.

KELJARN

Stolen Vengeance

City of Riften

That bitch of an assassin matron had better not lied. He'd been bluffing, of sorts, about a scryer, because he didn't know what exactly those people could and could not do, so he hadn't been certain about whether or not he'd be able to find their rotten lot if he had to, but the woman had believed it, and that was enough.

'From a mother's heart'. Did this mean the murdering trollop had sent her own daughter out to kill his friends? Or was it just a figure of speech? Keljarn assumed the second, but you never knew with these inbred Daedra-worshipping maniacs. It didn't matter, she'd die regardless. 'Find it in your heart to let her live', what a ridiculous plea coming from a sneaky, murdering coward. No, she wasn't going to live. And she wasn't going to die quickly, either. She was going to die awake and aware, living it consciously until the end. And she'd know why too. She'd be fully aware of the pain, and of the reason for it. Not that he'd enjoy it, quite the opposite. He'd do it because it simply had to be done.

Brown hair, ponytail, fringe. He hadn't seen anyone that corresponded to the description yet, but it was still early in the day, and despite the grimness of the task at hand, he treasured the moments he had to just sit on the bench, eat an apple in the sun, and observe the bustle of the market.

Would he be able to hurt someone, knowing it was a sixteen-year-old girl? He knew that in theory, gender and age shouldn't matter, after all no gender or age had the monopoly on immorality, but it'd be a serious mental hurdle he'd have to get over. He both anticipated and dreaded the task. No, not the task. The duty.

He thought again of Ria, telling him she was supposed to do great things. She had been. And these murderers had taken that chance away from her. No one knew her name, or what she could have been. She was just a dead Companions hopeful, in the world's eyes. Just someone who 'hadn't made the cut'.

This infuriated him most of all. Kodlak had been a figure of great renown, but Ria and Njada had died without ever getting the chance to prove their worths. The thing they wanted most, to do good in the world, had been taken away from them.

And, perhaps, from him too. He hated himself after what he'd done to the assassin matron. It had been what she deserved, no question, but goodness was about more than deserving. Just because someone deserves something doesn't make you a good person if you give it to them. Sometimes, even the exact opposite.

Was it the werewolf blood? Perhaps Hircine's gift came with its own, darker changes. Perhaps it changed a man, both inside and out. If he hadn't been a werewolf, would he have gone to such lengths – such depths – to get the woman to spill the beans? Maybe not. Maybe he would have found another way, a more reasonable way.

No, he thought to himself. It was too easy to blame it on the beast blood. It was just a way to justify what he'd done, and the greatest evildoers weren't the ones that committed evil acts, but those who tried to justify them. No, he needed to own up to this and accept that what he'd done had been terrible.

Nine, what had he been thinking? Making rape threats, first to the bitch, then about every woman and child in their lair. Did the end really justify the means? There was no denying that some, if not all, of those assassins deserved to be stripped of all their self-worth and then of their lives, but sometimes those who give people what they deserve are as bad as those deserving. He'd have to atone somehow. Or maybe he was already atoning by feeling bad.

And feeling bad or no, it would have to wait after he'd given that little assassin mongrel her just desserts. Because about this, he couldn't have any doubts. He couldn't permit himself to have any.

He tossed the core of his apple into the water, getting a childish satisfaction from the splashing noise it made. He had a hankering for another one, or perhaps something a bit heartier. Some dried meat, perhaps, salted and smoked. Yes, that would be nice.

He rose and decided to push the feelings of guilt and self-loathing deep down. He'd deal with them after all this was over. First things first. That meant he deserved a treat. And in this case, it was a good thing to give a man what he deserved.

But there would be no treats, not right now. Unless you counted the call of duty as one. Walking past, only a few metres from him, was a teenage girl with darkened leather armour, daggers at her belt, a straight-cut fringe over her forehead, and a brown ponytail, bobbing up and down as she walked.

It was her. He knew it right away, and at the sight of her, his heart leapt. He'd found the killer of his Companions, saw her with his own eyes. She wouldn't get away. Part of him wanted to walk up to her right then and there, swinging his axe and tearing open the abdomen of her leather armour, so he could watch her die holding her own stinking, steaming guts, but he knew he wouldn't survive her for very long with all these guards frowning at the crowd through the holes in their helmets.

No, he had to follow her. The good thing about all this was that she had no idea who he was, or that he was looking for her. So he could basically just walk after her, in the open, as long as he didn't act too suspiciously.

