If you were a king up there on your throne
Would you be wise enough to let me go
For this queen you think you own
Wants to be a hunter again
I want to see the world alone again
To take a chance on life again
So let me go...

- "Hunter", Dido

Brynjolf may have seemed cheerful to everyone, but he was more worried than he would admit about the guild being so close to collapse.

He looked up at the horizon, noticing that the sun was starting to set. Usually he would stay in this rented market stall until it was completely dark, pushing his 'potions'- little more than water mixed with whatever was cheapest at the time-, but today he just felt defeated. He'd only sold two. Usually he was able to charm more people into buying the stuff. His luck just wasn't what it used to be.

So he closed up early and headed down into the Flagon, planning to get the largest cup of mead he could. He'd drink it all, and try to rebuild his strength and hope for better luck tomorrow.

However, no matter how bad a state the guild was in, he would have never agreed to what he was about to discover. That is, if Mercer had bothered asking him.

"Brynjolf."

Brynjolf stopped, hearing his friend call out to him. He looked down at the chubby, balding Breton, and grinned tiredly. "Delvin," He acknowledged, though he could tell immediately that something was amiss. "...What's the matter?"

"...Get you a pint. You're going to need it."

Brynjolf was confused at the statement, but grabbed himself a pint as bid, and sat next to the man. It wasn't like he hadn't been planning to drink, anyway. "What's this, then?"

"Mercer's doing a ransom."

"A ransom? Of someone's property?"

"No," Delvin said, "Of a girl."

Brynjolf stared at Delvin for a minute, then opened his mead and took a long drink. "I'm sorry," He said, after he finally put it down. "I must have heard you wrong."

"No. Ya didn't. She's in one of the cages out back."

Brynjolf took another drink of mead- an automatic gesture. He didn't swallow, couldn't; instead, he let the mead sit in his mouth and sour.

"I know we're in a bad way down 'ere," Delvin said, "But, this ain't right. Ain't no one's 'appy about it. And from the look you're givin me, I know you didn't agree to it, either."

Brynjolf finally swallowed, though it felt like he were forcing rocks down his throat instead of mead. "...Who...is she?" He finally asked.

"...Finish your mead."

Brynjolf downed the rest of it without hesitation.

"That lady's that he done kidnapped, is the one that just agreed to marry Ulfric Stormcloak a couple weeks back."

Brynjolf, if he had not already swallowed, would have spit his mead everywhere. "You're KIDDING," he yelled, and people turned to look at him. "Has Mercer gone mad? This is Stormcloak territory! Ulfric will kill all of us!"

"Aye," Delvin said morosely. "I'm well into the drink meself. Mercer won't listen to anyone."

Brynjolf stood up abruptly, knocking over his chair. "He'll listen to me. I know it. He has to. He has to realize what folly this is."

"I hope so," Delvin said, and returned to his drink.

Brynjolf was absolutely livid. As he walked towards the cistern, he did his best to calm down. He was an easy going guy, and not much bothered him; but this? This was an affront to their very highest priority rule as thieves. It didn't matter that they weren't killing her; this was kidnapping! Of a person. This wasn't theft of property or even a shill job. In the back of his mind, he realized that he wouldn't be so mad, except for one very important fact.

Ulfric's woman would fetch a higher price with the Imperial Army, who had more resources and more money, than Ulfric did. And likely, that was exactly what Mercer was planning. Sell her to the Imperial Army. And what would the Imperials do? Kill her! Mercer may as well have brought the blade to the woman's throat himself! What the outside world did was their business, and whether the girl would die or not was none of his concern – except for the fact that it was his organization, his lifeblood, that was playing a hand in her death.

That went against everything he believed in. Not only that, but if Ulfric found out...Gods. He didn't even want to think about it. The man's rage was legendary.

"Mercer!" Brynjolf flung open the door to the cistern and strode across the room faster than he had meant to. Sensing the incoming conflict, the few thieves occupying the room scattered, not wanting to get caught in the crossfire.

Mercer Fray looked up from what looked like a detailed plan. "What?" He snapped. "I'm busy."

"Not anymore!" Brynjolf declared, stopping just short of his desk. "What are you thinking?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Mercer said, his tone snide.

"The hell you don't! You're ransoming a woman? Not just any woman- Ulfric's woman!"

"Ah, yes. That. Yes, she was a pain in the ass. But I managed to subdue her eventually."

"That's not what I'm talking about! Do you have any idea what kind of danger you've just put us in?" Brynjolf is breathing heavily now, the alcohol only helping to fuel his temper, almost beside himself. It would be the gallows for all of them. They'd be killed, and he would never be able to see the guild restored to its full glory.

