By Chance

by thefuryisours

"Heroes didn't hide from anything. They ran fearlessly charging the front lines, not skulking in dark corners slowly picking off enemies with a bow. Hers was the body of a coward and a criminal." A story following the Thieves Guild quest line.

8. Chapter Eight: Warmth

Chapter Eight: Warmth

Slowly, the elf inched toward the open door, his companion following closely behind him. Holding his hand up, he motioned for Tom to wait as he peered around the corner of the door frame. The room was large and void of any sign of life. Between two pillars, a large, red banner hung from the ceiling. By its décor, it was safe to assume this was the main room, a gathering place of sorts. Their target couldn't be far, and Niruin was willing to wager that one of the doors which stood on either side of the room led to Linwe's quarters. After gesturing for Tom that it was safe to follow, Niruin quickly slipped into the room being careful to stick to the shadows. It was no simple task however. Ever since entering the caverns, the only sources of light they had found were a few torches hanging from the walls at infrequent intervals. This room was better lit than the others had been, and with the exception of a few tables, there was nothing that could be offered as cover. Still, as long as they kept silent, the two could most likely reach the doors before being caught. Besides, after how little trouble they had with the guards, Niruin was certain they could easily carve their way out of the cave if necessary, but it was better to err on the side of caution and Tom did not seem particularly keen on the idea of killing the Shadows.

How easy it had been to slip through the tunnels past the armed thieves troubled the Bosmer as he slowly snuck toward one of the doors, Tom mirroring him on the opposite side of the room. Niruin caught himself wondering if it would be this easy for someone to infiltrate the Ratway without detection, but before he could further contemplate the subject, the door on Tom's side of the room flew open, stopping the elf's heart. They had been caught. Niruin stood frozen as a tall Altmer man stepped into the room. Niruin was close enough to see the glow of his golden eyes in the torchlight, but his attention was too focused on the parchment in his hand to notice the intruders. Niruin felt his panic ease slightly as the Altmer walked over to a table and sat down. The man's armor slightly differed from the armor of the other thieves Niruin and Tom had encountered, just as Mercer's armor slightly differed from their own. There wasn't a doubt in Niruin's mind that the man was Linwe.

Clinging to the wall, Niruin held his breath as he slowly crouched down. The initial terror had faded, but his heart still pounded in his throat. By some divine intervention, Linwe had been too distracted to notice him earlier, but Niruin would be a fool to press that luck. The closer he was to the ground, the less likely Linwe was to catch sight of him. As silently as he could, he crept toward the table closest to him and crawled underneath it. Only then, did he allow himself to breathe again as he peered out to catch another glimpse of Linwe. The man still sat at the table, eating a piece of bread that had been left out and reading his paper, completely unaware of the danger that surrounded him. There was a certain tired gruffness in his demeanor that reminded Niruin of Mercer. His nerves eased, and he couldn't help but smile to himself. Despite the similarities in the way they held themselves, Mercer, in all his shrewdness, would never allow himself to be caught off-guard like this. All they had to do now was retrieve the locket and slip back out before anyone was the wiser. Then Niruin thought of Tom. She had been right next to the door when it opened, but now she had seemingly disappeared, hiding somewhere in the darkness.

Niruin frowned. This presented a problem. Before entering the caverns, Tom and Niruin had come up with a strategy for retrieving the locket. Once they had located Linwe, she would get the locket from him while Niruin waited in the shadows with his bow. If Tom was successful, they would simply leave. If Linwe caught her, Niruin would stick him with an arrow before the man could even draw his sword. However, this whole plan hinged on Niruin being able to see Tom while she tried to take the locket, so he could be ready if it took a turn for the worst. From under the table, his mobility was compromised and with it, his aim. He wouldn't have a clear shot if Tom decided to go ahead with the plan. Then there was the added complication of not knowing when the theft would take place and therefore having to wait for Linwe to take the offensive. The thought left a poor taste in his mouth. Niruin didn't know how fast this man was with a blade. Tom could be skewered in half before Niruin even had a chance to release the string.

Retrieving an arrow from his quiver, Niruin readied his bow. It occurred to him he could just shoot Linwe now and save himself the trouble. They had already killed a few of the Shadows, and he doubted the higher-ups would punish them over a few dead members of a rival guild. They might even congratulate him for taking out the leader, but Tom would care. She would angrily berate him the entire way back to Windhelm and glare at him with those giant brown eyes. Niruin didn't know what her problem was. The Summerset Shadows had to leave Skyrim one way or another, and killing them would be the most effective way to get them out, but this was Tom's job. As much as he didn't like it, they were going to do things her way even if it meant her death. No, he didn't like that at all. Still, all he could do now was steel himself for the worst and hope that Tom would be patient enough to wait until Linwe headed back to his chambers so they could reassess the situation.

Of course, luck would not have it, and he watched as Linwe suddenly jerked back and leapt from his seat. On cue, Niruin immediately released the string of his bow, but in his unthinking desperation, his aim was compromised even further and the arrow struck the table. Linwe drew his sword as Niruin clambered out from underneath the table. In the chaos, Niruin caught a frantic, feminine gasp, and as he stood up, he saw Linwe stumble backwards. There was something sticking out of his chest, but Niruin had no time to examine what it was. He mechanically pulled another arrow from his quiver and shot it into the man, repeating this action over and over until the man fell to the ground. It took the Bosmer a few seconds to realize Linwe was dead, but once he did, he let out a small sigh and let his wits return to him. Tom emerged from behind the table, panting heavily, but she appeared otherwise no worse for wear. Niruin caught himself smiling, but his relief did not last long.

A door burst open behind the two thieves. Niruin spun to see two Summerset Shadows emerging from the other room, their weapons – one a bow, the other a mace – drawn and their faces full of anger. Instinctively, Niruin pulled another arrow and shot it at the one with the mace, but as he reached back for his quiver, a searing pain pierced through his shoulder. The force of the blow caused him to lose his footing, and he fell to the ground, hitting his head against the leg of the table. Groaning, Niruin clenched his teeth as he quickly pulled the arrow from his shoulder and got to his feet, only to see Tom crouched over the remaining Shadow, the one who shot him, as she angrily drew her dagger from the dying Altmer's neck. As she stood up, there was a terrified rage in the Breton's eyes Niruin had never seen in a person. It didn't last more than a second. As soon as she noticed Niruin standing behind her, her expression softened and she sighed in relief, but the intensity that her eyes had held couldn't be shook from his mind. It was too empty for a sapient creature, too base, but Niruin had no time to muse over the hidden meanings behind a woman's eyes, not while enemies could be enclosing on the two of them.

"Are you injured?" Tom asked as she fretfully rummaged through her pack. "I should have a potion in here that could help with the bleedi–"

"I'm fine," Niruin replied, not unkindly. Tom's expression suggested she didn't quite believe him, but it wasn't necessarily a lie. There was a severe pain pulsing in the back of his head from where he had hit the table, and though his shoulder didn't seem to be bleeding profusely, he would have to deal with that at some point. All things considered, he'd had worse. There was the matter of the light feeling in his head and the way his vision kept blurring which was moderately troubling, but he could fight that until they were out of danger.

"We should get out of here while we can," he said. "Others could be on their way. Do you have the locket?"

. . .

If there was one trait that was unarguably shared by all sapient races, it was the telling of stories. The Altmer with all their pride were still united with the lowliest Argonian in this simple facet. Since the beginning of time, men and mer and the beast races alike have all told stories. Some were true historical accounts written down by scholars and kept in libraries for prosperity. Others were pure fiction, meant only to amuse the imaginative soul or to be used as parable for the cautious minded, and still there were some tales had been told so many times that facts had been muddled in with rumors and exaggerations until they became what could only be known as legend. In all her years, Tom had grown fond of such stories, whether they be fact or fiction, but there was one she kept closer to her heart than any of the others. It was a tale that would never be written down by scholars, nor sung by bards, nor told by mothers to unruly children. No this story would live on only in her own memories, though another version would be told.

The story that would be told was that of a grieving father, whose son had been taken from him by the son's manipulative shrew of a wife, who associated with a dreadful witch of unknown magical prowess. After a year of scouring the realm for these dangerous criminals, the lawmen had all but given up their search, but the father never relented from avenging his son's untimely death. He would spare no coin on hiring sellswords and offering great rewards to whoever could bring these fugitives to justice. For years, the wife and the witch eluded him until one fortunate night when he received a tip from a lowly thief that the criminals were residing among the poor in his country's capital under false identities. He called for the city guard to investigate these claims. Once the guards located the criminals, they broke open the door to their hide out and found inside a nefarious pirate. The pirate was no match for the guards, but he held them off long enough for the fugitives to escape. Nevertheless, with the trail now warm, the guards again found the wife and the witch a matter of months. This time they would not evade justice.