Siari, her name was. Couldn't speak. Didn't have a tongue. Would make her easy to identify even if the obvious get-up didn't give it away. These rats knew people would leave them alone, so they flaunted their affiliation openly. But he wasn't some nobody, he was a Companion, a chosen of Hircine, and he wasn't afraid of some backstabbing sneak. Let these little people cower in their homes, let these lazy guards whisper in their barracks. Perhaps if more people stood up to this scum, then there'd be no people stabbed in the dead of night, no bodies in the street, left to find at dawn.

If more people were like him.

He followed her as closely as he dared, and saw another person gesturing at her, one of the obvious thieves, dressed in brown leather. He knew there was an active Guild in this city, but he didn't know they were so stupid as to walk around with their stealing get-up on. Because while the guards didn't move against those Brotherhood bastards, they sure did collar every thief they caught in the act, and strutting around with this kind of gear on made sure they had their eye on you all the time. She might as well be wearing a big sign that said, THIEF HERE.

The other was a rather sullen-looking Redguard girl, and the assassin's body language spoke volumes. She wasn't happy being hailed by this conspicuous moron. But it made Keljarn more than happy. The more bumbling fools she surrounded herself with, the easier it would be to track her.

The two young women, Stupid Girl and Rotten Girl, walked away from the market, past the smithy, and to the graveyard. He supposed it was fitting to lead her there. In more ways than one.

He kept following, watching Stupid Girl lead Rotten Girl to a mausoleum, a little structure small enough for them to notice him if he followed them inside, so he just kneeled by a random grave and kept his eye on the stone building. Nothing happened for a while, and he began to doubt that maybe this mausoleum hid an underground passage and they'd gone down it, leaving him without any chance of picking up their trail again.

He was going to lose her if he remained here… or would make a huge mistake by walking in on them when they were still in there? His gut contracted with worry, and indecision began to take hold of him, making him nervous and doubtful. If there was a passage of some sort, they'd be gone. If there wasn't, he'd blow the whole thing. Nine damn it, what to do?

He gnawed at his lower lip, his eyes on the mausoleum. Move now, or wait? Damn it, damn it.

He had to move. They'd been there too long. Nine damn it, he'd lost her. Shit in his boots, he'd lost her! Damn, damn, damn!

He got up and ran to the mausoleum, grabbing hold of the doorway to turn inside, and smacked right into Stupid Girl, sending her flat on her ass, onto the sarcophagus.

"Where is she?"

The girl only raised her arm in front of her terrified face.

"Where?"

"Sh… she…"

This was taking too long. He reached down and grabbed a fistful of the girl's frizzy black hair, pulling her up to her feet as she yelped from the pain. With the other hand, he drew his serrated dagger and held it to her throat. "Listen to me. You don't make a noise," he growled at her, "and you're going to show me where the other bitch went. I've got no beef with you or your stupid Guild, but if you don't do as I say," he pulled the girl closer and hissed in her ear, "I'm sawing your head off, slowly and painfully, is that clear?"

The girl's head went up and down.

"Good. Where did she go?"

She pointed at the sarcophagus. "D… duh… down… in the…"

"How? Open it!"

"B… but…"

He pushed the knife harder against her throat. "I said, open it!"

When she bent down, his knife still at her throat, Keljarn realized again that he was overdoing it with the threats. This girl was scared enough without being told she'd be slowly beheaded. She pushed a diamond-shaped mark and turned it a quarter, and with the sound of stone grating on stone, the sarcophagus lid slid back to reveal a ladder leading down.

Well, well. Seemed he'd found the headquarters of the Thieves' Guild.

But before he went down, he had something important to say. "Listen," he told the thief. "I need you to lead me to where she is. Then I promise you can leave. Just lead me there and you can go."

"A… alright," she croaked, knowing full well it was too late now anyway and that she might as well obey her captor until he set her free.

Descending the ladder was an ordeal, but thankfully, the girl didn't need the knife to be kept at her throat constantly. She was a bit dumb, and easily intimidated, so she'd be completely docile.

Still, when they were at the foot of the ladder, he set the tip of his dagger against her back, just to remind her who was in charge.

"Walk."

