
Too many.
Again, his eyes flicked back up the page.
I honestly don't expect to survive the task ahead.
And for the first time since he'd read the letter in its entirety, his eyes didn't linger on that singular sentence. They drifted onwards.
But what's the value of one life when compared to the whole of the world?
Now why would she say that?
An uneasy sensation started coiling around his guts. No. It can't be. She would have told us, wouldn't she? Brynjolf straightened in his seat, clutching the letter. He scoured it with his eyes, hoping to find something – anything – that could contradict what his intuition was screaming at him.
At first, nothing in particular jumped out at him.
But then he saw something and it made him whisper, "No," out loud.
I just hope that Nocturnal doesn't take her ire out on you all when she realizes that my soul wasn't mine to barter with – it belongs to someone else, and always will.
Shakily, he gently sat the letter back on the table. Ignoring the worried glances being cast his way by Tonilia and Vekel, he headed for the Cistern. Once there, he paced. Back and forth, from the desk by the vault, across the center of the room, to the archway that led to the Ragged Flagon, and back.
It can't be. But what else is there? What else fits? Does this mad idea fit? Think, Brynjolf. Don't just react. Reacting is how you wound up in this mess to begin with.
Alright. First point for: Nick vanishes. Within days at the most, rumors surface of the Dragonborn being sighted for the first time since they were called to High Hrothgar last summer. They share a similar enough physical description that there is no discernable difference, save that the Dragonborn is said to wear dragon-scale armor.
Is there a point against this? Aside from the whole absurdity of the fucking Dragonborn being a thief to begin with, I mean. I can't see one.
Second point: The lass is a good fighter. A damn good fighter. Besides Mercer, I've seen her take down sabercats and bears and wolves and bandits all without breaking a sweat. Dwemer automatons, too – even that fucking giant thing that belched steam. What did she call it? A centurion? It didn't phase her. The only thing she seemed hesitant about killing were the damn Falmer. "I feel sorry for them," she told us. But even her misplaced sympathy for those demon-creatures wasn't enough to stay her hand if they attacked first. So what in all of Oblivion could possibly scare her enough to make her so sure she wouldn't live? A dragon god of destruction, of course.
Is there a point against it? Just the same one I thought of before.
Third point: She claims her soul isn't her own. Unless she dedicated herself to some other daedra before Nocturnal, then this fits, too – the soul of a dragonborn belongs to Akatosh.
Damn it, damn it, damn it! No matter which way I look at this, it fits. And the only argument I have against it is who the fuck would ever believe the gods-damned Dragonborn would ever be a fucking thief?
His mind made up, he spun on his heel and headed for his bed and the chest at its foot. He was very nearly packed when Delvin showed up. "Leavin'?"
Brynjolf nodded. "Don't know for sure how long I'll be gone."
"Find a lead on Nick?" Delvin asked, his tone both morose and hopeful.
Brynjolf nodded again. "I think so, but it's fucking insane, Del. If I'm right…" he shook his head, unsure of where he was going with that. He tightened down a strap and leveled a look at his best friend. "Keep it together for me?"
"Of course," Delvin replied, a sad smile quirking one corner of his mouth. "Gonna let us know where you're headed?"
"Don't know for sure," Brynjolf admitted, shamelessly stripping down in order to trade his 'at home' tunic and trews for a reinforced set of the Guild's best armor. "And no, I don't particularly want to share what I think I know. Like I said, Del – it's insane, but I can't think of anything else that fits. If it turns out I'm wrong, then I'll let you know. Give you the chance to laugh at me."
"'S alright, Bryn. I trust ya. Should I call everyone home, get us all back to work until you return?"
Brynjolf sat to pull on his boots. "Yeah," he said. "Good idea. Thanks."
A/N2: I hope I got inside Bryn's head properly; y'all'll have to lemme know how well I did, yeah?