However, this was not the tale Tom knew. She only knew a battered widow, crying on the dirty floorboards of a shack about how unfair it all was, as a sailor and a tavern wench tried to make sense of their situation and desperately planned an escape. As the guards beat down on the door, the sailor turned to the wench and ordered her to hide with the widow under the floorboards. When the wench protested, he simply kissed her and told her prepare one of her spells in case things went south. The wench watched through the cracks of the wole-eaten wood as her lover fought guard after guard, until finally a sword drove through his stomach. The wench would escape that night, and months later, when her blood spilled on a mountain top and painted the snow red, again she would survive. She would escape from prison, travel north, assume a new identity, and start again. Then, just as she settled back into a new home, she would find herself in a cave, fighting a rival faction. In the heat of battle, the woman would turn and see a man – not one she loved, but one she cared for despite her better judgment – pierced by an arrow.

As Niruin fell to the ground, Tom felt her stomach jolt and a terrible anger flow through her body. This wasn't going to happen again. She wouldn't allow it. Instinctively, she charged at the Altmer, catching a glimmer of panic in his eyes as she tackled him to the ground. Blinded by rage, she drove her dagger into the elf's throat and twisted the blade. Her ears caught a clamor coming from behind her, and Tom quickly drew the dagger from the Shadow's throat before whipping her head in the direction of the noise. Niruin stood above her, his eyes wide and his mouth clenched tightly shut. There was a noticeable hole in his armor around his shoulder, wet and red with blood, but he did not appear gravely injured. Tom exhaled and stood up. She grabbed for her pack and frantically searched through it. She was almost certain she had brought a potion of health.

"Are you injured?" Tom asked. "I should have a potion in here that could help with the bleedi–"

"I'm fine," Niruin replied. His tone was firm, but there was something about the way he held his head that suggested he was in more pain than he was letting on. "We should get out of here while we can. Others could be on their way. Do you have the locket?"

"I do," Tom said. "But I really think–"

"No, don't worry about me. I'll be fine so long as we get out of here before anyone else finds us."

An indignant frown crossed the Breton woman's lips. His words were slurring like a drunk's, and it did nothing to convince her otherwise. Still, he had a point. Getting him out of the cave took priority. Tom sighed and relented in her attempts to help him. "Fine. You go, and stay out of sight. I'll catch up with you. There's something I need to do before I leave."

"I'm not leaving you," Niruin said.

"Don't worry about me. I'll be fine," Tom muttered. The intent of her bitter echo was apparently not lost on the elf, who crossed his arms and clenched his jaw. Tom braced herself for some clever retort, but he surprisingly didn't argue with her.

"All right," he said. "Be careful, will you?"

Tom smiled and handed him the locket. "Don't worry. I will."

Grimacing, Niruin hesitated before leaving. Tom watched as he snuck out the door before turning around. She headed toward the wall on the opposite side of the room. What Niruin didn't understand – what he could never understand – was that killing people wasn't an effective way of sending a message to keep people away. No matter how repulsive and immoral a person was, there was always someone out there who would seek justice for their murder, whether it be their family or associates or perhaps just the guards. In fact, experience had taught her that a terrible person was more likely to be avenged than an honest one. No, a message had to be louder than a couple deaths. There had to be destruction. The people had to fear not only losing their own lives, but losing everything else they held dear – their friends, their property, their legacy. Tom snatched a torch from the wall as her musings began to reignite the rage in her heart. Smiling to herself, she spun around to face the red banner that hung from the ceiling.

Tom could almost laugh at how foolish she had been to run from the power that lurked in her very soul. She had spent her whole life helpless, unable to protect those she had cared about, and what did she do when she finally had something worthwhile? She ran like a frightened child. Being the Dragonborn was a tremendous opportunity. Embracing this gift meant she never had to be afraid of anyone ever again. In fact, it meant others would have to fear her – just as they should. She was the one who had escaped, and if that meant being a coward, so be it. Being a hero meant dying young and being buried in a shallow grave if they were lucky enough to even be buried at all. Caro's body had been dumped in the lake, and he had been the bravest man she'd ever known, but she was so much more than that. She was a survivor. She was the Dragonborn, and how better for the Dragonborn to send a message than with fire?

Now grinning like a madman, Tom held the torch to the tapestry. The fabric quickly caught flame, and it stirred something deep inside of her. She recognized the feeling as the same sensation she had felt before Shouting at the sailor on the Dainty Sload. It was the word that had trembled on her lips and burned in her throat, the word she had read on the wall in the tomb. Fus, force. It was clear now. It's what she was – a force of nature – and no man or beast or god could stop her, but it wasn't enough. She needed more. As smoke filled the room, Tom dropped the torch on the ground and left the room. Swiftly navigating the halls, she made her way out of the caverns and into the forest. Once she was far enough from the Shadows, Tom stopped in the woods and looked up at the snow-covered trees as the cold, night wind nipped at her cheeks. The moons above lit the snow with an almost mystical glow. It was all so serene and lovely, but still the word called to her.

"Fus!"

The word poured from the Breton's mouth and shook the branches of the trees in front of her with the force of a horrible storm. She could still feel it on her tongue as she broke down laughing. Was it destiny or a dreadful oversight of the gods that she had inherited this power? It couldn't be destiny. She had been born an unfortunate wretch, a mistake that had her mother any sense she would have rectified by drowning the babe in the sea, but she hadn't. Perhaps it was indeed destiny. This was what had been her luck over the years, what had allowed her to evade death even when everyone around her had been struck down. Could she even be killed? She dismissed the thought at first, but it crept in her mind. Though it seemed like the ravings of a madman, in truth the notion wasn't any stranger than the idea of a ninety-pound Breton barely capable of lifting a sword being selected by the Divines to be a hero of legend.

By the time she arrived at Candlehearth Inn, Tom had all but forgotten the events preceding her epiphany. The innkeeper had already retired for the night and the building was as still as the grave as Tom made her way down the hall to the last room on the left. Inside, she found Niruin, still awake, lying on the bed and drinking from a bottle. As Tom entered the room, Niruin greeted her with dull surprise. Tom merely smiled at him as she dropped her bag on the floor. The Bosmer's lips twisted into suspicious frown, and he narrowed his eyes at her. She considered telling him the reason for her good mood, but the habits she had learned over years of living in secrecy got the better of her and Tom decided it was best she not tell him just yet.

"Took you long enough," he said. She could tell by his voice that he had been drinking for a while. "I was worried sick. Had t'snatch a bottle from behind the counter just to ease my troubled mind."

The elf chuckled to himself and took a swig from the bottle. Tom walked across the room and sat down on the bed next to him. He had already changed out of his armor, but his white shirt still held a matching red stain. Tom frowned and reached out to examine the wound. Instintively, Niruin batted her hand away and smiled apologetically.

"It's fine," he said. "Already took care of it. Still hurts a bit, but I'll live. Endell's a lucky bastard, but he's not that lucky."

"Well, I'm glad you're okay," Tom replied, quietly. She looked around the room. "Where's the locket?"

Niruin absentmindedly motioned towards the bedside table with his free hand. "In there. Figured I'd deliver it in the morning."

"I can do it," Tom said, eagerly. As the Breton hastily got up to retrieve the necklace, Niruin's face scrunched in distaste.

"It's the middle of the night, Tom," he reminded her, but Tom ignored him. She opened the drawer and grabbed the locket. Behind her, the Bosmer heaved a loud sigh of disapproval, and Tom shook her head before turning her gaze back towards him with the locket grasped firmly in her hand. With exasperation in his eyes, the elf glared up at her, and Tom smiled meekly in hopes to quell his concerns.

"Might as well do it now," she said. "Less to do in the morning, right?"

Niruin rolled his eyes. "Yes, go wake our future patron up. I'm sure that will go over swimmingly with our review. Mercer will be ever so pleased to hear of it, don't you think?"

"It's not like I'm waking Torsten up to tell him we made tea," Tom replied, crossing her arms. Didn't he know there was no point in arguing with her any more? She was going to do as she pleased, and the rest of the Nirn would just have to make do. "This is a family heirloom. I think he'll appreciate that we got it back to him as soon as possible."

Exhaling, the elf took a sip from his bottle and leaned back against the wooden headboard. He appeared to be either too tired to continue arguing with her or simply out of smart remarks. "Fine, whatever. It's your job, anyhow."

"I'll be right back," Tom said.

