Chapter Three

Perception

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Autumn had turned to winter in Riften, and Brynjolf noticed a light dusting of snow covering the rooftops as he made his way through the town square. The snow never stuck for too long, though. The Rift maintained a relatively temperate climate compared to most of Skyrim, and Brynjolf thanked the Gods for that. Although a Nord, he'd never been a big fan of the bitter winters that plagued the rest of the province.

He did, however, appreciate the earlier setting of the sun in the colder months—the darkness was the perfect cover for implementing his sleight of hand techniques amongst the unsuspecting people of Riften. Evening Star was the season of The Thief, after all.

He moved about the city, engaging in polite conversation here and there as his hands took what they could. As the second-in-command of the Thieves Guild, he was often caught up in the daily muck of Guild business, and hardly had time to exercise his craft. He'd been in this line of work for a long while, though. Even without the practice, he was still very, very good.

Brynjolf amassed quite the amount of gold and other valuable items from the citizens of Riften before finally retiring to the Ragged Flagon Cistern. He plopped his pack onto a table and slid onto the bench to count his earnings.

"What ya got there, Bryn?" a familiar accent bellowed from several feet away. "Some baubles you borrowed from the good people of Riften, eh?"

Brynjolf looked up and smiled at the bald thief approaching. "Aye. Very generous, that lot. Hey, Delvin."

"Evenin'." Delvin plunked down onto the bench opposite Brynjolf. "Ya hear the news?"

Brynjolf looked at him curiously. "I don't think I have, what is it?"

Delvin leaned in close. "The diplomat in Solitude, some important Imperial somethin' or other." Brynjolf continued to stare blankly, so Delvin continued. "Murdered. Guards found his body in the woods a few weeks back, throat cut." He raised an eyebrow. "Ain't a pretty sight, I heard. Legion is havin' a cow over it."

Brynjolf's thoughts flashed briefly to the woman he'd met in the Flagon, over a month back now. Delvin didn't say he was assassinated, though. Just murdered.

He turned his eyes to Delvin. "That's all well and good, but what's it got to do with us?"

Delvin grinned wide. "It means Solitude is wide open, Bryn. While they're all occupied tryin' to find some assassin or the like, we can get down to business."

"Was he assassinated?" Brynjolf asked suddenly.

Delvin appeared taken aback. "Well, his neck was sliced awfully clean. I reckon only cutthroats do it like that. But that's not the point—the point is, we gotta make our move."

"Right." Brynjolf rubbed the back of his neck, still deep in thought. "We can send some of our people in, then. I'll have it arranged.

"Everythin' okay?" Delvin could see the concerned look on his friend's face.

Brynjolf waved his hand. "Aye, just thinking. Don't worry about me."

"Alright." Delvin smiled, and clapped Brynjolf on the shoulder before taking his leave.

Surely there are dozens of assassins in Skyrim, and hundreds, maybe even thousands in all of Tamriel, Brynjolf thought. Couldn't have been her. What would she be doing killing some Imperial noble, anyway?

He tried to shake the thought from his head. He'd almost forgotten all about her until this very moment, if he was being honest. But if she had pulled it off, that murder in Solitude… He ran his hand over his face. She might be more frightening than I gave her credit for.

Brynjolf finished counting his haul and sealed it away amongst his belongings. Then, he pulled his cloak on, lifting the hood up over his hair, and climbed the ladder out of the Cistern. He needed to clear his head a bit.

Riften was asleep, and he walked the now-empty streets barely illuminated by the night sky. The snow had fallen onto the pathways, and it resounded with a soft crunch under his boots. He did a full loop of the city, peering into the Bee and Barb as he passed it by. That was one place that never slept—the party was in full swing there. For a second he considered stopping in for a drink, but decided against it. Instead, he continued his walk, slowing his pace and enjoying the quiet for a long moment.

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A masked shadow perched herself high above Riften, balanced delicately atop the roof of Mistveil Keep. She watched over the city as the bustle died down, as the townsfolk went to their homes for the night and the guards retired to the barracks. The snow fell delicately on her black cloak, melting as it landed. She shivered.

Business had brought Cas back to the Rift. She wasn't welcome in the local tavern, and she didn't fancy going back to the sewers, so instead she enjoyed her bird's eye view of the city as its citizens rested for the night. All except one, anyway.

She had been on this roof for hours, since the sun had set, and she'd noticed him earlier on, mingling with the townsfolk. She had watched his every move from her vantage point, and was almost impressed with the effortless way in which he stole from right under their noses. He was clearly an expert at his craft.

But she was an expert at hers as well. He had moved about the city, completely oblivious to the fact that he was being observed. When he had his pack filled to the brim, he'd retired for a long while. Now he was back, his cloak pulled tight over his head, trudging through the snow on the ground.