Her head hanging, the girl started shuffling forward, down the corridor, and opened a door, that led to some kind of underground tavern, a large cistern repurposed as a residence for more than a few people. There was a bar, several tables, a few storage crates, and even alcoves made for sleeping. A target for archery practice, dummies to practice pickpocketing on, the lot. The place was abandoned and smelled like watered-down shit, but they'd made it quite homely, if he had to be honest. Still, he wasn't here to admire the sights.

"Keep moving."

The girl did as she was told, leading him through the abandoned underground tavern, and to the door on the far side. She slowly opened it, and there she was.

Oh, this couldn't have been any better. He'd never hoped for this. Not in his wildest dreams. No way to escape, no way to hide. It was like she was given to him on a silver platter.

She sat there, with two Guild cronies apparently interrogating her, or something, or whatever, in a chair, her wrists in irons.

He probably wasn't the first to go after her, assassins make a lot of enemies, but there would be no escape for her. Not this time.

The Guild boys were talking to each other, one Breton with a shaved head, and one Dunmer with short hair standing up. It didn't matter what they were doing or why, he just had to make sure of one thing before he let them go about his business.

"Hello," he said, making sure he sounded casual enough. "Mind if I take this little bitch with me when you're done?"

All heads turned to him, standing there with his knife still at the Redguard girl's back. It was the first time his mark actually saw him. Looked him in the eye. He saw no recognition on her face, just trepidation. Good. It'd make it all the sweeter to drop the anvil on her.

"An 'oo the fuck're you then, twatwaffle?" the Breton barked. "You fuckin' bonkers, mate, forcin' your way in 'ere?"

Hm, that was a hostile reaction. He figured it was only normal. After all these thieves didn't know who he was and what he wanted. All they saw was some guy they didn't know, forcing one of their own at daggerpoint to let him in. So he stayed calm and said, "I don't give a shit what you want with this little murdering rat." He had to make it clear that his demand was non-negotiable though. "All I'm telling you, and I'm not asking, is that when you're done with her, she comes with me. Alive, and still aware of her surroundings." It was alright if she was injured or otherwise impaired, as long as she was lucid enough to realize what he would do to her and why. He once again looked briefly in her brown eyes, wide with fear, and savoured the sight of this pretty girl with the ugly heart, her face so terrified. She'd apparently taken a blow to the face, her cheek swelling.

The thieves didn't seem inclined to be cooperative, the Dunmer snorting, "As if we're going to just hand her over to some half-baked snow-eater we don't know. Turn around and walk away while you still can, fur frotter."

"Look," Keljarn said, ignoring the slurs. "I've got some very personal things to discuss with this little backstabber. Nothing that concerns you." And just to show that he wasn't looking for a fight, he willingly gave up his advantage of having the Redguard girl hostage, and took his dagger off her back, giving her a firm push. "You go ahead and... do whatever it is you want to do to her, all I'm saying is, turn her over to me when you're done or else."

The response was predictable, but deplorable. As if he was some random nobody off the streets, his demand was met with disdain. "Look at that," the Breton said with a chuckle. "This dunghead comes to threaten us in our own 'ome. In't that adorable."

Meanwhile, the Dunmer motioned towards Keljarn's erstwhile hostage. "Out." The girl did as she was told, but as she brushed by him, Keljarn stuck a small purse of gold in her pouch. If he wanted to become a better person and atone, he should start today.

Maybe these two would respond to a less coercive approach. "You're right," Keljarn said, trying something else. "That wasn't very courteous of me. Let me rephrase. My business with her is completely separate from yours. And I'd sincerely appreciate it if, when your business is concluded, you let me take her with me. None of it will come back on you, I guarantee it."

He noticed an exchange of glances between the Dunmer and the soon-to-be-dead sack of guts and blood in the chair, and they both looked suitably puzzled, although, when the mer looked back at him, Keljarn fancied he could see him struggling, as if he was trying to remember him.

And at that moment, Keljarn he realized he should remember the mer too. But from where? He'd seen that face before. Damn it, where?

"Well mate," the Breton went on, his face devoid of any attempt at reminiscence. "Your business with her isn't our business either. An' that's why we feel no need to 'elp you. So bugger off to wherever you came from an' we won't rob you, your family, an' your little dog blind over the comin' months." With a nudge of his chin at Keljarn's axe, he continued, "an' don't think that axe scares us. We're thieves, an' you're on our turf. We know this place like the back of our 'ands. You'd blunder into ten traps before you'd even get close to us."

Threatening him was a bad idea, but Keljarn decided to err on the side of caution for now, and again appealed to their reason, his eyes unable to stay off the captured girl for long. Her flesh would feel so soft when he cut it.