The Breton slammed shut the drawer of the table shut and turned quickly on her heel to leave as Niruin grumbled a reluctant goodbye. As she stepped out of the inn, the night winds howled something terrible and bit at her bare skin, but she paid it no heed – not when she could howl back just as hard. Making her way through the snow-lined roads of Windhelm, she came upon the Cruel-Sea home. From the street, she could see the candle lights from the first floor still shining, albeit dimly, through the windows, indicating someone inside was still awake. Tom smiled to herself. Now surged with pride at the proof that she had been right, Tom sauntered up to the front door and knocked loudly against the wood. Inside, she could hear rustling and a man's voice grumble, "Hold on. I'm coming." After a couple minutes, the door opened to reveal Torsten Cruel-Sea, dressed in a fine robe as if he had been readying for bed. Visible surprise on his face, he looked the woman over before quickly stepping back from the door.

"Come inside, girl," the Nord said, smiling. "You'll catch your death out there."

The offer had not been what the woman had been expecting, but the almost fatherly concern in his tone made it hard to decline. Reluctantly, Tom obliged and cautiously stepped into the dimly lit house. Inside, it was not unlike the Snow-Shod manor back in Riften. The walls were adorned with ancestral swords and shields mounted on plaques and the trophied heads of animals. It was the strange thing about Skyrim. Even the wealthier Nords had such different tastes than the rich men of Cyrodiil did. Everything they owned reflected their brutal, steadfast ways. In the main room, a small lantern and a single book sat upon the dinner table, giving Tom a small insight to what the man had been doing before she had knocked on the door. As Tom curiously scanned the room, Torsten walked over to the firepit.

"Make yourself comfortable," he said in a low voice. "Just keep the noise down. The wife and son are asleep upstairs."

"All right," Tom replied, quietly. Slowly, she stepped up to the table and ran her hand over the mahogany. Though she had been inside houses twice as elegant as the Cruel-Sea's, she still felt a slight wonder at the wealth of others. Curiously, she peered down at the book on the table and attempted to make out the title – The Song of Pelinal. She knew the tale well. It was one of Lyra's favorites. She would gush for hours and hours over his brilliance and madness alike. Tom smiled softly at the memory.

"Have you read it?" Torsten's voice asked. The question quickly snapped the woman out of her nostalgia, and she immediately stared up at the Nord. He stood on the other side of the room watching over the kettle that hung over the hire. Embarrassed from her sudden shock, she bashfully shook her head and flipped open the book.

"No," she said quietly as she looked over the blurry words on the paper. "I don't read."

"Oh?" He sounded somewhat amused by her reply. "I never did meet a Breton who didn't read – no offense meant."

"Well, we're not all the stuffy know-it-alls the nobles of High Rock would have you believe," Tom replied in a slightly sarcastic tone. Chuckling, Torsten took the kettle from the spit and set it down from the table. Tom was unsure what to make of the man's unexpected hospitality, but something about the warm, intimate feel of the house made it hard for her to be suspicious of his intentions. Allowing herself to relax, Tom sat down in the closest chair as Torsten made his way to a nearby cabinet.

"Ah, so you're from High Rock, are you, girl?"

"No, Cyrodiil – Anvil, actually." Tom found herself surprised by the honesty of her answer. Smiling, the Nord returned to the table with two cups and a small pouch, which he set down next to the kettle.

"Anvil, now there's a good shipping town," the man said, before looking over at Tom. "Tea?"

"Um, sure."

Tom watched as the Nord took the leaves from the pouch and placed them into the cups. After pouring the hot water into both cups, he slid one of them over to Tom and sat down across from her. Quietly, Tom waited as the tea steeped, and out of habit, she watched for Torsten to drink from his cup before she did. Fortunately, the Nord didn't seem to notice. With gentle hands, she put the cup to her lips and took a small sip. As she did, the heat of the tea warmed her whole body, and upon realizing how cold she had been, she instinctively took a longer sip.

"This is really good," Tom commented.

Torsten waved his hand. "Idesa – the nursemaid, she gets the leaves from one of the other Dunmer in the city, says it's an old Morrowind custom. She won't tell us exactly what the leaves are. I think she's trying to keep her job secure for when Grimvar's grown."

Tom smiled. "Smart woman."

"Quite," Torsten agreed. He set down his cup and sighed before looking back at Tom with a sudden intensity in his eyes. "So by your appearance, I'm assuming you gave those Altmer what for."

"Yes," Tom replied quietly.

"Good," Torsten said. "Do you have the locket?"

Setting down her cup, Tom pulled the necklace from her pocket and handed it over to the Nord. Gently, Torsten took the locket from her, and his eyes glimmered as he held it in his hands. The tenderness of the moment made Tom a bit uncomfortable and she shifted in her seat as a small smile came over the man's lips.

"It pains me to see this," he said, quietly. "To be reminded of her –" He sighed and chuckled. "Look at me, getting sentimental over a piece of jewelry."

"It's all right," Tom said, uncertain of what else to say. "I'm sure she was a lovely girl. I'm deeply sorry for your loss."

"You're too kind," Torsten replied. "I hope you never have to experience this kind of loss."

His words didn't cut. No, instead they hit Tom like a war hammer to the rib cage, knocking her breathless. The irony of the situation overwhelmed her, and she was baffled by how she hadn't noticed the parallels until now. The only difference was that in her case, she had been the guilty party. The Shadows had only picked the locket from the girl's corpse. Her emotions rose in her stomach, and she stood up too quickly, giving herself whiplash.

"I should go," she said. "Thank you for your hospitality."

"All right," Torsten replied. "Tell Delvin if he still desires my support, he's got it."

"I will."

As soon as she said this, Tom left the house in a haste. She had to get out. She had to get somewhere – somewhere else. As soon as she reached the street, Tom felt herself getting weak, and she leaned against the cold stone fence that bordered the Cruel-Sea home to keep herself standing. Tom told herself it was different. She tried to picture the Cruel-Sea girl, young and sweet and innocent. She hadn't deserved her fate. She hadn't deserved for her corpse to be raided by the Shadows. Then Tom forced herself to think of him. His handsome, horrible face burned in her memory, and she could feel the hatred pulsing through her body. Now shaking, Tom desperately clung to the stone, but still she remembered. His heavy hands, his terrible smirk, he had deserved his end, but even in death, he had still managed to ruin it all. His father – by the Eight, Tom imagined a guard captain meeting with the count, informing him of the murderers' demise. She imagined his face just as Torsten's had been, sad and relieved and –

"You stupid bitch," Tom grumbled to herself. Impulsively, she knocked her head against the stone in front of her and stumbled backwards. Sighing, Tom realized how mad she must have looked, panicking in an empty street and banging her head against stone. Tom took a couple deep breaths and headed back to the inn. As she walked, the thoughts kept creeping up. Her pace quickened as if that would keep the memories at bay, but they just clawed at her mind. She was no hero. That was for certain. It had been her misguided hero-complex that had gotten her into this mess in the first place, and she was definitely no survivor. A survivor would have been able to keep her friends alive and safe from harm. All she was was a coward. She had promised Caro she would keep Lyra safe. It had been the last thing she had ever promised him, and not only had she failed, but when she did, she didn't even have the strength to face her own death. No, she had begged like a dog for her life, and the only reason she was still breathing was because a man had taken pity on her. Pity – it was a fitting word. She was pathetic.

As Tom reached Candlehearth, it took everything left in her to open the door. She thought about returning to the room, but she couldn't face Niruin in this condition. Slowly, Tom climbed the stairs up to the second story. The fire in the hearth still burned brightly, and it seemed to call to her. Walking over to the hearth, she sat down, and as she sat there, watching the flames dance across the pit, she soon found herself crying. The tears were, admittedly, a long time coming, and once she noticed them, she did nothing to stop them. Instead, she balled up on the floor and let it all out. She clawed and scratched at her skin as she replayed every scene in her life, trying to figure out how she could have prevented everything from going wrong. If she hadn't let Lyra get supplies in Bruma, Lyra would still be alive, but Caro would still be dead. If they hadn't trusted the thieves in the Imperial City, Caro would still be alive, but they'd still be on the run. The mistakes went further and further back until they nearly drove her mad. It's not fair, the words repeated in her head over and over.

Minutes passed, perhaps even an hour, and eventually, the woman had run out of tears to cry. She knew it was pointless to think of how to change the past, no matter how tempting the idea was. Sighing, Tom sat up and wiped the snot and tears from her face. Tucking her hair behind her ears, she turned her attention back to the fire place. There was no dragon inside her, or perhaps there was. Perhaps that's why she continued to make decisions that did nothing but cause destruction. Tom almost laughed at her own theatrics. No, she was not a destroyer. She was not a hero nor a villain. She was no one important – just a sad, paranoid little girl who had made too many mistakes, and perhaps it was time she owned up to them.

. . .