"We're thieves. We deal in danger. You know that, Brynjolf. And with the way things have been going here, we need this money. Badly."

"So, what," Brynjolf asked incredulously, "You broke into the palace and stole his woman? This is your grand plan for getting the guild back to what it was?"

"No, actually, she was sold to me."

"Sold...?" Brynjolf could hardly believe his ears, "What are we, a trafficking ring now?"

"Apparently the Jarl was planning to dismiss his steward...a just reward for years and years of faithful service, no? So the steward decided to capitalize on the opportunity and steal the bitch. He sold her to me at a fraction of the price the Empire would pay for her bounty alone."

So, he had been right. "The Empire will kill her, Mercer!"

"What do I care?"

"The thieves' guild doesn't murder!" Brynjolf slammed his hands on Mercer's desk, causing the quills, ink wells, and other miscellaneous tools to shake.

Brynjolf was getting close to Mercer's face now, and Mercer straightened up, putting more distance between them. "Brynjolf," Mercer said cooly, not an inch of fear, anger, or regret in his voice, "What the Empire does with her is no concern of ours. It's not as though we've killed her ourselves."

"It's the same thing! She would have been alive and well, and married, had we not interfered!"

"That's her problem," Mercer said cooly. "All I did was realize the potential opportunity, and take it."

Brynjolf stared at Mercer, starting to doubt everything he'd ever believed about him. This was unjust, it was wrong, it was completely against everything they'd ever done. Not only that, but, "You've put all of us in danger, Mercer. If Ulfric finds out, we are headed for public execution, without doubt. Every single one of us."

"And he won't find out unless someone tells him, now will he?" Mercer asked smugly- the look on his face resembled a dog that had just gotten a treat. He knew he was winning. "And I wonder who would do that- tell Ulfric we've captured his woman? He'd kill us all. You're right, Brynjolf."

Brynjolf bared his teeth and snarled. "You..."

"So you realize now, we don't really have a choice. After all...she's here. She's seen us, and knows us. Or if someone were to get...ambitious, and free her...she'd go running straight back to her fiance and get us all killed. So. If you'll excuse me. I'm working on the details of our fine, prosperous agreement with the Empire."

Brynjolf had always been laid-back. But in that moment, more than anything, he wanted to punch this man in the face. And it was, indeed, 'This man.' "...Who are you," He manages, the rage choking him, "And what have you done with our guild leader?"

Mercer rolled his eyes. "Desperate times, desperate measures." And he would say nothing more; returning back to his papers.

Brynjolf- realizing that even if he had anything left to say, it wouldn't have any effect- turned and stormed out. He didn't know where he was going, at first, but when he finally paid attention...he found himself in the back of the ratway, where the cages were.

He felt his heart sinking. The cages. Delvin said the woman would be here.

He almost wanted to turn and leave. He didn't want to face this person, knowing she would die, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Gods, he was just a thief! He didn't sign up for this. There was a huge different between stealing a few coins out of a noble's purse...or a family heirloom...or even doing a shill job. This was murder, plain and simple; their jobs usually involved inanimate objects. And to be honest, the recipients of a shill job generally deserved it. And they got out of jail soon enough, anyway.

But, there was a part of him, that was...insatiably curious. Ulfric had never taken a wife until now. Who could he have chosen? What would she look like? How would she act? How old was she?

It was these questions- and, something else, that he couldn't quite place- that urged him to wander the cages, as he did, peering in.

And then he saw hair that looked like fire. Bright red, thick, long, curly, untamed...the woman lay, unconscious and slightly bruised, towards the back of one of the end cages. Brynjolf stood there and stared at her. His heart almost broke at the sight of her, and the knowledge of her impending death.

Gods, he thought, She's even younger than I am.

She was a curvy thing, and that right away gave away the fact that she wasn't a Nord. She was a Breton. He could appreciate that, and admire it; it was almost exotic, given Nord women- unless they were nobles or otherwise prosperous – were generally muscular and tall. This girl was neither. She was a beautiful young thing, with a delicate face and a body more fit to bear children than to wage a war. She was absolutely nothing he had expected her to be. What of her personality? What was she like?

"So," Brynjolf remarked softly, "That's why Ulfric wanted you."

But what he hadn't realized...was that she was awake. Her eyes slowly opened, and her eyes- Gods, what a green- the color of emeralds, or a mossy stream- looked right back into his. And the look- the fire, anger, hatred, and contempt that she conveyed with a simple glance...

