Just FYI, this is also posted on my ArchiveOfOurOwn account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.
Word of the Penitus Oculatus Commander's rage spread fast as fire on the whispers the Guild followed.
In their time, Brynjolf knew that the Dark Brotherhood had angered a great many people in their time, but this was the first time he had seen Delvin almost visibly anxious over whatever that outfit had stepped in and hadn't quite scraped off their boot. A plot for the Emperor's murder was something huge, the chaos that it would make would be massive, the opportunities endless. Records can be lost, taxes can be forgotten, and laws aren't always enforced. New guards often too busy learning their responsibilities to notice a few smuggled goods or minor robberies.
Markarth was an example, still a mess from the Stormcloaks taking power over the Hold, but with the new Jarl putting every man, woman, and child on edge it was almost impossible for the Guild to regain their footing in the city.
That city was one neither Delvin or Vex wanted to give jobs to any average thief, least the Guild dwindle once more.
They were a dying breed, they were, the skilled heist-runners and burglars and shillers and sweepers and bedlamers and fishers and number-forgers. One of these days, they'd have to face the music.
Their luck was just plain running out.
Just like the last of Sithis's protection had seemed to run out for his Children.
It was impossibly slow in the Flagon and Cistern, no jobs worth the attention of the more seasoned thieves available. Etienne Rarnis was in Whiterun, still working on regaining his footing after his shaky encounter with the Thalmor nearly two years ago, footing that had been trampled when word came that another of their own had been caught and tortured.
Loriel almost didn't make it out of that one alive, and he was still huddled under Jarl Stormcloak's overly protective wing, a fact that would have sold for good money if that Altmer had been just the well-wanted bard that he was.
But he wasn't just that.
He was the only reason the Guild hadn't sank as fast as they could have.
And best yet, Maven owed him.
And she didn't like owing anyone anything.
Thankfully, Loriel was the humble sort. Liked to keep his head down, stay out of politics, not pick sides, didn't hold anything over anyone's head without reason, and he preferred his payments to be kept small.
Microtransactions.
It made everyone's hands look cleaner in the long-haul and that suited everyone just fine.
Speaking of clean hands, that reminded him that tomorrow was going to be a rare occasion for the Guild at the request of Loriel. All hands were to be idle in Riften, a gift for his brother's wedding. Weddings were easy targets in Riften but you don't steal from your own family.
And Loriel was definitely family.
Which was why it surprised Brynjolf all the more when Delvin came to him with a special request of his own. Something personal. And Delvin didn't usually do personal. Which made it all the more serious.
Word of that fire's got me worried.
Check on them.
If its true then I want to know.
Just check on them.
Stick his nose into Falkreath, poke around the Sanctuary, don't do anything risky, just observe and come back.
Simple job.
It was an absentminded drizzle in comparison to the downpour that had hit the gloomy Hold days ago, but it felt like no amount of rain could dampen the stench of the charred ruins, black tainting the grey of the cliff face that had once concealed the sanctuary's entrance, a sinister skull-faced door laying in shattered pieces in the tunnel, and in front of the path, a powerful looking horse was pacing anxiously, chewing at the bit in its mouth, its sin red eyes rolling, stink of sweat and blood almost radiating off of it like heat.
Gut instinct told Brynjolf that angering that beast was a death sentence, the mangled corpses of Penitus Oculatus at least confirming the theory, each one looking crushed to death by powerful hooves, and with great caution, Brynjolf scouted the area, weary of the beast and any others that might show.
The landscape of the area seemed to have changed a little, certain areas in the nearby hills appearing sunk, trees that Brynjolf knew had been standing upright months ago nearly keeled over from the weight of their branches now that their roots no longer had much solid left to hold onto.
The tunnels of the Sanctuary had likely collapsed some.
But news of a horse, however unique, wasn't really news to bring back to Delvin.
He had to go inside.
He had to check.
