Iris has to talk to Enthir alone. Though Bryn has tried to force his way into all of this, Iris still intends to keep him out of it. And that means talking with Enthir about Gallus's journal alone. Which is nearly impossible to do since Bryn's always at her side. Not that she's complaining. She still can't believe he found her. Of all the people to find her lying on the side of the road, it was him. She'd be dead without him; she owes him her life. It's only fair that she try to save his. Which means leaving him out of the whole Nightingale business.
Which also means getting Enthir alone. At her thoughts, the Altmer enters the room…with Bryn, of course.
"How are you feeling?" Enthir asks her.
She feigns a grimace. "I could do with some more of that potion."
As predicted, Enthir turns to Brynjolf. "Could you fetch that from the chest in my room?"
"Of course."
Once alone, she drops the act and quickly draws out the journal. "I've been sent by Karliah," she tells him in a hushed voice.
The Altmer's brow creases. "Karliah? Then she's finally found it. Do you have Gallus's journal?"
She nods, handing it to him. "Yes, but there's a problem."
Enthir frowns as he flips through the journal. "This is just like Gallus. A dear friend, but always too clever for his own good." He looks back up at her. "He's written all the text in the Falmer language."
Iris groans in frustration. "Can you translate it?"
"No. However, I know someone who might."
Iris's ears immediately perk up.
"The court wizard of Markarth, Calcelmo, may have the materials you need to get this journal translated. A word of warning, though. Calcelmo is a fierce guardian of his research. Getting the information won't be easy."
Iris nods quickly, hiding the journal from sight just as Brynjolf returns. He hands the potion to Enthir who promptly passes it over to Iris. She takes a small sip and immediately feels relief.
"Let me check your dressing." Enthir gently pushes the blankets off of her slim figure and draws her undershirt up to expose the wound.
She hisses in pain when he removes the bandage and cold air penetrates the ruined flesh. "Is it better?" she asks through gritted teeth.
"By the Eight…" Enthir curses under his breath.
Iris conjures up enough courage to bring her violet eyes to the wound…and immediately gasps. The five-inch gash now spreads across her whole side in a diagonal line reaching to her hip. The edges of the stab wound are crusty, oozing pus and curling upward; whatever salve Enthir has been putting on it is clearly not working.
"Why isn't it healing?" Bryn asks, his eyebrows furrowing in worry.
"I'm not sure…this is a poison I've never seen before. I need to do some research. In the meantime, keep using the salve and potions." Enthir leaves the room, muttering to himself, after redressing Iris's wound, leaving Iris and Brynjolf alone.
"So…" Her violet eyes meet his green as he begins to speak. "Markarth?" He quirks an eyebrow.
"Damn it, Brynjolf! Why do you always do that?" she growls. She should've known he'd be listening in. "And before you ask, no, you're not coming with me."
He exhales sharply. "Lass, you won't be going anywhere for a while with that poison still in your system. You're going to need all the help you can get. Calcelmo will never give up his research, and breaking into his research lab is going to be nearly impossible. You'll need my help."
"No, Bryn. I already told you; I don't want you involved in all this." She winces as she moves to a sitting position. "Once I'm well enough to travel again, you're going back to the Guild to keep an eye out for Mercer, and I'm going to Markarth."
"How many times do I have to tell you, lass?" He strides to her bed, lightly gripping her shoulders. "You're not changing my mind. I'm going with you."
She opens her mouth to argue, but Haran enters the room, a bowl of soup in her hands. "Time for dinner, Miss Iris."
"Call me Iris, please." She glares at Brynjolf before taking the bowl from Haran. "Thank you for your hospitality. I promise to pay for this room once I leave."
Haran waves her hand. "Nonsense. It's the least I can do. Especially after you killed that dra—"
Panicking, Iris feigns a violent coughing fit, drowning out Haran's words hopefully before Brynjolf can catch them.
But he does catch them, anger rising up inside him at her lie.
"Oh my, here. Have some water, dear," Haran tells the Breton.
Iris nods her thanks, her eyes flickering to Brynjolf. He doesn't look happy. She takes a gulp of water, looking away right as his eyes flicker to meet hers. Haran hands the soup back over to the brunette and takes her leave. Iris sips it, feeling awkward.
"So, how did you come to obtain Gallus's journal?" he asks.
"Karliah gave it to me," she mutters, keeping her eyes down. "She told me to come here and ask Enthir about it."
"Why couldn't she have gone herself?"
"Exactly."
The two thieves fall into silence, Iris sipping her soup and Brynjolf settling down in the chair next to her bed. Neither of them speak for a long moment.