It was so much that he found himself stumbling back a little. "Whoa, lass," He muttered. "...I'm not your enemy."

The girl said nothing. She simply stared at him.

"...Look," He said, feeling nervous. This girl knew his face, now. Should she escape, he'd never be able to hide from anyone, once the bounty sketches of him got out. "I didn't want this. None of us did. Mercer did it behind our backs. But if I let you out...you'd rat us out. I'm sorry. There's nothing I can do." He hated this: he felt helpless. And under the power of that gaze- those eyes, that seemed to hold the entire world's worth of anger within them- he felt himself wilting. He couldn't look at her any longer, and he turned his back.

The girl said nothing, and the silence was stifling.

"...I'll bring you whatever you want. Tell me. Anything." Maybe, maybe when she escaped...she'd remember his kindness.

There was a pause, and then...she only spoke three words. "Journal and quill."

If he had to place it, he would have said her voice was a rich alto; but it was so hard to tell from three emotionless, passive words. "You got it, lass," He muttered, and left to retrieve her those things. Only two things? She wanted to keep a journal? Fine, but she'd get bored quickly. He'd bring her a couple of extra things, too. Meat. Mead. Maybe a book or two. No, he couldn't do anything to stop her fate. But at least he could keep her happy until she escaped.

That was when it hit him that he'd been wishing for her to escape. A stupid thing, really. She'd have them all killed. The only responsible thing to do, now- the only utilitarian desire- was wish for her deliverance to the Empire and immediate, painless death. But no matter how much he told himself that. No matter how much he pushed it down. No matter how many times he lied to himself about it...

….Deep down, he wanted her to escape.

Theoretically, the guild was supposed to be taking shifts guarding her. She'd been a captain in the Stormcloak army; she was crafty, and might easily outwit a tired thief. But Brynjolf found himself staying longer than he should have, just...listening.

He'd somehow gotten the foresight to get a flute. It was a small, cheap thing, easily pilfered. He had sort of pegged her for the kind of person that liked music, for some reason. And he'd been right. She had a system, now. She'd write in her journal for a few hours, then, in the afternoons, she would play the flute he had brought her.

Every time he had seen a flute...he had thought nothing of it. Just a piece of wood, no real value; not worth taking. But this girl in this cage- he realized, belatedly, that he did not even know her name – could turn that piece of wood into an instrument, a conduit of beautiful melody.

"Where'd you learn to play, lass?"

This, too, was a routine; he'd ask questions that she never answered. It irked him, really. She was such a fascinating thing. Like a caged bird, almost. Unable to fly, yet...still with enough spirit to make music.

That was their routine for the first week. The second week, he got an idea.

"My name's Brynjolf," He told her, as he was first taking his post, that day: his usual position, back against the wall by the cell. He didn't look at her if he didn't have to; it just made both of them uncomfortable. "I don't really have much of a past to tell. I'm not a captain of an army, I'm not engaged to our future High King. I'm just a simple thief, though I do like to tell myself on occasion that I have honor."

And then...she finally responded.

"I am Gaella," She said. "...Fire-Hammer. I am what you see before you."

Brynjolf did turn around to look at her at those words- the first time he had in a while. "...What I see before me?"

She meets his eyes, that green gaze steady, piercing. "Some men see only beauty," She says, "Others...see something different." And she was quiet, offering no further elaboration.

Brynjolf smirked then, understanding. To convey so much meaning, in so few words; and yet, at the same time, for that meaning to be so simple, and common. "Aye, you are beautiful, lass," He said, "But you're smart, too. And a musician."

She nodded simply, then turned her head away from him, looking at the wall.

"What...that's all the conversation I get?"

There was no answer.

Brynjolf sighed, and leaned back against the wall, searching his mind for the next exchange. It didn't come as readily as he would have thought, and soon enough, he heard her pick up that flute and play – and he forgot about everything else but the melody.

The next day, though, he had it, and as he laid against the wall in his normal position, he said,

"The first thing I ever stole was a sweet roll. I was a young lad, barely 8. I just knew that I saw it, and wanted it. I never felt bad for taking it, even when my parents caught me and disciplined me. I'd experienced what it was like to just take what I wanted. I've been hooked, ever since."

There was a pause...

"The first thing I ever wrote was my name. I've been hooked, ever since."

Brynjolf, again, couldn't help but steal a glance at her. What a fascinating response.

And so it went, like this; he started the discussion, she traded back one bit of information for every piece given. It went like that for the next week.

"My favorite color is red."

"My favorite color is purple."

"My favorite city is Riften, because it will always be my home."

"My favorite city is Daggerfall, because it is full of fools."

