Everything was the same in Riften. The locals went about their business, thinking nothing of the woman now moving toward the lower city, and the market was just coming to life in the morning air. Prim stared at Riftweald a long moment, and wondered whether Mercer was inside or in the cistern. She did not know what she would say if she ran into him, especially if Karliah had failed. And if the dark elf had persuaded the guild? Then there was no telling where Mercer was, but surely not dead. He wouldn't be caught unaware in his own guild, nor slain by thieves whom he barely deemed worth a conversation most of the time. Prim knew only that she had to make an appearance, and that the entire situation made her want to push the people around her into the canal.
She entered the Ratway, forgoing the Bee and Barb despite Karliah's instructions. To Oblivion with hiding! She'd had days to stew in contemplation on her journey here, and although she had no answers, there was no avoiding the coming confrontation either. She snuck through the shadows of the Ratway as best she could with her still stiffened limbs, and eventually emerged into the Ragged Flagon. Stepping foot inside made her stomach tighten, her palms slick.
No one noticed her at first, a solemn atmosphere hanging over the few thieves present, but as she stepped into lantern light, Dirge of all people shot to attention.
"Prim!"
"Sodding divines," someone marveled. Vekel? Prim couldn't clearly see who was present as arms engulfed, her face jammed into the leather armor of Delvin Mallory.
"Karliah said you were alive," the man blurted. "But I thought she was pulling stories out of her ass."
"Move," a female voice commanded. "You're suffocating her."
"Sapphire," Prim smiled.
It felt good to be back, and relief flooded her as she saw the familiar faces of her fellow thieves. Even Vex nodded in greeting, although a scowl quickly returned to the woman's face. It was her harsh voice that broke the joy of the little reunion.
"Is it true?" the woman demanded. "Did Mercer stab and leave you for dead?"
Silence.
They knew. Everyone knew about his betrayal. It was evident in their faces and how their eyes hung on her, waiting for final confirmation. Prim did not wish to respond, but had known the inevitability of this moment since surviving the ruins. She inhaled and nodded, hating every minute of the blasted situation into which she'd been thrust. That bastard had really turned the guild on its head.
"Yes," she admitted. "Karliah's shot paralyzed me, so he thought I was dying. He decided to finish the job." And explaining anything more was both pointless and would probably only make them think her judgement clouded. They, after all, did not have the benefit of what she'd seen. Did most of them even realize that she'd been sleeping with the man? Thinking back to her conversation with Sapphire, yes, all of them probably knew.
"Fucking, back-stabbing son of a bitch," Vex seethed. "He emptied the guild's coffers and turned his sword on us?"
"Calm yourself," Tonilia grumbled, coming from the shadows. "We can't do anything until we know where he is."
"We're coinless, Prim," Cynric chipped in from where he sat, nursing a bottle of mead. "He took everything. There isn't a single septim in the guild's vault."
"Dagon's balls," Prim exhaled. Mercer was dead if the guild caught him, oh so very dead. But did they realize just how amazing of a swordsman he was? If they attempted to corner him, there would be blood everywhere. No, this was such a bad idea it made her stomach churn.
"We didn't want to believe her," Delvin further explained. "But when we opened the vault, it spoke for itself. You look a bit pale, love. Maybe you should sit down. I'll get Brynjolf. He's been acting as guildmaster since Karliah showed up. We haven't seen head or tail of Mercer."
"No, I'm fine," she insisted. "Let me go to the cistern."
Delvin kept at her side as she left the Flagon. She'd barely stepped foot in the cistern when Brynjolf spotted her. He stood behind the guildmaster's desk, and the sight of him in the place where Mercer belonged tugged at her emotions. She couldn't afford that though. Her friend's face showed relief and an outpouring of care as he bounded forward and swept her into an embrace. She would be able to tell him everything, and there was no finer time than now. It had to be now, before things spiraled any further out of control.
"Lass," he breathed, gripping her tightly. "Karliah said you would come." He released her, and held her shoulders, looking her up and down as if for signs of damage. "Have you healed alright? Delvin, see if Tonilia has any potions."