"Like I said," he tried again. "We got off on the wrong foot due to my overeagerness, but I'm not here for violence. I'm asking for a favour." He repeated his claims, to once again impress on them how little he was asking, pointing his dagger at her. "Her. That's all I ask. Doesn't cost you a thing, doesn't take any effort. All you have to do is let me take her with me after you're done." Talos' sake, you two, quit being such sticks-in-the-mud. He had half a mind to leap at them and chop them in half, but on the other hand, they weren't the ones who'd murdered his friends.

"An' I'm tellin' you that ain't happenin'."

Stubborn bastards. Perhaps trying to confront them with the inevitability of the final outcome would work, in a more physical way. So he slowly came forward, sheathing his knife and showing his empty hands to show he wasn't here for violence – at least not the heated kind. He knew full well the thieves were too far to stop him, and that keeping their distance would be the wisest course of action for them. "I just want to talk, is all," he repeated with a broad smile. "Look, how 'bout I help you with your interrogation? Because that's clearly what you're doing." His heart began to speed up. He was so close he could smell her. Her sweat, her anxiety, her anger. She would smell of so much more by the time he was done with her, by the time she was done paying for Ria and Njada and Kodlak. He saw her give the Dunmer a scared glance. Oh, no, little girl, they can't help you now.

The thieves had decided to risk it, and come closer, until they all found themselves around the chair. "I'm sure we don't need your 'elp, mate," the bald guy said. It didn't matter what they needed, or what they wanted. Keljarn would help them regardless. He remembered Ria, dying in his arms, her last words so honest and useless. Remembered Njada lying splayed on the bed in her night clothes, blood pooling in her navel. Remembered Kodlak, dead in his room, which he had turned into a complete shambles by defending himself to the last… how had this little wisp of a girl managed to overpower him? She'd taken the others by surprise, true, but Kodlak?

Then he got the image of Aela in his mind, and knew that if the dice had fallen differently, it could have been her dying in his arms, coughing up blood and saying her last words, equally honest and equally useless.

The little vermin would pay.

"Please, allow me," he said, keeping a relaxed and friendly face, but burning up in grief and anger behind it. "So, little throatcutter," he said, kneeling next to the assassin. Now he was close enough to see every hair in her eyebrows, every fold in her lips, every capillary in her sclera. She tried to pull away from him, breathing hard and terrified through her nose, but there was nowhere to go. "You don't look like I'd imagined," he told her, but made sure he said quickly enough, "Not that that will make me think twice." It was time to tell her just who he was and why he'd pursued her. "And you probably don't know who I am, do you?"

Of course she didn't, and she couldn't say so either, from what Keljarn had heard. On the one hand, it was a good thing he wouldn't have to listen to her desperate denial and tearful pleading, but on the other hand… he wished he could have.

It was time.

"I've been looking for you, though." Oh how he longed to see the recognition on her face, and see it change to utter terror. "Came all the way from Jorrvaskr to find you."

And then it happened. That moment he'd been waiting for. That brief flash of remembrance, and then the mask of naked, unhidden panic setting in, the fear taking over her entire body, the realization that what he would do to her would be the most terrifying thing she could ever imagine. The payment for her crimes, the misdeeds she thought she'd keep getting away with. The confrontation with the knowledge that now, in this moment, after so long, it… was… all…

… over.

"That turns you white, doesn't it?" he snarled at her, feeling the euphoria take hold. "You know what happened at Jorrvaskr, don't you? What you did?" Everything, the entire world, had shrunk to both of them, nothing around them, only she and him, her face drawn with terror, cold sweat breaking out on her skin. He lived them moment so intensely that he could literally see the droplets of sweat being pushed out of the pores on her forehead, between the messy strands of her fringe. And then came the tears, big drops of clear liquid first standing on her lower eyelids, then streaking down across her cheeks.

That's it, you little rat. Feel what they felt. Know that you're about to die, very slowly and very painfully.

He didn't even hear the one thief say to the other, "this is messed up, mate."

No, she'd have to drink the chalice to the bottom. "Their names were Njada, Ria and Kodlak," Keljarn growled at her, his anger growing even more, until he had to restrain himself from strangling her with his bare hands, pushing his thumb through her eye sockets until they burst and his fingernails dug into her soft, warm brain, the little vermin dying blind and in horrible agony as she felt his fingers pulp the soft brain tissue, her cerebral and bodily functions falling away one by one. But no, she would experience it all until the end.