He followed the cliffside, creeping past the black horse and to the mouth of the home, a tree littered with broken arrowshafts the only thing of note as he passed, taking great care not to touch anything as his descent began.
There was more ash than he had ever expected the place to contain, large flecks floating through the air on a breeze that wafted up from the depths, the faint reek of water and the sound of splashing. A waterfall? Somewhere beneath that though, Brynjolf noted, was the shallow sound of coughing.
Coughing meant that someone was alive in this ruin.
Someone had survived.
Through the darkness, the Nord noted patterns in the ash.
Drag marks.
Wet ones that came from outside in the weather and went lower.
A broken arrow shaft.
A few.
Another drag mark started within the first small room that the wet trail moved through, this one with the distinct mark of something with a tail, flecks of charred scales lingering against whatever it scraped. Down the stairs, where the sound of water and coughing were louder and the glow of torchlight bounced off walls and drew long shadows.
Ash and death.
Scattered torches had been lit, shoved into the soft ground near the pool of water or propped up on the edges of things to stay aglow, slowly dying from time and neglect, and in the dim glow, Brynjolf could count three bodies, human, a fourth that was Argonian, and then there was a hulking shape that he could only fancy from scarce views might have once been a werewolf.
He didn't know much about who the Dark Brotherhood took in under their wing, but they seemed to take in all sorts based on the skills that suited their penchant for death.
As for the coughing…
He almost missed it entirely until a large rock was hefted out from above the waterfall and hit the pool with a loud splash.
Coughing.
And the sound of straining effort.
Through the broken circle of a window.
Whoever it was, he hoped they didn't know that he was there. The last thing he needed was an irate survivor coming at him for trespassing and having to bring Delvin bad news as the result.
But whoever they were, they were cautious too.
Where they were beyond that broken window was a mystery no matter what angle of the chamber Brynjolf looked from, even when he stood on rubble.
Even when another piece of ruin went tumbling out the window and added itself to the pool.
How long had they been digging like that? The water was almost overflowing already.
A sharp barrage of coughing echoed thick through the cavern, catching both of them by surprise and Brynjolf froze where he stood in the shadows, a figure stumbling forward from the depths, wearing as much soot as the ground he had walked upon, streaks of color far and few as the individual braced themselves against the edge of the window, long pale hair draping down as they leaned over to sharply hack up their lungs.
At one point in time, all that hair had been pulled back, some of it still was, but perhaps in the chaos it had slipped loose of its tie, perhaps at the same time it got so much blood in it.
A head injury?
And they were still moving around with purpose, excavating the cave-in on their lonesome, a row of bodies lined up by the water, they were collecting their losses.
Paying their respects one last time.
Strange how this one survivor wanted to honor what was left of their family when they could be running instead.
There could be other survivors.
And there they were, doing this on their own.
Brynjolf wondered if this might be among the tales he'd tell over flagons of mead, ale, and wine to his friends within the Guild as he steeled himself for the doubtlessly stupid move he was about to pull.
Behind the safety of the suviving column that kept the cavern from completely collapsing, Brynjolf drew a breath and spoke. "Looks like your outfit's had a run of bad luck."
The coughing stopped for a startled moment before it became hacking.
And then it stopped again.
For once, the silence made him nervous.
"I'm a friend, not a Penitus Oculatus."
He could only hear his own breath as he waited for a response.
None came.
"I'm going to come out now, aye?"
There was no reply.
Slowly, Brynjolf dared to step out from behind the safety of the column, eyes locked on that broken window.
But that figure wasn't standing there anymore.
Did they retreat to the safety of the shado-
The answer became clear when he felt the cold edge of a knife to his throat.
"I'll be taking your weapons. Yes?"
Their voice, her voice, was a low, almost wheezing rasp, trembling like the blade against his throat, like a cough was trapped in her throat, barely contained. She had taken advantage of the drumming waterfall to muffle her footsteps in order to reach the other side of the pillar, maneuvering herself behind him for when he decided to expose himself.