Cas was perfectly content to sit on the roof and continue her sightseeing. She'd spent her birthday riding to the Reach for a contract, and the next couple weeks finding her way back to Riften. She was, quite frankly, exhausted, and dying to sleep in a real bed—but that would have to wait, at least until she left this city.

She also had a lot weighing on her mind. She thought of her trip to Solitude—of her old village, of her family's graves, and of her new friend, Ariaene.

Friend. The word felt strange. It had been over a decade since she'd met anyone she might consider a friend. She had acquaintances, and she had business contacts, but a friend? It was a foreign concept. Yet for the first time in a long time, she had let herself open up to another person, and it was… nice.

She sighed quietly, leaning back on gloved hands and gazing up at the night sky. For a few moments, she reveled in the eerie glow it cast. But when she glanced back at the thief lurking in the darkness, the hair on her arms seemed to stand up.

Does he… see me?

There was no way. She was concealed in the shadows, her cloak hiding her face, her dark armor obscuring her form. But he was still now, and he seemed to be staring directly at her.

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Brynjolf froze as he squinted up at the roof of Mistveil Keep. There was something up there. He was sure of it.

He pondered the possibility of an animal, but as he stared at the shadow lurking on the roof, it looked distinctly like a person.

"Hey!" he shouted. "Who's there?"

The shadow dropped out of sight suddenly, and Brynjolf felt a coldness run down his spine. He pulled his dagger, glancing all around him, ready for the threat. But none came. He put away his weapon, hesitating for a moment longer before continuing his walk. I guess it was an animal after all.

He passed the keep, and as he rounded the city again to make his way back to the Cistern's entrance, he felt a light tap on his shoulder. Immediately alert, he whipped his dagger out once again and swiveled around in a second, coming face to face with a figure dressed in black. It took his brain a moment to process, but then he lowered his blade slightly—not all the way, though.

"Cas?"

"Brynjolf." Her soft voice rang out in the darkness. "I'm surprised you caught me. I watched you for a long while as you robbed the townsfolk blind."

"You saw me?" His mind was reeling. How had he just noticed her now, when she'd clearly been watching him for hours?

"Lower your weapon," she requested, taking off her mask now. "You don't see me brandishing mine."

"I suppose not." He sheathed his dagger, and looked at her sheepishly. "Sorry. I didn't know you'd been watching that whole time. That's… impressive. You're good." Terrifying.

"I have to be, if I'm to do my job with precision." She paused for a moment. "You do yours with precision as well, from what I observed."

"Well. Thanks, lass." He rubbed the back of his neck. "So… are you finally here to kill me, then?"

She chuckled. "No. I came here to kill, but not you."

"Oh? Who's the unlucky fellow?"

"I can't reveal my mark," she said. "I'm sure you understand."

He nodded, and hesitated for a moment before asking his next question. "Walk with me?"

She tilted her head slightly, seeming surprised. "I suppose I can do that."

They walked the length of the city and through the gates to the left, making their way onto the docks. They both stayed silent for a long while, and Brynjolf eventually sat on the edge of the dock, his feet hanging off the ledge. She hesitated for a second before joining him an arm's distance away. It was strange, but it wasn't totally uncomfortable. She seemed less standoffish than the first time they'd met. And now that she'd shown back up in Riften, the curiosity was eating away at him.

He glanced over at her. "I have to ask, lass."

"Hm?"

"That noble in Solitude," he said. "Was it you?"

Was that a smile on her face? It was. A small, almost indiscernible smile.

"It was."

He felt his breath leave him for a moment. She was capable of a lot, it seemed. He was horrified and transfixed by her all at once.

"Well." He cleared his throat, trying to maintain some semblance of his composure. "What'd he do, then?"

She looked at him, hard. "Awful things to his own daughter, for over a decade."

Oh.

"I wasn't sure what I expected when you said you were selective," he admitted. "But, well… it sounds like maybe the realm is better off without him in it. Did it… feel like justice, killing him? Did it feel good?"

"Yes," she answered without hesitation. "He was a terrible man."

They sat again in silence for several minutes, and Brynjolf contemplated her words. She was a strange one. She didn't seem like any regular assassin he'd ever heard of—killing appeared to be about something more for her. He remembered back to their conversation in the Flagon, and where it had left off.

He turned to her. "It's not about the money, is it?"

"No."

"It's about vengeance, isn't it?" he asked.

She stayed quiet for a while, leaving his question unanswered. He couldn't pinpoint the feeling exactly, but he sensed a profound sadness in her as she sat next to him. After what seemed like ages, she finally spoke.

"Can I tell you a story?"

He was surprised. Barely over a month ago, he could hardly get her to string a sentence together. Now she wanted to tell him a story? A strange one, indeed.

"I'm all ears, lass."

Cas put down the hood of her cloak and stared off into the distance with narrowed eyes, seemingly transported somewhere else. She opened and closed her mouth a few times, trying to find the words, before she started to spin her tale.