Groaning, Brynjolf scratched out the number and took a sip of his drink. He wasn't yet halfway done and already the numbers didn't look right. His brow furrowed as he ran the numbers again, but he got the same sum as before. The mistake must have been made earlier. Brynjolf sighed. At this rate, it would be nothing short of a miracle if he managed to record last month's finances before the end of Second Seed. Brynjolf considered delegating the task over to Vex or Delvin, but Vex already had her own project to supervise and Delvin had never been particularly gifted when it came to running numbers. Besides, as much as he loathed the work, it was his responsibility now. With Mercer off planning what he could only imagine was some legendary heist, it fell on Brynjolf's shoulders to do the finances and paperwork that Mercer usually oversaw. Once he had reminded himself it was for the good of the Guild, Brynjolf took a large swig from his glass and tore the past two pages from the ledger, but before he could begin again, he was distracted by the loud clamor of the cistern door being flung open by a boisterous Nord.

Brynjolf raised his weary eyes to see Vipir the Fleet strutting into the room. There was a large smile on the man's face as he commanded attention from the thieves sitting around the cistern. Once all eyes were on him, he raised his hands and announced to the room, "Tom and Niruin are back from Windhelm. Drinks are on the elf!"

It didn't take much else to convince the others to follow Vipir back into the tavern. The promise of free ale was enough to make them drop whatever it was they were doing and go celebrate their comrades' victory, but Brynjolf stayed behind despite how much he wished to follow him. Standing up, he gathered the scattered piles of completed contracts and other important papers that were spread across the desk and filed them into eight neat stacks, one for the contracts assigned to each of the thieves – excluding himself, Mercer, Vex, and Delvin – and then one extra pile for miscellaneous paperwork. Then from each of those stacks, he organized the contracts by the type of job.

Brynjolf went through the last pile first. Usually he saved those papers for last, but since it was the easiest to do, he decided that recording those numbers first would save him time in case he made another error while going through the contracts. The first paper was Erikur's letter of credit for the Solitude job. He recorded how much coin had been brought in from the Solitude job and subtracted how much Tom and Niruin had made from it, then recorded their earnings on the next page under their respective names. Then there was a paper where Mercer had written out all of the Guild's expenses for the month, including food, supplies, and Dirge's salary. It was followed by a letters of credit from Maven and Erikur. As patrons of the Guild, they were contractually obligated to pay the Guild five thousand septims a month, and in exchange, the Guild would do jobs for them free of charge.

The next papers were the sales records from Mallus Maccius. Brynjolf would be lying if he said he didn't somewhat enjoy going through those. Mallus had not yet learned the names of most of the thieves and had an amusing habit of calling them by nicknames. Brynjolf had made a bit of a game out of trying to figure out who the Imperial was referring to in his letters. A few of them were fairly obvious – "Ears" and "the elf" was clearly Niruin, and Sapphire was often referred to as "Doll Face," "the pretty, scowly girl," and more bluntly "the one with the great ass" – but others weren't as easy: "the dark haired one," which could be any number of people; "Tight Lips," which Brynjolf only realized was Thrynn after a reference to his build, and "the skinny one," which was used interchangeably for Tom and Niruin and could only be deciphered by pronoun usage. Of course, the most frustratingly vague of all of them was "Smartass." Brynjolf was a tad bit ashamed by how long it took him to realize "Doe Eyes" was a reference Tom.

After he had finished recording Maccius's sales, Brynjolf picked up an invoice from Vekel the Man. Unlike the fences, Vekel operated independently from the Guild. In theory, he and Syndus were businesses that just happened to be located in the den of a criminal organization. In practice, well, the members of said organization had a tendency to steal alcohol and break glasses and silverware. The expenses for Rain's Hand weren't that bad. There were only a dozen damaged tankards, a plate that had been thrown at a wall, several forks that had been bent out of shape, and an entire case of Black-Briar Mead that had mysteriously vanished. All and all, the denizens of the Ratway had done much worse in months past.

Finally, Brynjolf came to Tonilia's weekly sales. As he recorded the earnings, a couple of her notes stood out to him. "Tirdas: Rune brought in a few gems (estimated worth 293) and bought a few lockpicks and bought that dagger Thrynn sold me yesterday (73 of that is yours). Cynric and Tom raided the Snow-Shod Manor. Had to give them a letter of credit until I can pawn all this junk off. Possibly brought in 356 septims from that. May want to give 'em a job together some time in the future. (So long as they don't have to speak to anyone.)" "Loredas: Sold wares to buyers, brought in 4423 for the Guild this week. Vipir sold me a ring. Claimed it had some special enchantment to protect the wearer from dragons in order to get more coin. Ran it by Vex. Turns out it has a weak protection against fire enchantment, but it's nothing special. Not sure if he was trying to cheat me or if he's just stupid enough to believe that. Will look into this." "Middas: Remember Vipir's ring? Niruin came in with a similar ring. Said he stole it from a merchant who claimed the exact same thing Vipir did. Someone out there's making coin off of people's panic over this whole dragon fiasco, and we should get in on it. You should run the idea by Mercer. Maybe he'll let you go topside again." The idea of being allowed to return to swindling people out of their well-earned coined caught Brynjolf's attention, and he made a note to tell Mercer about it after he finished with the finances.

Then came the hard part. Finishing off his drink, Brynjolf looked to the contracts and began to go through them alphabetically, recording how much coin each contract had brought in and how much each thief had made off of it. Cynric Endell was the first, and by far one of the easiest. Most of his contracts were from Vex, save for one crumpled note scrawled in Delvin's barely legible script that read: "Drunk. Told Endell he could have a bedlam job. Didn't have any on hand. Made one up. Paid him his standard for it. Don't tell Mercer. – Del." Midway through working through his contracts, Brynjolf was interrupted by a hand slamming down on the desk, sending a few papers flying off the table. Startled, Brynjolf looked up to see Delvin standing over him. The man had a drunk's smile and reeked of spirits. It never ceased to amaze Brynjolf how quietly the old Breton could move even when he could barely stand.

"What do you need, Del?" Brynjolf said impatiently as he stood up to retrieve the papers. Shaking his head, Delvin crossed his arms and stood firmly.

"Come off it, Bryn," he replied. "You know exactly why I'm here."

An irritated frown crossed Brynjolf's lips as he reached down and grabbed a paper. He knew Delvin meant well, but if he ever wanted to get this work done, he was going to have to sacrifice a few drinks. "I'm sorry, but this really has to get done."

"Yeah, and you can do it tomorrow. One night off won't kill ya. It's a celebration."

"Del," Brynjolf replied sternly as he snatched the last paper from the ground. "I'm afraid I just can't. Mercer's going to want me to go to Windhelm either tomorrow or the day after, and then it'll be about a week before I can work on this again."

Frowning, Delvin sighed. "Could you at least go in and congratulate the girl? She did a better job than anyone could have asked for. You should really hear the elf tell the story. She got the locket back and set a damn banner on fire to keep the Shadows out of our hair. Shit, Niruin took an arrow for this job."

Brynjolf smiled softly. For all her eccentricities, Tom had proved to be more than worth the risk he had taken when he asked her to join the Guild. He was quite proud of how well she was doing, but that didn't change the fact that he had responsibilities to attend to. Walking back over to the table, Brynjolf set the papers down and sat down at his chair.

"Maybe later," he said as he turned his attention back to his work. Delvin sighed heavily and threw his hands up.

"Fine," the old Breton grumbled. He started back towards the Flagon, but before he got too far, he turned back around, adding, "You know you're turnin' into Mercer."

Brynjolf frowned. Mercer hadn't always been the snappish, weary man as he was now. In fact, Brynjolf could easily recall the man who had laughed over drinks after returning from some adventure with Karliah and Gallus. They had always been so tightlipped about those adventures, and in his youth, it had drove Brynjolf to maddening levels of curiosity. The three of them were such a queer group not only for their secrets, but for their personalities. Gallus Desidenius had been seemingly born to become a legend. Friendly and good-natured to a fault, he held power over the Thieves Guild in a way Mercer never could. He spoke, and people listened to him. They did what he ordered without question because Gallus could seemingly do no wrong. Brynjolf often wondered if his memories of Gallus were clouded by his youthful idealism, but even Delvin remembered him being larger than life.

Then there was Karliah. Brynjolf remembered her face better than he did Gallus's. She was possibly the coldest woman Brynjolf had ever met, but she was not cruel, at least not until that day. No, she was simply so withdrawn from the world that there was hardly any warmth in her soul. She rarely spoke, and when she did, her words were so soft that Brynjolf could scarcely hear her. Still there was something about her that must have captured Gallus's heart, and while Brynjolf could never quite know what it was, he understood it in his heart. She was no beauty, but she held this grace in her actions. She was always aware of the tiniest detail, the slightest movement, the smallest noise, and Brynjolf could remember how her wide eyes always seemed to be bearing into his when she looked at him. It was entrancing – haunting, even. She had used that power to ruin everything. Brynjolf could feel his anger swelling in his stomach at just the thought of her, so he turned his mind elsewhere.