But finally, Brynjolf breaks the silence.
"Iris," he stops.
Her gaze flickers up to his as she sets the empty bowl on the end table. "What is it?"
He sighs. "I know you've been keeping something from me, lass."
She hopes he doesn't notice the blood drain from her face. "What are you talking about?" she lies easily, just as she always has.
"Iris, I'm not stupid. You've been keeping something from me since the moment we met." She squirms under his gaze. "Tell me."
She fakes a laugh. "There's nothing I haven't told you." The lie is so blatant, and she knows that he knows it.
His eyes flash, pinning her under his glare. "Lass."
"I swear, Bryn."
He watches her for a long moment, and she tries her best not to squirm under his gaze. "Are you sure?" He no longer cares if he's giving himself away.
"Yes. I promise you."
If he hadn't read her journal without her permission he'd be convinced she was telling the truth. She's a damn good liar, good at molding and twisting people, but it isn't so impressive when she does it to him, her supposed best friend. It cuts him deeper than he thought it would.
"Okay." He nods quickly. "Thank you for being honest, Iris."
She smiles easily, too easily. "It's the least I can do after all you've told me, Bryn."
He manages to hide his frown. "Rest. I can tell you're tired so don't even try to convince me otherwise."
She thinks about it for a split second but decides against it, settling against her pillow. And, damn it, he's right because she falls asleep almost instantly.
Four days. She's been stuck in this godsforsaken bed for four damn days, and still nothing has improved. Her body still groans and protests at every move she makes, the searing pain in her side never ceasing, her raging fever never giving her any solace. And the hallucinations have started. She doesn't know they're all in her mind at first. She's seen some crazy things. So, when the dragon's head crashes through the ceiling, breathing fire, she leaps out of bed in a wide-eyed panic. She thought she was fighting it; she could have sworn she was shooting flames and Shouting at it. But, Bryn told her that when he found her, she was passed out on the ground from where she promptly collapsed after leaping out of bed. And her wound, what little of it was closed, reopened. She's honestly surprised that she's still alive.
But she could do with a soul gem. Not wanting to call someone into her room to fetch her bag for her—she hates being so reliant on people—she decides that she's well enough to walk the ten steps to her bag and get it herself. Carefully, she flips the blankets off herself, slowly sitting up. She grits her teeth against the pain, wanting to do something herself for once. One foot down, the other foot down—her feet touch the freezing cold floor. Now, she just has to support herself on her legs. Clutching onto the bed frame, she pushes herself up, smothering her cry of agony and focusing on taking one step. The simple movement sends a splintering stab of pain through her side, causing her to double over. But she doesn't give up. She's the damned Dragonborn. Another step. She braces herself against the pain when it comes. Eight more to go. Her hand stretches out behind her, supporting herself on the bed frame, but she is too far from it now to use it any further. She lets go, her arms straight out to balance herself and readies herself for another step.
But her legs suddenly decide that they don't want to support her anymore. With a cry, she tumbles to the ground, landing directly on her side. Pain lights up the darkness behind her closed eyelids as she feels the wound tear open. Her body curls in on itself as blood begins to spill out of her abdomen. She tries to push herself to her feet, but only rips the wound more. Whimpering in pain, she tries to call out to Brynjolf, but her voice comes out as a rough whisper. She can hardly breathe for the agony. Her hand clutches the bleeding wound, pressing against the blood flow uselessly.
"Bryn," she tries again, but her vocals chords aren't working properly. Her body begins to tremble violently, desperately trying to do something about all the blood gushing out of her body. She needs help, now. But her eyelids are getting so heavy. They fall closed, seemingly of their own accord, as she tries again to call for her friend. He'll never hear her, she realizes. Warmth coats her side, and hot tears cascade down her face as she struggles to stay conscious.
Suddenly, she hears voices outside, footsteps drawing closer to the closed door. She prays to every God she can think of, even the Daedric ones, that Bryn will appear from behind that door. He's saved her once before; why can't he save her again?
The Gods must think the same because Iris hears the door creak open.
"Hey, lass, how are you—" Brynjolf freezes in his tracks for half a second, taking in Iris, trembling and lying in a pool of her own blood on the ground. "By the Nine, Iris!" He dashes to her side, brushing away the hair that's fallen over her face. "Iris!" He cups her chin, stroking her cheek with his thumb. "Iris, can you hear me?"
"M'sorry," she whimpers.
"Lass, what—what were you doing?"
She gasps, shaking all over. "M-my bag."