He raised his eyebrow, and turned to ask, "And you like fools do you?" He hadn't expected a response to that, but he got one anyway, and it was even more interesting than her original statement:

"Fools like me."

He grinned at that, and thought, "...Maybe we're not so different, lass."

But to that, he didn't get a reply.

"I am fond of the sunshine, directly after a blizzard."

"I am fond of the rain, in almost any circumstance."

"There's nothing better than a hot mead on a cold day."

"There's nothing better than the scent of flowers under the moonlight."

"Bit of a romantic, are we?"

Silence.

"My favorite book is Kolb and the Dragon." That was a little personal, but...he felt like it was a worthy trade. Every Nord boy read that book. It was a classic. Surely it wasn't that weird that he was still fond of it as a grown man. ...Was it?

"My favorite book...is any book."

So he supposed, in a way, she agreed with him about it. He relaxed, feeling as though he was able to place a little trust in Gaella.

"My dream is to be rich beyond my wildest imagination."

"...My dream..."

Brynjolf couldn't keep himself from turning around, and meeting her eyes, when she hesitated. She'd been honest, so far. Hopefully...she wasn't planning on lying now.

Her eyes meet his with the same breathtaking intensity as always. "...My dream...is to be free."

That floored him. It didn't make any sense. Freedom? Her dream was freedom, as the future High Queen?

Oh. Maybe she meant from this cage. "I'm working on it, lass," He said, and laid back against the wall.

"Liar," She called out softly.

"...Aye," Brynjolf admitted, begrudgingly. "...Truth is, lass: you're fascinating. I don't want to let you go just yet."

Gaella felt a blush rise to her cheeks, and she tried to hurriedly rub it away. She set her lip, obstinately, and tried to ignore the thoughts racing across her mind. This...fascinating, handsome, honorable thief, found her...not beautiful. Not strong. But fascinating.

"...That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me in a very long time," She said softly.

Brynjolf waves a hand. "Don't be charmed, now. I'm a thief, but I'm not in the business of stealing other men's fiances. Too dangerous."

Brynjolf heard her growling softly, and winced.

"You're not my type," She snapped, defensively.

"You're right," He said, though he felt a little sad saying it, "Why would you need another man when you've got the High King?"

There was silence, then. And, much to Brynjolf's detriment...she didn't play her flute that night.

"I love the smell of leather."

"I love the smell of freshly cooked venison."

"I am most skilled with daggers."

"I am most skilled with magic."

Well, that was interesting. Not only a Breton, but also a mage. And Ulfric wanted her? This situation just became weirder and weirder.

Which begged the question he'd always wanted to ask her, but never had the courage to. He couldn't help it from slipping from his lips, just then; it was like trying to keep your grip on a freshly washed floor when you were wearing only socks. You could feel yourself slipping, but there was no way to stop it.

"Why did you agree to marry Ulfric?" He turned completely to face her then, standing in front of the cage- fists clenched in anticipation. He awaited her silence, the thing about her he was most familiar with...what he didn't anticipate, however, was the way she drew in on herself almost subconsciously. And the most shocking thing of all...was her answer.

"I didn't," She said, and her voice sounded broken. "I said no."

A wave of realization crashed over him. "...No?" He repeated, breathlessly, and put his hands on the bars, then, wishing he could get closer. Wished he could hear her better- so he could trust his ears/ "You said no? But...the news. The couriers sent to all of the Jarls. The..."

"The Steward that kidnapped me is the one who heard me say no. His loyalty was so great to Ulfric that he made it impossible for me to decline. All the holds think we are to wed."

"Why is it impossible?" Brynjolf asked, completely baffled. Surely, if she hadn't said yes in the first place, she could just tell everyone it was the Steward who lied; or, "Just tell everyone you changed your mind."

She looked up to meet him then, and smiled a sad smile. "What kind of woman can't keep a promise to her High King?...the people would call for my execution."

As much as Brynjolf wanted to dispute her, he knew she was right. There were sick people out there with nothing better to do than twist stories, make up lies, and ruin other people's lives: most commonly, they were known as politicians. "He wouldn't kill you, would he?"

"No, but he would lose faith from his people. When Ulfric wins, he needs everyone to believe in him. He can't afford having instability and uncertainty. If too many people disagree with his decisions, it could spark another civil war. More blood. More pain. More death."

"That's his problem...!" Brynjolf was even more confused now, and he hadn't even realized that that was possible. "Why don't you do what you want to do, and let Ulfric worry about Ulfric?"