"Aye. I'm on it."
"I'm alright," Prim insisted with a weak smile. "And I heard what happened."
Brynjolf released her at that, his face clouded.
"He betrayed us all, Prim. I couldn't believe it. I still don't want to. He told me that Karliah killed Gallus, and I never questioned him. I...all those years I helped him try to find her..." The man broke off with a grimace. "We've been played for fools, lass, every single last one of us. And worse," he considered, running a hand through his hair, "is what Karliah said about the fight. She said that he drove his blade through you while you were helpless."
"He did," Prim murmured.
"That bastard."
"It's not that simple," she fumbled. "I don't really understand why, but...What a sodding mess," she exhaled. "Bryn, I'm so sorry."
"Sorry, lass? Gallus was a long time ago. Don't feel sorry for me."
"But the guild," she grimaced. "It's already struggling, and if he's taken all the gold..."
"We'll survive," Brynjolf assured, unwavering. "You can be sure of that, lass. I'll not see everything fall apart after we've been through so much. No treachery is going to send us to Oblivion."
"You're going to make a good guildmaster," she mused, staring at the floor.
"Prim," he spoke, drawing her gaze upward. "I have not accepted the title. It is something we will need to discuss, when you're ready." She gaped, such considerations the furthest thing from her mind. "When you're ready," he repeated with emphasis, looking uncomfortable. "We would work well together, splitting the duties, but I know how hard this must be for you. You never said it outright, but I know how you felt."
"Please," she breathed. "Let's not talk about it. I know what needs to be done."
"Do you think I'm eager to kill my mentor and friend, lass?" he probed, voice sterner than she'd expected, but his severity was not directed at her. "We'll find him. Once Karliah tells you what he's done to the guild—the whole of it—you'll understand. You were right. Nocturnal has her hands knotted all through this. If we're going to turn this around, we need all the luck we can get, but don't for a moment think that I want to shed blood for its own sake. Mercer doesn't want or need my forgiveness, and he can't have it, but that doesn't mean I want to gut him."
Prim wondered how deeply Brynjolf's hurt went. The man was collected, but surely he'd been more rattled than herself, having trusted and known Mercer far longer, and the shadows hadn't been leading him down the same path of realization on which she'd traveled. She accompanied him back to the cistern's desk, where he sat on its rim, arms crossed in thought.
"I don't expect you to help with this, lass," he sighed. "The others won't like it, but you almost died, so they'll understand if I say you're not up for it."
"Do you know just how good of a friend you are, Bryn?" she smiled. "But I cannot sit here and wait. I am a member of the guild, and if you'd like my help running this boat—oh, I don't intend to take any titles, so don't look at me like that—then I'm going. Do you know how much he'll sneer at me if he finds out that I waited here? Divines, Bryn, I'm not wallowing in misery, and it's not going to blind me to what needs done. I'll be damned if I'm remembered as some sort of weakling. I'm going with you."
Oh, but it would hurt. She had her emotions under control now, but the moment she was faced with watching Mercer die, she knew—knew—that she would need to fight for every scrap of self-control she had. Even now, the thought of him being gone struck hard.
You've already lost him, her mind whispered.
That's right, she thought. He was gone from the guild, and the bastard's cynical nature just had to assume that she would turn on him like everyone else now would. It was so like him that she might have smiled, humorless and dark. Instead, she held herself steady as Brynjolf's eyes brimmed with appreciation. From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Karliah, the dark elf pausing as if unsure whether to interrupt or not.
"I'm going to Riftweald," Prim stated. "Maybe Mercer left some clue behind of where he went."
"I think you'd better hear the rest of what Karliah has to say first. And take a potion," Brynjolf added, motioning behind her. Delvin was back with a bottle. "I'll look into Riftweald, and be back soon."
"Fine," she allowed. She had no right to claim the task for herself, not when the redhead had as much invested in this as she herself did. "Take the key."
He stared at the item, glancing between her and it, his lips compressed into a thin line.