Clever.
Cautious.
His adam's apple bobbed against the blade as he swallowed, slowly reaching with one hand to remove the sword at his hip and offer it to her, feeling the weight of her touch before it was taken, restraining a wince as he heard the metal hit the ground and then a soft, "dagger as well, if you please."
"Come now, lass. I'm just here to-"
The press of her blade was firmer against his neck for a moment before the tickle in her chest finally caught up with her and she coughed, one brief moment of faltering and he took the opportunity to take one long step away from her, and then another.
A safe distance.
For both of them.
And then he finally got a good look at her.
Black smeared and ran from around her eyes, warpaint that had dripped down over her lips and worn away with time in reminiscence of Sithis's charred skull, shadows from the torches making her look near gaunt. She was in disarray, light hair wild and filthy, plastered down in spots, pale lips livened with red.
And those eyes of her.
Those dark, dark eyes.
Those eyes never left him, steady and calculating even as she winced with her coughing, slim daggers clutched in both fists as she braced herself against the column.
Blood flecking her mouth.
How long had she been inside this cave that still reeked of smoke?
Had she been breathing it since the attack?
Brynjolf kept his hands where she could see them as he asked, "are you the only one who made it, lass?"
Her hacking slowly began to subside and he kept his patience just as she kept hers, she was the wounded predator who was certain to attack if aggravated, and she finally rasped out, "who wants to know?"
"Delvin Mallory sent me. You know who that is, don't you, lass?"
She did.
He was certain that she did by the subtle way her posture almost sagged, sharp features briefly going sharper, jaw tightening and cheeks bitten. Then her expression relaxed.
"I see," she murmured.
Then sheathed her daggers, sliding them into her sleeves where they all but disappeared entirely.
And she took a step back.
Turned her back on him.
And started walking back over to the rocky edge beside the waterfall.
"Lass?"
"No one made it. Everyone's dead," she declared hollowly as she began climbing.
No one but her.
"Lass."
"Leave."
Her order shook with the cough that followed it as she reached the ledge, dragging her legs up and allowed herself a moment to gather herself, to breathe after it took the wind from her chest, and then she disappeared past the window again.
Delvin wasn't going to like this.
Frowning deeply, Brynjolf gathered his sword from where she dropped it, and watched another bit of rubble get tossed out through the broken window, another echoing splash.
One more joined the rest in the water before he decided what to do.
And he began to climb.
The survivor was knelt among the rubble, moving what she could under poor torchlight, slowly wiggling and wedging stones loose to try to get them out of the way.
"Do you intend to bury yourself, lass?" he asked as he stepped over a dusty portion of blackened skull and broken jawbone, the crushed thing surely centuries old and wrapped in cloth and cut rope-a draugr?-and he weathered her silence as she ignored him in favor of pulling loose a heavy bit of rock.
She ignored him as she pushed it out the window, and kept going.
Kept digging.
His breath puffed, stirring the dust as she paused to cough, and he knelt beside her.
Added his hands to the clearing of the rubble.
That, now, that made her react.
"What are you doing?"
"Helping, since you need it."
"I don't need help."
"You're looking for something, lass, I can tell. Survivors. Bodies. I don't know. But you're not willing to stop. How long have you been at this? Searching for them? Since the Imperials went quiet? Are you so certain to join the rest of your family that you want to be buried with them too?" he questioned.
Aside from the coughing that restarted, her answer was silence, and he waited until she was done before he continued.
"How many are we looking for, lass?"
She was quiet.
He pulled a bit of rubble loose and tossed it out the window with the rest.
And then he heard it, barely above a whisper.
"Two."
That one word held more emotion than anything else he had yet to hear.
After that, he let her have her silence, since she wanted it so badly.
As they worked together towards her single-minded goal.
To retrieve what was left of her family.