Gaella tore her gaze away from Brynjolf, and placed it upon the wall, instead. "I care about him, thief," She murmurs. "I don't want to marry him, but I care about him. I owe him my life."

"Your life?...Don't you think you've already paid him back for that by rising through the ranks in his army? I heard that they took Whiterun and Markarth while you were serving."

"He gave me a reason to live when I had none," She said, "And for that, I will always be grateful. If I have the ability to spare him harm, I will."

"But...you don't want to marry him."

"No."

Brynjolf looked at the girl then- really looked at her. She was so young, but she looked much like she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders. He suspected that if he had met her under normal circumstances, he would have assumed she was much older than she actually was. This girl...was willing to marry a man she did not love, to set foot into a life she didn't have an interest in...she was willing to kill off her own dreams...for the sake of doing the right thing. For someone else.

"...Who...are you?" He asked. "Where in Oblivion did you come from?"

There was a pause, before she replied, "I am the fairy tale princess without a prince; I am the lost and forsaken maiden for whom no knight ever came. I do what is right because no one else can be expected to."

"That's pretty and all, but it doesn't actually answer my question."

She smirks, almost seeming to be amused. And no matter how much he prodded her with questions after that, she would no longer speak.

...It was then that he realized that he had to help her.

"I'll make you a deal," He finally said, the next day. "I'll get you out of here, if you swear not to come after us. Don't tell your fiance. If you even go back to him. What you do once I get you out of Riften is completely up to you."

She looked up at him, disbelief shining on her face like a beacon.

"Yes, I'm serious, lass. I've got something to do today, but tomorrow. I'll come for you. If you agree to my terms."

She nodded once, quickly.

"Good. Then, see you tomorrow." Brynjolf smiled at her then, a true, genuine smile. He felt good; he had finally figured out a way to make everyone a winner. He'd get the girl out of here and onto a life she actually wanted, and not only that, he'd keep the guild safe. He saw the blush come across the girl's cheeks, and couldn't help but derive satisfaction from that, too. He waved, and then walked out to complete his task for that day.

Little had he known...that Mercer Frey had long ago grown suspicious of him. Mercer stepped from the shadows several minutes later, looking down at the red-haired woman, caged before him. He had not come this far, in all of his plans, to be thwarted now. No. He would get rid of this girl, and then he would kill Brynjolf for his defiance.

He drew the cage key out of his pocket, and said, "Good news, Princess. Brynjolf told me of his proposal, and I've agreed to it. Sincerest apologies for all this, but surely, you understand. Being a thief is only one step under being a bounty hunter, after all." He unlocked the cage door. "But, as Brynjolf said. It's better to just let you go now. And really..."

He watched the girl stand up, shakily, leaving her journal and flute behind her. He watched the girl walking towards him, and put his hand on his sword, just in case...

"...And really, isn't this just the right thing to do?"

She didn't seem like she would attack him, and so he tentatively moved his hand off the hilt of his sword.

When she was close enough, he stepped forward and covered her mouth. He took his other hand, placed it on the side of her head, and slammed her head against the wall, knocking her out so swiftly she didn't have time to realize what was happening.

"...After all. There are places I can pawn you quicker, and for better price than the Empire's been offering me."

Mercer Frey considered himself a musician of words. And so when Brynjolf couldn't find his precious little caged bird, Mercer blamed it on Karliah.

"I told you. She's a bitch, but she's a damn good bitch. What better way to get revenge for us thwarting her plan with Maven than to get rid of our latest, and most profitable, business transaction? Luckily for you, I know where she is. If we leave now, we might even be able to catch the Princess with her, before Karliah kills the poor girl."

Yes, indeed. A musician of words. And this entire performance, starting from the moment he had decided to kill Gallus, was his symphony.

Karliah took Brynjolf out with an arrow- just as he had known she would (that was the real reason, of course, that he'd made Brynjolf go first). And, she had fled when he'd come to kill her, just as he thought she might. Fickle, but predictable, bitch.

He decided to make sure that Brynjolf was really dead. Even though he certainly looked as such, and wasn't moving, it would be better to err on the side of safety. Mercer approached him.

Good thing he checked. "Only paralyzed?" He asked with contempt- he could still see Brynjolf's eyes moving. "Better fix that. Oh, poor Brynjolf. You're going to die here, after all that effort, and you didn't even get to save the Princess. Sorry! Actually...no. I'm really not."

The look of realization, and unfathomable hatred in Brynjolf's eyes, was delicious.

Mercer savored it a moment, before delivering the killing blow and leaving him there to die.

Yes. His symphony. And the grand finale, would be the moment in which he would finally kill Karliah.