"Njada was difficult and petty, but that was because she felt ignored and passed over," he said between clenched teeth. "Kodlak was a wise, proud man who tried his best, all his life, to keep the Companions honourable, and on the path of right. And Ria..." Nine, poor Ria. "Ria was a kind, hard-working jewel of a girl, who was going to do great things..." His lower lip trembled in both hatred and sorrow, and he said to the rat, "You've taken all that away from them, but I want you to know who they were. People, not just names on a list. And they bled to death, or got stabbed through the heart just because you thought it was just a job."

"Mate," he heard the Breton say. "I dunno what 'appened at Jorrvaskr, but you clearly aren't thinkin' straight now. How 'bout we all take a second to calm down an' clear all this up, yeah?"

"I don't need a second," Keljarn grunted at the thief. He might as well not have been there. All he cared about was the little maggot in the chair. "You murdered my friends, innocent people, you dirty shit stain, and I'm going to make you remember it for the rest of your short, pain-filled life." From his kneeling position, he looked up at the two thieves. "You're interrogating her, right?"

"Yes," Falnas said, "but - "

"Let me give you a hand," he said to them, only vaguely aware that his cheer made him sound like a man who'd lost his mind.

It was time. Time to start. Those thieves wouldn't stop him. If they really decided to defend this pathetic little thing, then he would deal with them, but if not, they could always look on.

He took out his knife again, and set the tip in the wood, right by the little rat's left hand. He took hold of her fingers – he was actually touching her, she was his, she'd never get away now! – and pressed her little finger against the wood, next to the tip of the knife. Even his knife was hungry for her blood.

For Ria.

He pushed the handle down, and the cutting edge of the blade touched the girl's flesh, then went through it, first drawing blood, and then crunching through the bone, Keljarn feeling the vibrations in his hand as the iron cracked and snapped the fragile finger, then cut through the last strip of skin and left the digit lying on the wood, blood from the stump spraying over it as she screamed and shrieked, kicking her feet and banging her head against the back of the chair. The shrieks were hysterical, loud and terrified, and as her mouth hung wide open, Keljarn could see the sickening, disgusting little nub of soft, pink flesh that had once been her tongue, sitting in the red cavern of her throat.

The next moment, the unmistakable sour, sharp smell of urine entered his nostrils, and he saw a dark, warm stain spreading on her breeches, hot piss running down her legs.

That's it, little cunt. Take it all. All the pain, all the fear, all the shame. You deserve every bit of it and more.

He took hold of the little finger, now a dead, still-warm piece of meat, slick with blood, but before he could take off another one, the bald bastard gave him a hard shove, shouting, "What the fuck, mate? You lost your fuckin' mind? This isn't a fuckin' torture chamber!"

It was a hard shove, and still kneeling, Keljarn lost his balance and had to stumble back to his feet. Ignoring the thief, he held up the finger, making sure she got a good look at it, the dead, severed chunk of flesh. She was still mewling in pain as he yelled, "See this? This is only the beginning."

The finger felt no more pain, and he sent it where the rest of her body would end up when he was done, sending it flying through the air into the shit water surrounding them. Hatred and the sweetness of vengeance being fulfilled took hold of him when he saw her eyes, following the dead chunk of her as it went through the air and sent up a little splash, sinking down into the slop that the people of Riften pushed out of their assholes. And the wail of pure grief she let out when the finger went down drove him even more mad with terrible satisfaction.

"You're fuckin' mad's what you are," the bald thief continued to yell at him, Keljarn not even registering his presence. He made to shoulder past him, but the Breton didn't budge. He was starting to get on Keljarn's nerves. Again he made to push past him, but still the bastard didn't budge.

"You're done," he shouted at Keljarn, his nose only inches from his, even though Keljarn was a head taller. "You're gonna fuckin' turn an' leave. Whatever the fuck you want with 'er, it's done."

Keljarn grabbed the thief by the collar with one hand. He only needed one to send the obstinate fool out of his way and into the water.

"Try it, you crazy bastard. Go on, do whatever you want, but you're not layin' one more finger on that girl."

Oh, but he was just getting started. His fingers gripped the collar of the thief more tightly.

But it wasn't the bald guy that went into the water.

Keljarn felt his jaw go slack when he saw the girl leap out of her chair, propelling herself forward and diving into the water in a leap so far it wasn't humanly possible.