Finally, there was Mercer. He had never been agreeable like Gallus nor had he been cold like Karliah. Brynjolf could still remember the first time he laid eyes on Mercer Frey. The image was burned into his memory. He had been sitting at a table in the Flagon next to Delvin, who barely even lifted his head to get a look at the new recruit. Gods, they were both so young in the memory. Delvin still had all his hair and teeth, but Brynjolf hadn't really been looking at him at the time. No, he had only been able to see Mercer. Young and arrogant, his lips had curled into a smirk as he kicked his feet up onto the table and leaned back in his chair. He had snickered as he asked, "And just what exactly are we supposed to do with him?"

"Go easy on him, Frey," Gallus had replied as he walked over to the bar. "Varys said he doesn't want you scaring off any more recruits."

Mercer's reply had been nothing more than a shrug and a mutter to Delvin. "Not my fault they're so sensitive."

"But it is your fault one of the got arrested," Delvin replied.

"What? I told him to run, didn't I?"

That was all Brynjolf had ever needed to know about Mercer. In many ways, Vex reminded Brynjolf of the man Mercer had once been. He was stubborn and ambitious and generally unpleasant to be around. That first year Brynjolf had been in the Guild, Mercer had gone out of his way to make sure Brynjolf was assigned the most degrading jobs possible, but he had taken them with his head held high and proved himself to be a competent thief. Mercer respected that, and eventually he laid off on his antagonism towards the boy, but he never truly got any more amiable. Being around Delvin and Gallus tended to temper him. Still, as disagreeable as he was, he had spirit. He laughed and gambled and made jokes, even if they were usually at other's expense. He was fiercely competitive, always making bets with Delvin on everything from who could open a lock first to who could bed the new barmaid at the Bee and Barb. That all changed the day he came back from Snow Veil Sanctum. Brynjolf had been in the Guild for six years by that point, and never had he seen Mercer Frey at a loss for words.

As Brynjolf continued with his work, he fought off Delvin's words. He told himself that wasn't possible, but it had started out like this for Mercer too. He began to spend less time in the Ragged Flagon and more time with his nose in the ledger. He slowly became irritated by everything people said to him, and eventually he stopped smiling all together. In his head, Brynjolf replayed his earlier conversation with Delvin, and he knew the man's statement was true. He had been curt and irritable and everything Mercer had been, only it was happening quicker this time around. Disgusted by his actions, Brynjolf closed the ledger. He would work on this tomorrow. Right now, he needed a break and a stiff drink. As he rose up to head off to the Flagon, he noticed that he wasn't alone in the cistern. Tom sat on her bed, absentmindedly picking at her lip. Taken aback, Brynjolf examined her curiously, wondering how long she had been sitting there. He hadn't heard her come in. As he approached the girl, her wide eyes suddenly locked with his.

"Oh, sorry," Tom said. "Was I talking to myself? I wasn't – I didn't mean to disturb you."

"No," he replied cautiously.

"Oh good," Tom replied. Smiling, she sat up and crossed her legs. The way she was moving, it was evident that she'd had her fair share of liquor for the night. "Sometimes when I'm thinking, I say things aloud without – without even noticing."

"That's all right," Brynjolf replied. "To be honest, I didn't even notice you were in here until just now."

In a strange fit of bashfulness, Tom giggled and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Brynjolf knew he hadn't gotten a good look at her in a while, but she seemed to have changed dramatically in her appearance since he last did. Her hair had grown out to what was almost an acceptable female length, and she seemed to have gained a bit of weight, making her slightly less skeletal than the girl who had picked his pocket almost half a year ago, but her face and figure were still boyish as ever. It wasn't fair to call her plain, a word that suggested commonplace. Her wide eyes, possibly the only feminine feature about her, could be recognized in a heartbeat, and the rest of her features couldn't be considered nondescript either, but still Brynjolf thought her plain. She wasn't ugly, but there was something about Tom that evoked a strange sentiment in him. There was something familiar about her, but he couldn't place just who.

"I have that effect," Tom said softly and it took Brynjolf a second to remember she was replying to his words not his thoughts. He chuckled nervously and looked around.

"It's been awhile since we've had a chance to talk. Do you mind if I sit down?"

"By all means," Tom replied, gesturing to the foot of her bed. Brynjolf sat down as she rolled her head back and leaned against the wall. "But I'm afraid you've caught me at a bad time. I may not be the best talker right now."

"Implying you're ever good at talking," Brynjolf joked.

Tom laughed and sighed. "True, true."

"So what are you doing in here?" Brynjolf asked. "Don't feel like playing the hero to your legion of admirers?"

"No, no, I'm not a hero," Tom said, frowning. Despite her drunkenness, Brynjolf picked up a strange sincerity in her objection to the term. "Not to them, not to anybody. At best, I'm a reason for free drinks."

"I hate to break it to you lass," Brynjolf replied, "but that makes you a hero around these parts."

Tom wrinkled her nose and pursed her lips. "Cynric says I'm a hero 'cause I make the Guild coin and my sheer existence annoys Vex."

"That sounds like something he would say."

"He was a bit drunk when he said it," she replied, smiling again. Her eyes widened as if she had just accidentally let a secret slip, and Brynjolf couldn't help but grin at her expression. "But don't tell him I told you that. He was awfully embarrassed by it."

"Don't worry. I won't," Brynjolf jokingly promised. "But really, lass, is there a reason you came in here? Are you feeling all right?"

"I'm fine," she said, quietly. Her eyes were overcome with a strange sadness as she paused and then asked him, "Old wounds never really heal, do they?"

The weight of the question caught Brynjolf off guard. A part of him wanted to console the girl and tell her whatever it was that was upsetting her, it would get better with time, but Brynjolf knew better than that. Only minutes ago, simply thinking about Karliah had awoken a rage inside of him that he had forgotten was there. Awkwardly rubbing his neck, he frowned and considered his answer.

"No, I suppose they don't," Brynjolf replied. Tom's lips twitched as she began to sink down onto the bed. Brynjolf felt a twinge of sympathy for the girl, and he forced himself to smile. "Can I ask what old wound's been opened up, or am I going to be met with deflection?"

"Probably deflection," she answered. She hummed as she rubbed her hand against her eye and rested her head on her shoulder. Her eyes flickered up to meet Brynjolf's again, and her expression became rather serious considering her state of mind. "While we were on the job, Niruin was shot."

"I heard about that," he replied. "I'm assuming it wasn't anything serious considering the fact that he's out there buying everyone drinks right now."

"It doesn't matter. He went down, lost his footing – or something. Shit, I don't know. But I lost it when he did. I thought he was dead and I just – Mara, I wasn't supposed to care about you people."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Brynjolf replied, chuckling.

Rubbing her palms against her brows, Tom slowly shook her head. "Shit, I didn't mean – it's just the truth. I shouldn't care. I shouldn't have lost it. I believe you now, what you said about family." She grinned, and her voice cracked a little as she spoke. "This Guild is a family, and this damned sewer, it's my home. It's just – never mind. It's just sometimes I don't think I belong here."

"That's fine," Brynjolf replied with a casual shrug of his shoulders. "Nobody expects you to feel right at home overnight."

"I mean I'm grateful you let me in," Tom said. "Believe me I am. By the Eight, as much as I hate to admit it, thieving's about the only thing I've ever been good at."

Brynjolf chuckled and crossed his arms. "I know how you feel, lass. This about the only job I could ever do. I was always lousy farmer."

"And I was a dreadful barmaid," Tom replied. She pursed her lips. "And a dockworker, for that matter. I mean, look at me. I'm never going to be good with the sword or forge or anything that requires blunt strength. As much as Niruin tries to teach me, I'm not particularly good with the bow either. I know a couple spells, but I'm really no wizard. My needlework is shameful. All I'm really good at is picking locks, climbing, and not being noticed. What else was I supposed to do?"

There was an odd hint of hysteria in her voice as she finished her sentence. Tom must have noticed it herself because she abruptly frowned again and blushed as she turned her head away from Brynjolf. He had forgotten how difficult it was to talk to Tom. At any second, he knew she would come up with some harebrained excuse to leave, as she typically did whenever she caught herself opening up, but instead, she grinned and tilted her chin.

"So you were a farmer?" Tom asked. Brynjolf knew the girl was intentionally changing the subject, but she wasn't leaving. That alone was progress, at least.

"Aye," Brynjolf answered. "Well, I was the son of a farmer. Never owned my own farm, but I grew up harvesting crops and tending to chickens. Terrible creatures, chickens. I'll take the skeevers over them any day."

Tom held her hand to her mouth to conceal a giggle. "I'm sorry. I just can't see you ever doing honest work – hoeing fields, chasing down chickens. It's silly, but I guess I always assumed you were always in the Guild, like some street rat they used to get information or something."