"Bastard probably doesn't give a toss for the mess he's made." Then, leaning closer, he lowered his voice to a whisper. "I know you're not going to like what Karliah has to say. I don't expect you to agree with all of it, but we can talk later."
He left without further comment, leaving her with the dark elf and Delvin. Nocturnal. This had something to do with the daedra. Hadn't Karliah been one of the more devout guild members?—part of the reason that Mercer had grown to despise the woman? Oh, she wasn't going to like this, not one bit.
Riftweald was dark and unwelcoming. Brynjolf's nerves were taut as he took his first steps into the manor. This was Mercer's den, the one that he'd never so much as seen inside of until the night he'd been summoned to tend an injured Prim. She had come here for safety before the guild, and maybe the manor's key had been in her possession as early as that. Surely Mercer had known that his spare key was missing, which meant that he'd allowed Prim to keep it for some reason, perhaps even given it to her. The thought would have made Brynjolf wonder and smile previously, but now it burned. She had trusted the man so completely, just as he had.
He stepped into the manor's dining room, and ran a finger through dust on the table's surface. He would have thought the place abandoned if he didn't know how much time Mercer had spent here. It felt like self-imposed solitary confinement as he moved through the building, recalling a time when the guildmaster had frequently handled jobs. But that was before Gallus had been murdered, and before the best jobs had withered to nothing. Even before the bloodshed, there'd been signs of trouble, and now he understood why.
There had to be clues to the man's plans somewhere here. Mercer meticulously planned everything in advanced, as his research on Prim and Karliah had proven, but unfortunately, the guildmaster was equally adept at erasing his tracks. When Brynjolf had helped himself to Mercer's desk following Karliah's arrival, he'd realized that the letters the man had burned had all pertained to Prim. Every last scrap about the woman had been destroyed. Why though, Brynjolf didn't know.
He moved into the basement, and reached for a cabinet door, gently pushing it open. No sooner did he register the hidden door inside than hands seized him. His reactions weren't quite fast enough to escape as expert maneuvers landed him on the floor. Rope encircled his wrists, a sharp strike to the head rendering him dazed. He blinked and found himself kneeling on the stone floor, hands bound and strung over his head, tied to an iron ring in the ceiling. He was a thief, and could get himself free—had squirmed out of more difficult situations in the past—but he didn't move as his attacker circled around to face him.
"Mercer," he coldly acknowledged.
"What a disappointment," the man scowled. "I was expecting Karliah."
His former guildmaster was dressed for travel, a gray cloak waiting on a nearby table, and a leather pack bulging with divines knew what. The tip of Mercer's sword touched his chest, pressing against the leather over his heart, but not hard enough to penetrate the armor. Brynjolf knew that he was probably going to die, and met the contempt in Mercer's eyes with some of his own.
"Was it a happy reunion?" Mercer sneered. "Karliah returned to the guild and proclaimed innocent? I hope you didn't expect to surprise and kill me in my own home. You're smarter than that."
"I came looking for answers," Brynjolf stated, head held high.
"You won't find any. If anyone really wanted answers, they would have asked long ago."
The sword lowered, but afforded Brynjolf little relief as Mercer continued to eye him as if debating between life and death.
"I trusted you," he swallowed. "Gallus trusted you."
"Yes, I suppose you both did."
That was all he had to say? Brynjolf glowered in anger, deserving more than a few candid words as though this were nothing. He lurched to his feet, and Mercer kicked him in the gut, making him double over in pain. A quick shove sent him back to his knees.
"I could kill you now," the man stated. "I didn't plan to, but I can see that you're going to get in the way. I'm sure Karliah won't come after me alone. Perhaps you'll mount my head on the shelf behind your new desk? No," he dismissed. "Not you. You're a bigger fool than her if you think I'll die at your hand. She chose the last battleground. I'll choose this one."
Brynjolf spat onto the floor, and gritted his teeth together, glaring up at the man.
"Why struggle to keep the guild afloat this many years, Mercer, if you never cared about it?"