No.

No!

NO!

Then he saw the Dunmer kneeling by the chair. What had he done? What had he done?!

His eyes went from the ripples in the water back to the kneeling mer, rage overtaking him. "What did you do?" he heard himself shout. "What did you do?!"

"What you were doing is wrong, man," the Dunmer said, standing up to face him. "You were going to – "

No! No! No! He refused to give up. Not even letting the bastard finish, he leapt off the walkway, diving into the filthy water, after the assassin, the cold water making his lungs feel like they would collapse. He opened his eyes, despite the terrible putrescence of the water, but saw only brown. He kicked his feet, pushing himself forward, clawing the water with his hands, hoping to feel something, a foot, an ankle, a piece of fabric, anything he could grab hold of. Nine damn it, no, no, no!

His hands swept through the water, and there it was! Leather! His fingers closed around it as he heard himself let out an underwater cry of triumph, air bubbles brushing past his face. He pulled, and the ankle he was holding came closer.

You're not going anywhere, little bitch.

Another pull, and he reeled her in even closer. His lungs were about to burst, but it didn't matter. He would drown before he –

Pain exploded in his face as something hit him so hard in the nose he felt the cartilage break, and reflexively, his fingers opened, the boot slipping out from between them. For that one brief moment, the world was only pain, then he clawed once again at nothing but water. All the air had been kicked from his lungs, and his body did not allow him to stay under longer. And despite how hard he tried, his legs kicked him upwards. He broke the surface of the water, took a lungful of air, and went down again, knowing it would be useless. She'd gotten away. She was gone! Nine damn it she was gone!

He stayed under a while longer, fruitlessly snatching at the water, but it was futile.

She was gone. She was gone, she was gone, she was gone!

Again his head came above water, and for a few seconds, he could do nothing but roar in rage, pounding his fists on the surface of the water, bellowing out all the anger, all the frustration, all the hate, all the failure. Again and again his fists came down, sending the shit water splashing up, until finally, he had indulged in his rage long enough and he just hung in the water, panting with his eyes screwed shut.

"Hey, friend. How 'bout you come out of that slop? Come on, we've got a fire you can dry yourself by."

He opened his eyes and saw the two thieves, still standing there.

Briefly, the urge to haul himself up the ledge, shift and then tear them apart arose in him, but he no longer had any rage left to take out his frustrations on other people.

"She's gone, mate," the bald guy said flatly. "Come on." He held out his hand. "I've got no idea what the bloody blazes got into you, but whatever it was, it's over now, yeah?"

"While you dry up by the fire," the Dunmer said, "you can explain what on Red Mountain just happened."

The fight was out of him, the rage making place for the utter emptiness of defeat. He was no longer too proud to accept the offer these two made. Letting himself flop to the ledge, he grabbed hold of their hands and let them pull him out.

"We'll even arrange a new set o' clothes for you, 'ow 'bout that."

Whatever. She was gone.

He followed them to their tavern-type place, and after a few minutes, found himself in his undergarments, wrapped in a blanket by the fire, a steaming bowl of broth in his hands.

"So," the Dunmer said, sitting down next to him. "I saw something in your eyes back there. Something that made me realize you're not some crazy butcher. Care to tell me about what happened at Jorrvaskr? I'm Falnas by the way."

"Keljarn. It's simple," Keljarn simply said, blowing on the steaming broth. "That girl sneaked into the hall, and murdered three innocent people. Good people. Two young initiates who never did anything wrong to anyone. And our leader."

"Yeah," the Dunmer said with a nod. "I heard some nasty things went down at Jorrvaskr. That your leader died. I remember you now, you were looking for someone that night. But… I didn't know about the two Initiates. Must have been hard."

He let his eyes go to the thief, of course, that's where he remembered him from, and then back to the broth. "You don't know the half of it. One of them, she…" tears welled up in his eyes, and he no longer had the energy to be too proud to let them fall. "… died in my arms. Assassinated for no reason. Just because she happened to be there. She was…" he looked back at the Dunmer, "… special, mer. Just… special."

"I understand you were close," the elf said, nodding. "I've seen it once before, you know, eyes like yours."

Keljarn looked up at him again. Maybe this mer understood more than he'd thought at first.

"Guy who lost his entire family to an arsonist. He had eyes like you had just now. Of a good man driven mad by grief."

