Just FYI, this is also posted on my ArchiveOfOurOwn account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.
It had taken the entire night just to excavate a few feet into the ruins, just a few feet, but it had been enough for the pale woman to reach her goal, unflinching as she pulled what little left there was of her fallen friends from the bottoms of the stones and off the ground, bits of bone and gore held together by bloody clothing, and laid their mess beside the others.
Only then did Brynjolf get to witness the stillness of her grief.
He wondered how long she sat there, how long he sat there watching her, before he wondered what she would do next.
Did she have anywhere to go?
Did she have any family at all?
She was the only survivor of the Dark Brotherhood, a contract killer who just survived a massacre. If anyone knew her identity as an assassin, that could only lead to more death. Her death.
What would she do now?
But right now, what would she do next?
For now though, there she sat, leaning against the remaining support column looking small as a child, gazing out over her fallen comrades blankly.
"They should be buried."
Impossibly dark eyes turned upon him when he spoke, torch light failing to reflect in them as they watched him rise to his feet and he slapped the ash and dirt off the front of his armor, an absent and distracting filler for her silence as he declared, "I'll see what I can do about making graves for them, lass. In the meantime, you should get some fresh air."
It would do her cough some good.
He didn't wait for her reply either as he left, sucking in grateful lungful's of smokeless breeze as he surfaced from the ruins, skirting around the awareness of that unnatural black beast that lurked in the drizzle, and as he tucked his tell-tale armor beneath his traveling cloak, Brynjolf made his way to Falkreath.
The groundskeeper, Kust, would make sure seven new graves would be taken care of after Brynjolf had a good word with him. A favor for a favor, after all, his friend Runil had some dirty laundry that would hurt them both if it got out.
Neither one needed to know that his safety and security was vouched for though.
A little healthy fear never hurt anyone.
By nightfall, Kust promised there would be seven empty graves and a shovel waiting for them to deal with their business.
With that matter taken care of, Brynjolf made his way back to the sanctuary.
The pale woman was an astonishing view, shameless as she stood in the knee-deep water of the pond, skyclad under the rain, clean and calm with wound-wrapped arms comfortably wound around the strong neck of that great black horse, its large head protectively bowed over her small back, her long white hair draping down, clinging to the faint curves of her bruise-covered body.
Without the gaunt warpaint, she did not look so frightening.
In fact she almost looked harmless.
Helpless, wounded as she was.
But Brynjolf knew better.
And then he noticed two sets of eyes on him, one red framed by black of the beast, the other black framed by the pale of the woman.
If she was at all surprised by his presence, she didn't show it as she patted the creature's neck, murmuring, "this one is on our side, Shadowmere," and then stepped out from under its protection.
"You're back sooner than I expected," she told him, not looking at him as she stepped out of the water and under the dry overhang of the cliff where a set of clothes were folded and waiting for her.
He eyed the horse as he leaned under the shelter of a great tree, "Your family can be buried tonight," he told her, "west side of the graveyard, closest to the Hall of the Dead."
"I see."
He observed the practiced ease with which she arranged herself, bandages wrapped tightly about raw knuckles and wounded fingers, bruises lining up with belts as she strapped dagger sheaths to her wrists, a underbust waist-cinch that he recognized as both back support and stomach armor, and then came the inconspicuous attire, plain pants, a shirt that nearly swam on her, faded and well-worn gloves, boots that she slipped another dagger into, all pulled together when she twisted her hair up into a neat style, making her look mundane as any civilian.
Normal almost.
But there was still that look in her eyes.
That thousand-yard gaze.
"You look exhausted, lass."
Those eyes flicked over to him.
And then back down as she pulled a belt with a little more force than necessary.
Annoyed?
"When did you last sleep? Or eaten for that matter?" Brynjolf found himself asking.
She answered him with silence as she stepped back out into the rain, approaching the horse, and she would have pulled herself into the saddle if he hadn't caught a hand around her forearm.
The great black horse turned to nip at him and he stepped away from it, but not her.
She stared at the hand he had on her.
"Lass."
"I need to get a cart."
To carry the dead all the way to the graveyard.
"You need to take care of yourself first, lass. Your family won't be buried any faster if you drop from exhaustion," he told her.
That made her eyes lift to his.
A muscle in her jaw clenched, then unclenched.
"Just get some food in you and a couple hours rest, alright? That's all I ask. If you don't trust me to watch out for you while you sleep, I think you can at least trust your horse."
For several long heartbeats, they stood still as death.
And then she let go of the saddle.
She didn't trust him. Wouldn't. He could tell by the way she held herself as the two of them settled down beneath a sheltering tree, Shadowmere keeping watch of their surroundings as Brynjolf shared his rations with her and then watched her draw her knees up to her chest, arms wrapped around them, her entire being turning small as she tucked her head against her knees and went very still.
He hoped that she actually did sleep.
She needed it after spending the rest of yesterday's afternoon and all night digging with him and all the time before without. Whatever she had done with that telling armor she had been wearing, he had no idea. No doubt she had hidden it while he was dealing with funeral arrangements that morning.
It was probably for the better too.
Less to tie her to it.
Less connections to be made.
Eventually though, Brynjolf rose to his feet, the girl not stirring even when he draped his traveling cloak around her, and that great black horse eyed him as he wandered off to find a cart he could steal, and she hadn't moved at all when he returned with dusk's dying light.
"Lass?"
A disinterested grunt answered him without her lifting her head and he huffed in amusement.
Well, she was still breathing, that was good at least.
"It's time to get going," he told her, feeling she would be more appreciative of this response rather than a lighthearted jab.
Slowly, she unwound herself from her position, joints popping with every movement as she rose to her feet and briefly stretched before she helped him with fetching the bodies and gingerly piling them into the cart, blood and ash dirtying her previously clean clothes once more. If she noticed at all, she didn't care as she tied ropes from the cart poles to the saddle horn to make it all the more easy.
And side by side, they wordlessly walked ahead of the beast under the light of the full moons, easing the cart up and down the hills that stood in their way, and side by side, they put her family in their open graves.
They buried her people and he watched as she silently marked each with a large stone, every one given one last long lingering touch, her lips moving but not a sound was made as she addressed them.
Perhaps this would be the last time.
And then, after the last one had been given her attention, Brynjolf watched curiously as she approached a different grave, marked much the same, and gave it her attention.
Another Brother buried.
Her shoulders dropped after some time and then she rose back to her feet, seeming exhausted again.
"What do you plan to do next, lass?" he found himself asking.
And she looked at him, her expression more humanly soft than he had seen it before, with sadness open in her gaze.
After a moment, her gaze dropped and she stepped to her horse, stroking its great neck quietly, thoughtfully, before she answered.
"I will go to the place where the end began."
Whatever that meant to her, it was important.
And she pulled herself up into Shadowmere's saddle.
"If you're ever in Riften-"
"If I am, I'll stop by the Flagon," she interrupted.
And without another word, she kicked her heels into the black horse's sides and the beast took off as if creatures of Oblivion were after them.
For a stunned moment, Brynjolf stood there, alone in the graveyard, before realization struck him.
Never got her name.