"Besides having the money? I didn't intend to see the guild fail. It was going to be every bit as famous as intended, and without Nocturnal's help. Maybe it still will be one day." The thoughtful comment hung a moment, doubtful but not without consideration. What was the bastard trying to say? "I've wasted enough words on you. Enjoy what little time you have left."
Mercer was leaving. Brynjolf stared in dismay as the man collected his belongings and moved toward the stairs. He longed to lash out now that he was face-to-face with his former mentor, all those memories of lessons, plans, and by the nine, being rescued by the man on several occasions, came rushing back with a force that made his mouth move like lightning. Did none of this mean anything to Mercer? Had it ever? It must have. He could remember compassion as he'd been pulled from death on the streets by the very man who had since done them such wrong. And Prim. His heart ached for the woman.
"She cared for you, you miserable bastard!" Mercer stopped dead in his tracks, turning slowly, eyes narrowed. "I considered you a friend, but Prim...She cared about you more than anyone, and you stabbed and left her to die."
"Karliah, that bitch, didn't deserve the kill. Would you forget your vow to punish your little protege's killer for the dark elf's sake?" the man rumbled, voice dangerously low. Brynjolf knew the methodical gait that the man now used, drawing closer. It was the one Mercer used in combat, when he was closing in for a kill. "Her blood's on my sword, right where it belongs."
He doesn't know she's alive. Good. For Prim's sake, Brynjolf didn't want Mercer to know.
"I knew it wouldn't end well," Brynjolf heedlessly proceeded. "I should have kept her away from..."
"She was never yours!" Mercer snarled, grabbing and jerking his hair painfully backwards, exposing the neck. "Ever."
"She could have been."
"'Could have' means nothing."
The raw conviction of the comment rang through Brynjolf's ears. Mercer released him, and was gone, leaving the thief to finally unbind himself. The hidden rooms beneath Riftweald called, although he had the urge to return immediately to the cistern. Surely Mercer wouldn't go there though. There was no reason for that, not after what the man had just shared. With a heartfelt pang for Prim, he peered into the darkness beyond the cabinet, certain that Mercer had left presents of the worst kind for him.
"Would a deal with me still be so terrible, mortal?"
Prim's eyes snapped open. She'd fallen asleep in the training room, leaning against the wall where she'd sat contemplating the finer points of the guild's current situation. She had avoided returning to bed, intent on speaking with Brynjolf as soon as the man returned from Riftweald, and if he had, surely he would have noticed her empty bed and found her by now. He wasn't back yet then, and there was no telling how much time had passed.
She'd dreamed of following Mercer into a dark tunnel, calling out to him, but receiving no response. Her heart still pounded from the panic, and that damned daedra, she frowned. Nocturnal had passed a hand over her, pushing her back as if the tunnel were not hers to follow.
"He belongs to me."
"Get out of my head," she tartly ordered, standing.
The voice vanished, leaving her blissfully alone as she walked into the main chamber of the cistern. Candles burned low, dotting the darkness at random intervals, and Delvin stood chatting with Rune near the Ragged Flagon's doorway. It was too late for Brynjolf to still be at Riftweald, making her worry that something had gone wrong.
She joined Delvin and Rune, and eased into the conversation. No, they hadn't heard from Brynjolf either, but Vex had gone to look into the matter.
"Take a seat, love," Delvin directed. "No sense standing more than needed. You're pale as a Nord's backside."
"Thanks," she muttered.
She sat on the proffered stool, leaning against the wall while the two men chatted about recruiting new members. She said little, content to sit and listen in the darkness, and for a moment, a familiar scent caught her nose. Her body hummed in recognition, her beast all too thrilled by the promise of danger and touch, and urging her to breathe deeply.
Mercer, she thought, but it was probably just the lingering touch of his scent. She could not fathom why he would return to the cistern, unless he'd returned to visit a little bloodshed on them. Perhaps to take Karliah's head? The sheer force with which he'd bellowed the woman's name in the sanctum would not be forgotten, nor the rage on his face as she'd watched him while fallen and useless. Nocturnal's smile filtered through her thoughts, making her inwardly snarl. The beast had laid its own claim to the master thief, and did not appreciate the daedra's offhand comments about possession.