"I'm not mad," Keljarn said flatly.

"You were then. I can't begin to understand your pain, friend, but what you did back there… that was a madman's work."

He was right. There was no point trying to deny it. He took a sip of the broth, but the salty liquid burned his lips and tongue. His nose pounded with pain. He'd tried to feel how it was, but one touch on the crushed mess had made him wince in so much pain, he knew not to do it again. The Dunmer had asked the bald guy to go fetch a certain someone, telling him she'd take care of his nose.

"I don't know if you want my advice," the Dunmer said, ladling himself a bowl full of chicken broth, "but I'm going to give it anyway."

"I'm not going anywhere for the time being," Keljarn said with a shrug. He didn't care much for the mer's advice, but he'd humour him.

"Good. Here's what I think. What happened to your friends was awful, I can't even begin to imagine, but… would they want you to give up your humanity to avenge them?"

Despite himself, Keljarn realized it was a good question. He'd already given away part of his humanity to Hircine, and perhaps he really needed to keep what was left. Because none of his dead Companions would have wanted him to turn into a monster to avenge them.

"What you were doing," the dark elf continued, "wasn't justice, even though it probably felt that way. It wasn't even vengeance. It was… complete abandonment. Surrender to the darkest side of what we are, man and mer. And if you'd carried on with this, then how would you differ from your victim?"

"It would have been righteous," Keljarn said, knowing full well he was lying to himself.

"You don't believe that," Falnas shook his head. "I know you don't. Part of you knows the truth. That what you were doing there was pure indulgence. Letting your thirst for vengeance turn you into something… inhuman."

"So what," Keljarn grunted. "I should just let her go?"

The Dunmer blew on the broth, sending steam swirling up. "Not what I said. But you should exact justice, not vengeance, and certainly not pure brutality. Think of it this way," he said, cocking his head at Falnas. "Imagine you went all the way with what you did. That we hadn't stopped you. Siari would be lying in bloody chunks, and sure, you'd feel satisfaction at that moment."

"Yes. Your point?"

The mer was unperturbed. "Let me finish. But after a while, you'd start to realize. Siari doesn't feel any pain anymore. She'd be long released. And your friends would still be dead. And what would be left? Just you. You and the realization of the horrible things you've done. All the rest, all the others, dead and gone. And you, alone with the guilt, the self-hate, the pain. And for what? For a few fleeting moments of sadistic revenge."

The mer was right. The Nine-damned son of a bitch was right.

"Because in the end, man, all you can ask yourself is, 'did I do the right thing?'. Not what others did, not what happened to others, but what you did. And whether or not it was right. And when you come to the time when only that question matters, don't let your only answers be excuses and denial."

Keljarn had nothing to say to that. Nothing at all. Here he was, being schooled by a lowly thief. Shame came over him when he realized the mer was right about everything. It was hard to admit, but… "You're right. I… think you saved both her and me back there."

The Dunmer gave him a friendly smile and briefly put his hand on Keljarn's shoulder. "Glad to hear it. So what now?"

Even though he had an entirely new outlook on the situation now, one thing hadn't changed. "I'll still pursue her. Catch her, bring her to justice, maybe kill her." No, not maybe. "Probably kill her. But not… no more of the hurting. You're right, I won't make my fallen Companions proud by becoming a torturer."

"I'm hoping you'll be able to let her stand trial, but yes," the mer admitted, "it'd probably be the same as killing her. Her kind end up on the end of a rope eventually."

Keljarn managed a lopsided grin. "A bit like your kind, then?"

With a chuckle, the mer answered, "The guard's so used to us now, that when they catch one of us, they just roll their eyes and chuck him in jail for a week or two." His face darkened. "Although lately, with all the problems, we'll be lying low for a while."

"'Ere she is, mate. Get yer nose fixed in no time, yeah?"

The Breton had returned, and with him, an Elven woman in robes and a cowl.

"This 'ere's Galathil," the Breton said. "She'll help with that broken nose. Give you an entirely new face if you want," he chuckled, the Dunmer laughing with him, and explaining, "Some people believe Galathil can change your face entirely. Which is, of course, completely silly."

The nose-rearranging was a painful and uncomfortable, but thorough affair, with heavy use of magic involved, much more than the healing cantrips Keljarn had at his disposal.

As he sat there, getting his broken nose more or less set, Keljarn thought over the words the thief had said to him.

Siari hadn't been the only one who'd been saved.