"No, no," Brynjolf replied. "I'm afraid my childhood was far duller than that. My father owned a small farm on the very edge of the Pale, right on the border of Whiterun."

"What made you leave?" she asked.

Brynjolf shrugged. He hadn't talked to anyone about his life before the Guild in a long time. Most of the thieves either already knew his story or never cared to ask. "Like I said, I was never any good at the work. Besides, I was one of the younger children in a large family, and it was a very small farm so staying around was never really an option. By the time I was ten, my father had already promised the farm to my brother Halbjorn after my eldest brother, Valgeir, ran off with a bandit gang. After that, I had no intention of ever staying. You couldn't keep Halbjorn and me in the same room together, growing up. Absolutely no sense of humor, that one. Shor's beard, Mercer's a court jester compared to him."

"I can't imagine," Tom said. "Exactly how many of you were there?"

"Eight, including my parents," Brynjolf answered. "By the time I left, there were only five of us left, though. Ma died soon after Valgeir ran off, and my older sister married this skinny, milk-drinking Imperial merchant. I occasionally write my younger sister." – He thought of the girl with the bright orange hair, her mother's hair. She had looked at him as if he were a stranger at their father's burial. – "But not enough. What about you, lass? Did you have any brothers or sisters?"

"Oh me? No," Tom answered, much to Brynjolf's surprise. "My mother died when I was barely more than a babe. Sure, there were a good deal of us at the orphanage, you know, with the war with the elves having just ended, lots of children left without parents and all – but none of them ever felt like family."

"The war?" Brynjolf repeated, laughing. She had to be lying again. "You can't possibly mean the Great War."

"What's so strange about that?"

"That was over twenty-five years ago, lass."

"I keep telling you people I'm not that young," Tom said, shrugging, "but you never seem to listen."

Brynjolf began to believe that for once Tom was perhaps telling the truth. She certainly wasn't doing that deadpan that usually gave her away, but that could just be the spirits. Before he could press the subject, she directed the topic of their conversation away from her.

"So, how did you join the Guild, then?" she asked.

"Ah, now that's a long story," Brynjolf answered.

"I have time," Tom said. Her brown eyes stared at his face as she said this, and for a second, Brynjolf found her warm, but the feeling quickly passed as he realized exactly what it was about her that was so uncanny. There was something peculiar about the way Tom looked at things. She always seemed to be staring, as if she was always fully aware of her surroundings so she could carefully calculate her reactions to every possible scenario that could arise. And yet, despite this alertness or perhaps because of it, there was a haunting emptiness to in her eyes, a hollowness that denied her any warmth in her demeanor even when she smiled and laughed and acted as if she were just any other woman. She was not all there, but Brynjolf could tell she was trying her hardest to fake it.

"Well, then," Brynjolf began, "I was in Whiterun with my brother. I had to be about eighteen at the time. We were selling our harvest to the general goods store, or rather, he was. He never let me barter. He was too proud to admit he had the social skills of a mudcrab and didn't want to give me the satisfaction of showing him up. No, I was standing outside the store, looking at this stall that had been left unattended. It had been a harsh summer, most of the crops had died, and I knew we weren't going to get much out of the grocer. The stall was a jeweler. Now, I didn't have much use for jewelry, and I wasn't sure when I'd get a chance to sell them, but I figured jewelers bring in a heavy amount of coin, right?"

Tom smiled. "So you stole their money."

"Talos, no," Brynjolf replied, waving his hand dismissively. "The Whiterun markets always horribly crowded around harvest time, and even if I did want to risk it, I wasn't sure I could even pick the lock, but I was thinking about it when this man comes up to me and tells me he couldn't help but notice my interest in the stall. I, of course, deny it, but he persists. Says he need to get a gem from the lockbox and could use my help with distracting the crowd."

"Was that Gallus?"

"Aye. In hindsight, he didn't need me at all. Even with the crowd, Gallus could have picked the lock, stolen the gem, and gotten out of the city before anyone was the wiser. I think he saw something in me. Anyway, after a couple minutes of thinking it over, I agree to do it. After all, I was just a distraction. The guards couldn't prove I was involved. All I had to do was to think of a way to divert the attention of the crowd, and that's when I saw her, the innkeeper's daughter. She was a beautiful thing back then, and she was arm-in-arm with this real tough looking man, kind of man who's just waiting to get in a fight with someone."

Brynjolf continued on with the story, telling her how he had waited until the two separated and went over to charm the young woman and how her man had stormed over in a jealous rage. As he told his tale, Brynjolf realized how he could no longer recall the image of the man's face, the pain of the punch to the jaw, what the guards had said as they broke up the fight, the sound of Gallus's laugh as he paid the young Nord for his troubles. The story wasn't so much a recollection as it was words that had been written into his memory like ink on a page. This troubled Brynjolf a little, but Tom continued to ask her questions, which led to more stories. Some Brynjolf could remember with perfect clarity, but most were the same as the first, empty words with no faces to the names and no sounds to the voices. Yet, there were still a few he had forgotten with time, only for them to come suddenly flooding back to him. He had recanted those stories with an almost childish eagerness in his voice, but Tom didn't seem to mind. She just smiled and listened, and after a while, she was no longer even a part of the conversation.

This went on for what must have been hours, but Brynjolf didn't notice. He was too busy reminiscing over a better time, when it really meant something to be part of the Riften guild. After a while, the other thieves started entering the cistern in drunken stupors. One by one they collapsed on their beds and fell into their slumbers until eventually it was only the two of them still awake. Tom sat up and stretched out her arms, yawning. That was when he noted how much he had been talking. The girl must have been bored out of her mind, and either too polite or drunk to say anything about it.

"Sorry, lass," Brynjolf said, somewhat embarrassed. "I didn't mean to talk your ear off."

"No, no, it's fine," she replied, chuckling. "I really don't mind. Just tired, is all."

Brynjolf got to his feet. "Then I should let you go. I still have a mountain of paperwork that needs tending to."

"Good luck with that," Tom replied almost sarcastically. Bidding her goodbye with a gesture of his hand, Brynjolf turned and headed back to Mercer's desk, but before he could get more than a few feet, the girl's hesitant voice called him back.

"Brynjolf."

Instinctively, the Nord turned his head back towards the girl. She was still sitting on the bed in the same spot as where he'd left her, but a troubled frown had replaced her grin. "Yes?"

"I'm sorry about being so difficult when we first met," she said, and then paused for a second. "I think I misjudged you."

Brynjolf chuckled. "It's quite all right, lass. I don't think I'd trust me either, in all honesty."

"You know you're not half bad," she said. There was a smile on her lips as she spoke, but her tone held a certain sadness, perhaps even regret. Brynjolf smiled back kindly.

"You aren't so bad either, lass."

. . .

She dreamed of the sea. The clear waters sparkled under the hot afternoon sun as she stood at the end of the dock. A familiar voice called out to the woman, beckoning her into the deep, but before she could take the plunge, a crow landed on the post next to her. It looked at the woman, cocked its head, and flew off. She followed the bird through a city in decay. The charred frames of what were once buildings still stood like skeletons left behind after a terrible war. She could hear women screaming in the distance and soldiers barking orders at people to return to their houses, but the city itself was quiet and empty. No people walked the streets. No bodies could be found. The crow led her past a ruined temple where it stopped in the courtyard, landing on top a mausoleum the woman knew all to well. She crouched down and pressed the button on the stone coffin, and the floor opened up.

The woman continued down into the tunnels under the city. Rats scurried past her feet and lead her to a tavern. She was relieved to see people standing around the bar. They all drank and gambled and laughed, but she recognized none of them. Desperately, the woman ran from person to person, trying to find just one familiar face – Niruin, Brynjolf, Tonilia, Rune, Delvin, Cynric. Even the sight of Vex would be a comfort, but they could not be found. Not that it seemed to matter. The criminals simply continued on with their conversations and games, ignoring the woman to the point that she wondered if she could be seen. As she walked away from the bar, she caught sight of the crow again. It was perched atop a door frame, staring at the woman with its beady eyes. As she approached the it, the bird let out a small caw, and in the strange haze of the dream, it sounded almost sympathetic.

"Yes, yes," the woman said, bitterly. She was all too aware that she was speaking to an animal. "I get it. You're very clever."

The bird simply stared at her in response.

"You're saying there's no place for me here anymore. It doesn't take a genius to figure that out. Well, guess what? I'm staying. I happen to like it here, and I don't want to leave."