"What do you think, Prim?" Rune asked.
"About scouting for new talent in Whiterun? I think it's a good idea. Brynjolf left a name by grabbing that artifact. There might be a few interested pickpockets."
"We've got to think about rebuilding," Delvin commented. "Not just cleaning up this pile of shit."
She silently agreed, distracted by a dark shape near the cistern's desk. Her heart beat faster as the cloaked figure rooted through a drawer, making no sound and remaining unnoticed by the other thieves. She felt compelled to say something, yet her lips didn't move. Did he even realize that she lived? Probably not, not after driving his sword into her. If she called attention to him now, she did not know whether she would ever have the opportunity to speak to him again. And it simply could not end with her prostrate on a floor, unable to respond to his last comments.
Mercer had found whatever he wanted, and eased into the shadows, avoiding the cistern's walkway. Of course he'd come through the Flagon. The graveyard entrance was sealed, and she hadn't seen or heard the sneaky man enter, the fact that he'd so boldly returned to the guild a testament of skill and arrogance. He paused near the bed where Karliah slept, and Prim stood, stepping into the lantern light illuminating both Delvin and Rune. If he took one step closer to the woman, she would yell.
He did nothing, and quickly moved on, nearing the tunnel that would lead into the Flagon. She watched, noticing when he paused, and knowing that he'd spotted her. She could see almost nothing of him, but felt his attention on her face. The moment did not last. He vanished into the darkness, and she exhaled, the action mistaken for fatigue by Delvin.
"Get yourself to bed," the man urged.
"I should," she replied. "But after I get a little something."
She slipped into the tunnel, slowly walking toward the Flagon. This was utter foolishness, but she was not afraid as she emerged into the tavern, only apprehensive. She had nothing but the dagger at her waist right now, her sword back in the cistern. She didn't even have armor to protect herself from attack, having opted for a simple tunic and pants. The tunnels weren't as cold as during previous weeks, although goosebumps swept up her legs as bare feet padded across the stone floor. The tavern was deserted, and few lanterns remained lit. If Mercer lingered, she did not see him.
"Shit," she muttered to herself, nearing the bar.
She would at least have a drink now that she was here. It would numb the jolt that Mercer's presence had done her nerves if nothing else, infuriating man, the curse so familiar to ones she'd once fondly uttered. The words still retained some warmth inside her skull, and with a sigh, she admitted that she was well and truly screwed when it came to this man. Why couldn't she just hate him? He'd tossed it all away. He'd tossed her away.
I would have followed you anywhere, you stupid man.
But he'd forced a choice on both of them, and so she sat at the bar with a bottle of mead, eyes lingering on the bracelet he'd left her. Maybe it was what she knew of the past that tempered her emotions, making her more morose than anything. What anger remained made the mead's burn that much better.
"A little late to be roaming around on your own, isn't it?"
Prim tensed, turning her head as Mercer Frey sat on the stool beside her, angling to face her. He leaned one arm across the bar, face inscrutable as he studied her. He'd apparently found time to shave despite the entire guild wanting him dead.
"Mercer," she breathed.
"You survived."
A sip of mead. Now. Very necessary. His eyebrows arched as she took a swallow.
"The arrow wasn't meant to kill," she stated.
He paused before a humorless smirk touched his face.
"Of course she wouldn't allow me to simply die."
"Can you blame her?" Prim ventured. She finally had him here, just as she'd wanted, and she couldn't think of a single intelligent thing to say. "I should probably scream," she mused. Another sip of mead felt very good. "Do you have my pendant?"
"Oh yes," he assured her, staring at her wrist and the bracelet.
"You'd better not sell it," she threatened.