"Once, there was a young girl. She lived in a village somewhere between Solitude and Morthal, with her parents and her older brother. She had friends, and she enjoyed helping out on her family's farm." A small smile tugged at her lips. "Life was happy—life was perfect."

"One night, the village was at rest, asleep. It was peaceful." She glanced over at Brynjolf. "Until it wasn't. She was awoken to the sound of their livestock being slaughtered, of screams from outside. Strange men barged into her home—into all their homes—and rounded up every last person in the village."

She paused for a moment and turned her eyes away from him again, up toward the night sky. "And then, one by one, they killed the adults. The girl watched as they first slashed her father's throat, and then her mothers. And she could do nothing. Then, they moved onto the children. They killed the boys, and she watched her brother murdered before her eyes. And she wished she were dead, too. Especially after what came next."

"When it was just the girls left… well, you can probably fill in the blanks." She took in a shaky breath, gritting her teeth. "They continued on like this for several long days and nights, plundering the village, taking their fill. But one night, while everyone was asleep, the girl got an idea."

There was a wild glimmer in her eyes now. "She remembered the dagger her father had kept hidden away, and she took it up in her hands, creeping over to the bandit that lay snoring in her parents' bed. And she stabbed him. First in the neck, then in the chest, over and over until he stopped screaming."

Her face fell. "And then, like the coward she was, she fled. No one else made it out of that village alive. All her family, all her friends… gone."

She looked at Brynjolf now. This might have been a sad story to her, once. A hint of grief flashed across her face, but her expression remained cold. "The end."

Brynjolf stared at her for a long time. The story she just told him was horrific, and tragic, and… hers. So much made sense to him all at once, and his heart pounded in his chest. He didn't know what to say. What was there to say? An apology seemed pointless.

Instead, he glanced at the dagger strapped to her hip. "Is that…?"

She nodded. "It's all I have left."

"I'm…" He trailed off, his eyes searching her face. "Thank you, lass. For sharing that."

"You'd be the first to know. Seems your charm worked on me after all." She laughed, but the sound was hollow.

"How old are you?" he asked.

"Twenty-seven, as of recently," she said. "I spent my birthday murdering some poor old fool in Markarth."

"So, twelve years you've been at this." He sat with that knowledge for a moment. "What's the point?"

"What's the point of anything?" she countered. "Why are you a thief? Because it's all you've known, right?" She had him there.

"So I guess this," he gestured broadly to nothing in particular, "is all you've known, too."

"Yeah." Her hand went to the locket around her neck. She hadn't been wearing that the first time they met. "Yeah, I guess so."

"Do you enjoy anything anymore?" The words sounded harsh, but he meant it genuinely. Brynjolf had his fair share of tragedy, and he had felt hardened by the world for a long time. But he was much older than her—he'd had more time to cope with his losses.

"No," she said simply, "not really. I enjoy killing people who deserve it, and I enjoy the satisfaction it brings others. I'm like a puppet. So I guess… there isn't really a point, then." She glanced over at him. "I've tried ending my own life, many times. It's funny, you think that'd be easy for an assassin. But it's a lot harder than killing other people."

He nodded empathetically. "For what it's worth, lass… I'm glad you weren't successful."

"Me, too." She sighed. "That girl in Solitude whose father I killed… I wouldn't have been able to help her, otherwise."

"You're an awfully compassionate assassin, you know that?"

She snorted. "That's one way to put it."

"I'm serious, lass. You want to help others so they don't have to suffer the same way you do," he said. "If you put aside the… well, the killing part, it's kind of noble."

"That's how I view it, I suppose." She looked at him for a long moment. "You're not so bad yourself, thief."

"Aye, I guess my charm did get to you," he said.

"Don't get ahead of yourself," she said. "I still find you aggravating, I'm just feeling candid tonight."

He grinned. "Fair enough. But I think you enjoy my company more than you let on."

She rested her head on her hands. "It's strange, you know. That girl in Solitude, her name is Ariaene… I felt an instant bond between us. It was like we'd always been friends. And now, you. I've opened up more in the last month than I have in over a decade."

"Are we friends, then?" he asked.

"Don't get ahead of yourself," she said again. "Although, I could use a warm drink. I'm not built for this weather."

"Aye, neither am I." He smiled. "Two Nords who don't like the cold make quite the pair."

"My father was a Breton, actually," she said. "So I have a little bit of an excuse." He could see that. She was shorter than the typical Nord—he'd noticed that the first time he saw her.

"Well, you definitely need a drink, then, lass. You're banned from the Bee and Barb," he reminded her teasingly, "but Vekel is always serving the finest mead if you'd like to join me."

"Finest is a stretch," she said, standing up, "but I just need good enough."

"He can do that, too."

The pair set off to the Ragged Flagon, walking close but not too close, and Brynjolf felt something stirring—something new, and nerve-racking, and exciting. He tried to shake it off, but the feeling stuck.