The crow replied with a second caw, louder this time, more stern. It flew off though the door frame, and the woman rolled her eyes before reluctantly going after it. It led her up a flight of stairs, at the top of which there was a door. She opened it to find herself at the edge of a farm. The land around her still held the warm green of summer, but in front of her, a terrible blizzard loomed just outside the farm's fence. Without so much as a caw, the crow flew out into the storm, and the woman found herself at a standstill. It was either go forward or head back to the tavern, but for once, she honestly didn't know where to go. She walked towards the fence. Leaning up against the post, she stared out into the blizzard. It seemed to be getting closer.

"You're going to have to choose sooner or later," a voice said to her. She knew who it was before she even turned her head, and it wasn't fair. Give her Lyra or Caro or Brynjolf – anyone but him. Standing not five feet away from her was a thin elf. He smiled at her and looked back over towards the storm. "I don't blame you though. I wouldn't want to go out in that weather either."

"Faerin, I–"

It didn't matter what she said. He wasn't there. None of it was. As her eyes flittered open, Tom found herself in the cistern. She buried her head into her pillow and pulled her blankets up to her chin. She told herself that if she didn't leave her bed, she wouldn't have to do anything, but she knew that wasn't true. If she stayed in her bed too long, someone would inevitably tell her that she had to either get a job done or leave the Guild – not that particularly mattered anyway. Tom had made her decision on the long ride back to Riften from Windhelm. It was just a matter of telling Brynjolf. She had meant to do it the night before, but in her drunken state, she hadn't been able find it in her heart to tell him any bad news. Tom had meant it when she told him she had misjudged him. For all his faults, Brynjolf did care deeply about the Guild and the people he looked over. It was almost heartbreaking listening to him talk of those who had preceded her, those who he had befriended and trusted, and they had repaid his kindness by leaving. He had already lost so much, and she was about to abandon him too.

Forcing herself to sit up, Tom scanned the cistern for Brynjolf. It was dark and relatively empty, giving the Breton the impression she had slept longer than she'd intended. Sapphire and Thrynn were having a meal on the other side of the room, talking quietly to each other, but more importantly, Brynjolf wasn't at his desk. Tom grumbled to herself and threw the blankets from her body as she got up. She didn't want to have to confront him in the tavern, not with everyone around. It pained her to think of having to say it in front of the others. Gods, she didn't even want to think of what she would say to Niruin. Maybe she wouldn't have to. Maybe she could just pack up her things and leave without so much as a note.

No, Tom thought to herself. She owed them more than that. Sitting down next to her footlocker, she grabbed her weathered, old pack from the top and smiled to herself. Cynric was right. The old bag wasn't going to last much longer. Opening the chest, Tom carefully took her folded clothes from the chest and placed them in the bag. She packed away her gold and bow as well, but as she retrieved her dagger, she was struck with an unshakable curiosity. Unsheathing the blade, she examined her reflection in the cold metal. Tom thought of that last morning before she had joined the Guild, before she had framed Brand-Shei, and she found that it was not the same woman looking back at her. Her face was less gaunt; her features, softer. Her eyes were still as empty and wild as ever, but they had grown tamer, kinder. Maybe she had found that something she'd been missing, or perhaps she had simply gotten a good night's sleep. Nevertheless a strange nostalgia overcame her, and Tom smiled despite herself and sheathed the blade, before tossing it into her pack. She packed up the last few of her possession and closed the chest.

Tom stood up and slung the pack over her shoulder. It was heavier than she had expected, but she couldn't leave anything behind. Sighing, she headed for the tavern. She still had to find Brynjolf and tell him the bad news. As she opened the door, she could hear a rather loud argument coming from the tavern. Tom shook her head. On any other day, this would be a reason to stay in the cistern, but she found herself curious.

"Bah, what do you know about women, old man?" Tom recognized the laughing voice as Vipir the Fleet's. "Been ten years since I saw you so much as glance at a woman."

"All I know that after a night with me," – a drawl, Cynric's – "they aren't asking 'Is that it?' You could stand to learn a few things from me, boy."

"You would like to teach me a few things, wouldn't you?"

"Heh, don't act like you wouldn't like it."

A couple male voices oooh'ed in anticipation for Vipir's reply. There was a feminine exhale, most likely Tonilia. It didn't sound nearly contemptuous enough to be Vex. "Will you two quit flirting?"

"He started it."

"Didn't I give you a job to do, Endell?"

"All right, all right. I'm out, but this isn't over Fleet-Feet," Cynric shouted the words before stumbling backwards into the hallway and into Tom's line of sight. In one hand, he held a the strap of his pack and in the other, a bottle of mead. Tom stopped walking as the man turned towards her. Still grinning, the man took a swig from his bottle. "Well, look who's awake. We were just about to send someone in to check if you were still breathing."

"How long was I out?" Tom asked.

"I don't know. 'Bout a day. I haven't seen you since you were talking to Brynjolf last night." Cynric paused. "What was going on there?"

"We were just talking," Tom replied. She smiled and peered over the man's shoulder. "Is Brynjolf in there?"

"No, the big lug left for Windhelm around noon. Probably won't be back for a week. Delvin and Vex are in there if you need one of the higher ups."

Tom frowned. She wasn't particularly sure what to do now. She could simply leave, but the thought of going without so much as a word didn't sit well on her conscience. She could wait for Brynjolf to come back, but that could lead to her changing her mind about leaving. It had to be today, or she might never go. As she scratched at the side of her neck, Tom shook her head slowly. "No, it's fine. I just wanted to speak with him personally."

"Oh?" Cynric replied. The word was accompanied by a slight quirk of his eyebrows, and Tom found herself grinning once more. How the thieves did love their gossip, and as much as the Breton man would like to pretend he was above such frivolities, he was no exception.

"You know," she said, "for someone who claims to care so little about what people do, you're a dreadful gossip. You know that, right?"

"All right, all right. I'll take your word," Cynric said. He leaned back against the door to the Ratway Vaults. "So what did you need to talk to him about if it wasn't what I was thinking?"

"Oh, nothing," Tom replied. "It's not important."

Cynric's smile faded for a second as Tom caught his eyes glance at her pack. Awkwardly shifting the bag slightly behind her, Tom vainly tried to draw as little attention to it as possible. Fortunately, Cynric didn't call it out. He simply grinned and stood back up. "Well, Tonilia needs me to go deliver this bag to someone just outside of town. If you don't have anything better to do, you can come with."

Tom smiled softly. She could almost hear the man tacking on "or not, I don't care" to the end of that sentence. Feelings of camaraderie or even affection were just another frivolity Cynric deemed himself above, and though Tom knew she had more important matters at hand, the offer of a few last moments as one of the family tempted her something terrible.

"Nothing important springs to mind," she said and shrugged. Smirking, Cynric slung the bag over his shoulder and headed past Tom, entering the cistern without so much as a second word to her. Tom followed him toward the ladder that lead to the Riften cemetery. After they both climbed up into the small room above the cistern, Cynric pulled on the chain and made a face as the stone rolled back with that terrible mechanical screech that Tom had become so accustomed to hearing.

"You know," Cynric commented in a grumble, as the stone opened to reveal the dark night sky above, "I've been in this Guild for twenty years now, and every year Mercer promises to fix that damn noise."

Snickering, Tom walked up the steps out into the cemetery with Cynric following behind her. The moons were both high above the city, and the night air was comfortably warm as Cynric took the lead down the back alleys of Riften toward the front gate.

"By the way, kid," he said to Tom, "the correct term is snoop."

Tom furrowed her brow. "What?"

"I'm a horrible snoop, not a gossip," he answered. "Gossip implies I share the information I gather."

"You tell me things," Tom replied.

"Yeah, well–" Cynric paused. "That's tactical."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, kid," he said in an inscrutable tone. He waved his hand as if that alone would dismiss her concerns, but Tom was unconvinced.

"You're such a liar. A liar and a snoop."

Chuckling, the man turned his head back towards her. A terrible smirk crossed his lips as it often did before he was about to say something that would make her uncomfortable. "So what's with the bag, girl? You pick up a contract last night or something?"

"It's full of weapons, actually," Tom deadpanned. "I'm luring you out of the city so I can murder you and run off with your coin."

"Figures about right. The elf put you up to it, didn't he?"

"No, he doesn't know a thing about it," Tom said, continuing the joke with a smile. "I'm hoping with you out of the way we can finally be together."

"Hah, fat chance." Chuckling, Cynric stopped and turned towards Tom. The smirk stayed on his lips, but as he looked her over, his eyes didn't convey the same lightheartedness. Tom could feel her confidence slipping as the Breton man leaned against the city wall and took a sip from the bottle. "But really, though, what's with the bag, kid?"

"Like you said," she answered with little conviction, "I got a contract last night."

Cynric rolled his eyes. "Oh, and I'm the liar."

"Shut up, you're awful," Tom said, smiling again. Cynric responded with a mere shrug of his shoulders as he continued on his way. Shaking her head, Tom followed after him. "What's got you in such a good mood any way?"