He glances over at the perpetrating item, sitting on a chair in the opposite corner. "Iris, why didn't you just ask me?" But she doesn't have to answer; he knows why. Iris is the most stubborn and independent person he's ever met, and being bedridden and having to rely on someone for everything, not being able to do anything herself? He knows it's her worst nightmare. "Enthir! Haran!" He looks back to her, wiping the tears from her face. "It's going to be okay, lass. I promise you."
"By the Emperor," Haran gasps when she enters the room.
Enthir arrives as well, already equipped with potions and salves. "Oh my Gods. Hurry. Get her on the bed."
Brynjolf carefully cradles her petite figure in his arms, apologizing softly when she whimpers at the movement. He gently places her in the bed as Enthir draws her shirt up. He gasps; hot blood pulses out of the wound, too much blood to lose and survive. He mentally slaps himself. He can't afford to think like that."Brynjolf, keep her awake," Enthir orders him.
"Iris." He gently touches her face. "You have to stay awake, okay?"
Her eyes roll backwards as she struggles to hold onto consciousness.
"Come on, Iris. Stay with me."
"This isn't working. Haran, get me the mortar and pestle. We're going to have to use ancient magic for this." Enthir turns to Brynjolf. "I'm going to have to make an ancient potion. It may work, but it may make it worse. But…there's nothing else to try. It's this or nothing."
Brynjolf's heart shatters. "W-what if it doesn't work?"
Enthir bows his head. "There's nothing else to do. She's losing too much blood, and this poison is keeping my magic from healing it."
"Oh, Gods." Brynjolf doesn't bother to try to stop the tears forming in his eyes.
"Bryn." Her voice is so quiet, he almost doesn't hear it. But he looks down and finds her eyes halfway open. "It's okay."
"I can't lose you again, Iris."
"It's okay."
"Okay, here. What else do you need?" Haran returns with the mortar and pestle.
"I need nightshade, salt, bone dust, and blood." Enthir takes the mortar from her hands and sets it down on the floor, sitting down in front of it. He adds the nightshade, salt, and bone dust, grinding it into a fine powder before looking up at Brynjolf. "It has to be blood from someone close to her. Are you willing to—"
Brynjolf doesn't let him finish his sentence, whipping out his dagger and slicing his palm. "Take as much as you need." He squeezes his palm over the bowl, blood dripping into the mixture.
Enthir mixes it into a paste, dipping his finger in the substance. He begins to chant under his breath while spreading the paste onto Iris's bleeding wound.
She wails at his contact, and Brynjolf grabs her hands. "It's okay, lass."
Enthir continues spreading the thick paste on her wound, muttering unknown words under his breath.
"Look!" Brynjolf nods to the slowly closing wound. "It's working."
Enthir uses the rest of the paste before sighing in exhaustion. "There. I'm surprised it worked that well." He lightly touches the closed wound, though still reddened and crusted over. "The poison isn't gone, though. You need to take her to an expert."
"Like Calcelmo?" Brynjolf asks softly.
"No," Iris moans quietly.
Enthir nods thoughtfully. "Yes, actually."
"When will she be well enough to travel?"
"I'd say a day or two. She's only going to get worse from here, so as soon as possible." He nods to the Nord thief. "I'll leave you two to it."
"Bryn, no," her voice is soft, hoarse from crying. "Please."
"Iris, he can heal you. And we can get him to translate the journal."
"I don't—"
"Shh." He places his finger on her soft, pink lips. "You need to rest. We'll talk more later."
"But—"
"Iris. I don't understand why you're so against me going with you. You're going to need my help."
"I don't want you involved," she whispers, brushing his hand away.
"Why?"
She closes her eyes. "I was almost killed, Bryn. Mercer almost killed me. I—I can't let that happen to you," her voice breaks. "I can't—I can't lose you, Bryn."
He gently takes her face in his hands. "You won't, lass."
"It's just…this is big stuff. Like Nightingales and double-crossings."
Brynjolf's eyebrows raise at the mention of the Nightingales. "The Nightingales are a myth, Iris."
She shakes her head. "No, they're not. Karliah is one of them and so is Mercer. What's going on is bigger than just the Guild. It's dangerous."
"All the more reason that I come with you."
"I can look after myself."
"Aye, because you did such a great job of that last time." He gestures to her abdomen. "We'll talk more about it later. Try and get some sleep."
Sighing in frustration, Iris nods, settling against her pillow. It doesn't take her long to fall back into her fever dreams.
Uh oh. Bryn can smell a lie a mile away! I know they haven't gotten to do much yet, but Iris is almost recovered enough to set out! Thank you so much for reading! Don't forget to favorite, follow, and review! :)