He chuckled, and she set her mead aside. He took the bottle for himself, finishing it for her. Her heart lurched as she noticed one of his hands lingering near the dagger at his waist. Divines, all she wanted to do was throttle him—throttle him and tell him just how maddening he was, and how much his betrayal had hurt them all, not just her.
"I thought you were dead," he spoke, rolling the words around as if testing them. "Almost feels like old times, doesn't it? Think Vekel would serve me a drink?"
"Old times? You never sat and drank with us."
"With you then," he corrected, gaze darkening.
Could he see how nervous she was becoming? Part of her worried that he was toying with her before something very terrible happened. She stood from the stool, and immediately found herself ensnared, yanked toward the stacked crates and supplies near the bar. A hand covered her mouth, the other dragging her body back against his and into the darkness behind those crates—a cranny between boxes where no one would see them. Dirge passed through the room, and noticed nothing.
Mercer turned and pushed her back against the crates, oh so close to her. His scent was smothering, his hands lifting her tunic. She didn't know what he intended as he ripped her bandages free, exposing the thick scab where he'd stabbed her. He touched a finger to the wound, and she flinched away, pressing hard against the crates. His gaze locked with hers, his hand hovering over the scar without touching it.
"So tense," he noted, gaze dropping to the wound once more. "My touch didn't always do that to you. I should have taken you sooner."
His fingers ghosted over the edges of the scab, so gentle that Prim closed her eyes, and willed herself to only remember the times before Snow Veil Sanctum. Her tension eased as he pressed a palm over the marking, covering it. She remembered his words from within the ruins, and found her voice.
"Are you planning to finish me off?" she asked.
"You don't sound scared for someone staring death in the face. Always wandering into trouble with your eyes wide open. You practically beg for death. Really, Prim. Running after a man who stabbed you in this condition. You couldn't fight a skeever right now. Or maybe you hoped to demand answers from me?" His mouth was inches from her own, features unforgiving of her plight. "Has it occurred to you," he spoke, "that the truth is as simple as it always seemed? I have never made any pretense of being a noble thief."
"Pure greed? Is that what you're saying?"
"You still don't believe it?" he challenged, dropping her tunic back in place.
"I think you're greedy alright, but it's not that simple. It never is with you. You have no idea just how much the shadows have shown me, or how much your own comments have given away."
The door to the Flagon opened, and in strode Vex and Brynjolf.
Divines, please no. Prim did not want to see anyone hurt, and Mercer pulled her even deeper from the light, his features lost in the shadows as surely as her own. A dagger pressed against her throat, warning her not to call for help. Did the man know nothing? Her hands rested on his chest as if willing him not to use the blade. Thankfully, the other thieves passed into the tunnel and then the cistern.
"They'll look for me," she stated.
"Of course they will," he scoffed. The dagger vanished, and she breathed easier. "There's no turning back now," he continued. "I could simply leave, but I'm thinking of something a little more dramatic. All those years holding everything together..." His tone was harsh and contemplative, his fingers turning her head so that he spoke directly into her ear. "I suppose you'll come with them to seek my end now. Good. I like a challenge."
He abruptly pulled away, allowing her to slide far enough away to reenter the edge of the light. He strode after her, scowl lines shadowed in dark relief. His gaze lingered on her, almost painfully so for her distraught mind. She could not read his expression, and wanted to articulate all that she felt, but could not.
"I've always wanted to cross blades with you," he murmured, voice dull. He brushed against her, passing from the narrow confines of the crates to leave.
"Mercer..."
Her fingers grazed the back of his armor, and he froze, so jarringly rigid that she was taken aback. He glanced over his shoulder at her with a trace of wonder, as though he could not understand her intentions, but the surprise quickly faded, replaced with an unreadable expression.
"Maybe one last taste," he breathed.
His lips collided with hers, her body wedged between his and crates. The hunger in his touch was unmistakable as hands trailed down her back, one finding its way into her hair. She breathed him and only him, and felt treacherous and longing all at the same time. He suddenly pulled his lips away, and silently leaned his head against hers. Then he melted into the shadows, and she was again alone, terribly and frustratingly alone.