"I could ask you the same question," he said. He took one last sip from the bottle before carelessly tossing it on the ground. "You're rather friendly today, aren't you?"

"I asked you first."

"All right, well, before Brynjolf left, I caught him talking to Delvin about a project he's going to run by Mercer once he gets back. I'm not going to get into specifics, but I'll probably get the job since they need an infiltrator, and Vex's got her own project to work on. Besides, Delvin says this could possibly cause a lot of trouble for the Guild if we get caught so they want someone reliable – you know, someone who can be in and out before anyone notices. While I might not have the flair of Vex or Vipir or you for that matter, I do have a better track record than them." Cynric looked over his shoulder at her before adding one last jab. "And unlike you, I'm not particularly caught up on being moral."

"I don't have flair," Tom said quietly.

"You have something, girl. I'll give you that," Cynric muttered as they turned a corner and approached the city gate. Even from behind his helmet, Tom could almost feel the distrust in the guard on duty's eyes as he looked the two over. It occurred to Tom that she wasn't quite sure just what type of delivery this was, but she hesitated to ask. Knowing the Guild, it was entirely possible she didn't want to know what he had in the bag. Still, with both of them dressed in plainclothes, neither Tom nor Cynric appeared worthy of suspect to the average eye, but that was the strange thing about Riften. The guards knew who the face of every member in the Guild, but so long as the thieves weren't caught doing anything the guards let them be, albeit reluctantly in some of the nobler guards' cases. This guard in particular seemed suspicious of the pair's intentions as after a moment of deliberation, he sighed and addressed the pair.

"You two stay out of trouble," his Nordic voice commanded as he opened the gate. "Understand?"

"Of course, sir," Cynric replied with his usual impertinence. His gaze flickered over to Tom. "Ladies first."

Tom exited through the gates to see a cart rolling off in the distance. Guessing by the positions of the moons, it was probably the last carriage of the night. Tom frowned. This would mean walking the entire way. She could always wait until morning for another cart – but no, it had to be tonight. This was not something she could put off any longer. Not too far off, Tom noticed a Khajiiti caravan had set up camp just outside the city. As the gate closed behind them, Cynric placed his hand on her shoulder, and Tom nearly jumped at his touch.

"Wait here, kid," he said, unfazed by her surprise. "I'll be right back."

Tom leaned back against the walls of the city as Cynric walked over to the caravan. As she watched him barter with the Khajiit, she contemplated her situation. If she started walking now, she could be in Ivarstead by midday tomorrow. The town would probably have an inn she could stay at for the night and then start the perilous hike up the six – no, seven-thousand steps. Tom could almost shudder at the thought of walking up all seven-thousand of them, but she had to do something. She couldn't hide from her destiny any longer. Eventually, Cynric finished his business with the caravan and jogged back over to her. Tom sighed and looked away. She would have to tell him.

"I'll give the Khajiit one thing," the man said as he leaned against the wall next to Tom and crossed his arms. "They are horribly stubborn when it comes to bartering."

"What was that about?" Tom asked. Cynric waved it off.

"Oh, nothing."

"Was it skooma? Believe it or not, I don't care about that."

"Woah, woah, who said it was skooma? Where'd you get that idea? Because they're cats? That's a little stereotypical of you don't you think, girl."

Giggling slightly, Tom rolled her eyes. She could tell by now when he was trying to get a reaction out of her. "Vex is right. You are insufferable."

The older thief chuckled, but he didn't respond. He was quiet for a moment, and Tom tried to find the courage to tell him, but before she could, he tapped his fingers against his arm and smirked. "Well, I suppose this is where we part ways."

Tom raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips. "You going somewhere?"

"No, but you are," Cynric said, and Tom shook her head in disbelief.

"Why do you always do that?" she asked.

"Do what?"

"That whole, cryptic 'I know your secrets' thing," Tom replied. Her tone was more teasing than accusatory. "Oh, I know you're from Cyrodiil. Oh, don't think I haven't noticed you're not as young as everyone thinks you are. Oh, I know you're leaving. Do you enjoy doing it? Is it because it makes people uncomfortable?"

"In my defense, anyone can tell the first two things if they pay enough attention to you. Your accent's unmistakeably Colovian, and no offense, kid, but if you weren't so slim-hipped no one would think you were as young as they do As for knowing you were leaving, well–" His voice became strangely somber, and the smirk left his lips. "When I asked, you wouldn't give me a straight answer, and every other recruit Brynjolf's dragged back to the Flagon has left – or died, in Britta's case. Mara, that was awful. " He grimaced at the thought and sighed again. "Anyway, I guess I never thought you'd be any different."

"That's rather cynical," Tom said.

The man's mouth twitched, and he shrugged his shoulders. "It's just the way it is. You get used to it. The Guild's dying, girl, whether the others want to admit it or not. Don't get me wrong. I'm glad you joined up. The business you brought in should keep us afloat for another five years or so, but it's not going to change anything in the long run."

Tom didn't know how to respond to that. Finally, she quietly replied, "If it makes a difference, I don't want to leave. I just, I have to go."

"Well in that case, that changes everything."

Tom smiled and glanced over at him. "Really?"

With disbelief in his eyes, Cynric glared over at her and made a face. "No. Of course not." He snickered and shook his head. "Tiber Septim's left nut, kid, how would that make a difference?"

Laughing, Tom instinctively punched the man in the shoulder. "You're just awful."

"I know, I know," Cynric replied. He rubbed the area where she had hit him. "By the gods, kid, for a such a small girl, you can hit."

"I'm sorry," she said, smiling. It was quiet again, and Tom could feel the finality in the air. She had felt this feeling before – on the day Caro first started working on the ship, the day Faerin moved to Chorrol with his wife, the day of Lyra's wedding – except this time, it wasn't Tom who was being left behind. She had meant it when she said she didn't want to go. Perhaps the Guild wasn't her family, but when she stopped fighting it long enough to see it, she knew they were her friends, and despite everything, she knew she would miss it when she was gone. After a moment of silence, Cynric stood up straight and looked off at the road.

"Well, I should let you go," he said with a smile. "I'll tell the others for you."

"I wasn't planning on just running off without saying goodbye."

"I know," he replied. "You were going to tell Brynjolf, but he isn't here. So I'll tell him for you." He shook his head and grinned. "Oh, he is not going to be happy with me, letting his star protege get away, but he'll get over it."

"Are you sure it'll be okay?" Tom asked. "Brynjolf had a lot riding on me working out from the talk of it."

Once again, Cynric waved off her concerns. "Oh, that? I doubt Mercer even remembers that threat. Besides, he can't afford to fire Brynjolf right now. Any way, you brought in a lot of coin in the past couple months. I can't say the old man will be happy you're gone, but he's not going to hold it against Bryn."

"All right," she said, quietly. "Could you maybe tell him I'm sorry."

"Yeah, yeah, don't worry about it," Cynric said, making the same mocking face he did when Niruin nagged him. "I'll also tell the elf you love him, and I'll tell Vipir that this doesn't mean he still doesn't owe you that twenty gold. Anything else."

Tom giggled and shook her head before looking up at Cynric. "I'll miss you."

"Oh, please don't get all feelings on me," Cynric replied in an uncomfortable grumble. He paused and smiled, and for once in the whole time Tom had known him, his smile was devoid of any irony or smugness. It was the most genuine she had ever seen him. "But I'll probably miss you too, kid, and if whatever you're leaving for doesn't work out, well, you're welcome back in the Guild any time."

"I doubt I will," Tom said. She didn't mean to be harsh, but given the severity of the task she was about to undertake, she doubted she would even be alive once it was all over. "But thank you."

"No problem," Cynric said, grinning. He motioned towards the road with his head. "Now, I'm going to get out of here before one of us starts crying, 'cause it isn't going to be me, and if you start crying, I'll just get uncomfortable and leave, and you'll get mad at me for abandoning you. It will completely ruin our friendship and be just awful for everyone."

Tom laughed. "How gentlemanly of you."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm a real charmer," he replied, sarcastically. Tom readjusted her pack on her shoulder and stood up straight, readying herself to go. Cynric, likewise, started heading for the gate. "I'll see you around, Tom."

Tom watched as the man headed back into the city. Once he slipped through the gate and out of sight, Tom exhaled and turned her attention to the road. For a moment, she couldn't find the will to move from her spot. After a couple minutes of just staring out at the road in front of her, taking in what would probably be the last minutes of her time in Riften, she finally took a deep breath and started on her way.

---

Author's Notes: To be honest, I hate this chapter. I don't like how certain parts feel. I don't like how I wrote parts. I just feel like it's thrown together and messy, but I told myself I'd have it up by the end of the week because I needed to finish it. Also, I'm really sorry for that unannounced five month hiatus. I will never, ever do it again, I promise. Please don't hate me.