It was growing warmer in the pine forests; spring was underway, and summer was fast approaching.
Mercy sighed, watching from the rooftops as Riften prepared for a spring festival (the third one that month; for Kynarthi's sake, how many did these crazy people need?). Brynjolf had her on overwatch, while he dealt directly with the people.
She let out a rattling cough, shivering as a brisk spring breeze swept past her.
"Gods damn this… Stupid little Mercy, should be in Elsweyr. Warmer there, sweet-milks and proper fondues with proper moon sugar..." she rasped, watching the flood of merchants enter the city.
"You're sure you're up for this, lass? That's quite a cough you've got."
She whirled, barely keeping her footing.
"Bryn! Y-you know better than to sneak up on-" She broke off, a hacking cough tearing her breath away. Brynjolf grabbed her shoulder, steadying her as the fit passed.
"Normally I can't even dream of surprising you, lass. Since you came back you've been coughing up a storm, and It's hard to drag you away from the fires. Even Vex and Sapphire are worried. Mercy, what is wrong?" Steadying hands wrapped around her shoulders, tensing and losing their gentleness.
Mercy sighed, trying to ignore the cold, bitter pain in her chest. "Mercy was… I was… I… it's some form of sickness spreading over Solstheim and Morrowind. It hurts like Oblivion, but I'll be ok. I just need to work through it. I'd go to my sire in Elsweyr if I could, but.."
"I'll have Tonilia speak to Ri'saad. From what I hear they're bound for Elsweyr once the festival is over. And until then, lass, take the day-"
"Damn it all, I'm not a cub to be coddled Ralof!" Mercy snapped, feeling anger and desperation roil up in her chest and make it feel even colder. Brynjolf stopped, understanding green eyes turning blank.
"Ralof… the captain that went with you to Solstheim. He was trying to make sure you got home safe?" The red-haired Guildmaster pushed.
"He didn't know. I… I couldn't tell him. I needed space, how could I tell him that after the blizzard, after Nocturnal had to help me convince Sithis it wasn't my time to die?" She took a rattling breath, staving off a fit.
"If that's the case, I'll speak to Ri'saad, convince him I'll fence his goods while he takes you back to Elsweyr. If death has come for you once then you need to get your cure as quickly as possible and not continue living on borrowed time. Would any of the caravans have everything you need already?"
"As far as I'm aware, only a few tribes know the exact cure."
Brynjolf nodded. "I'm guessing the plague isn't just in Solstheim and Hammerfell then. Meet me by the gate; I'll send you along, and send Ralof after you when he comes here searching."
Mercy blinked, and saw the tip of the Guildmaster's hood as the man who had become her foster-brother slipped back into the streets. She took another rattling breath and darted across the rooftops, willing Nocturnal's shadow-cloak to surround her in warm invisibility. She was darkness, she was the breath of the wind, she was nothingness.
The caravan was waiting for her at the gates. Brynjolf smiled at her, nodding as he shouldered the last of the khajiiti packs.
"Go with speed, my sister, and may our Lady favor you. Come back safely."'
With that, the Master of the Thieves' Guild turned and walked back into town. Ri'saad smiled at her knowingly, and he had one of the others hand her a cloak and hood.
"Come; warm sands beckon us home." The old cat murmured. Mercy nodded, sparing one last glance at Riften before following the caravan on their south-bound trek.