Falkreath Hold was dark, and it was wet. As high up as it was, Dagnell thought, one would have expected it to be snowy, but no, it was just soggy, damp shades of brown and green. It was a thick, deep forest of spruce, fir, and pine, with a thick bed of fallen needles underfoot. The soil was deep, hard-packed as forests often were, and eroded into great standing shelves of exposed roots and dirt which was either wet from mist or wet from rain, but always wet. She’d run into dozens of frostbite spiders, wolves, and skeevers, as well as several groups of bandits. Those, she had taken out by finding a high perch and picking them off with her arrows, one by one. She’d found it oddly easy to do, much easier than it usually was. The weight of the Key in her pockets made her wonder how much influence it might be having on her luck in archery.
And then there were the Thalmor.
There were three of them, marching through the forest, heading for the road to Falkreath. Dag had no reason whatsoever to hide from them, so she didn’t. Suddenly she found herself staggering back, engulfed with flame.
“Behold the future!” the mage shouted. “Behold the Thalmor!”
Dag patted out the flames, thankful yet again for the protection of her Nightingale armor, then scurried for cover. Behold me running away, she thought. I can’t take on three Thalmor, especially not when one of them is a mage! She dropped into a roll, barely ahead of the second blast of fire, then popped up just in time to be hit with a blast of shock. Correction, she thought, groaning. Two mages. It took every bit of concentration she had to force her muscles into motion, but she jogged away to her right, dodging behind trees and looking for the high ground. It wasn’t easy; the heavy forest was lovely but it obscured all of the rock outcroppings. An arrow struck her shoulder from behind, sending her stumbling face-first into a pile of wet pine needles. That had to be the third one. She scrambled up and found herself barely ahead of yet another fireball, but not far enough ahead to avoid taking some significant portion of its damage.
Just ahead was a rock, a big one, and she dashed around it, throwing all the magic she could muster into healing herself. She scrambled up and realized that there were several more rocks just behind it, a good-sized outcropping that allowed her to find a decent archery perch. She drew her bow, getting angrier by the moment.
What did I do to annoy the Thalmor? she wondered. Or are they now working with the Dark Brotherhood? What is going on here? As they ran toward her she felt herself getting angrier with every step they took. I don’t have time! I have things to do! By all the gods, just fight amongst yourselves!
The fire mage turned and evaporated the first of his fellows with a blast of flame.
The second Thalmor turned his sword on the mage, and the two of them began a death battle.
Dag started shaking. What happened? What did I do? She knew she had done it. She’d seen Mercer do it to Brynjolf. But she didn’t know how.
I have got to get rid of this key.
You’re not just a little bit tempted?
No. No, I’m not. Yes I am but no, I’m not.
Well you can’t have it both ways.
I know.
She sat and waited for the shaking to stop, looking around at the area from her high perch. To her right, not far away from where she’d been but hidden from that vantage point by the thick undergrowth, was an overturned cart. Its horse was dead, smoke rising from its carcass. Dag could see one corpse, completely burned, its tendons having constricted in death to the fetal position. There were the marks of fireball explosions all around the cart. She shuddered from her core. I’m lucky that wasn’t me, she thought. It nearly was.
From the clearing where the cart had fallen ran a pathway to the southwest and downward toward what looked like an old Nordic ruin, or perhaps something even older, carved into the side of the mountains behind it. A small stream fell from their summit and flowed across the path in front of a set of iron doors. It was the spot Karliah had marked on her map. The Twilight Sepulcher. She pushed the doors open and slipped inside.
It was a huge, dark cavern. Dirt covered the floor of what once must have been a magnificent space; wide stairs rose through great stone arches, some intact and some collapsed, leading to a tunnel formed by more of the same.
A translucent, bluish, spectral figure descended the stairs toward her. She tensed, her right hand on her sword, but it seemed clear after a few moments that this was not an immediate threat.
“I do not recognize you,” the figure said, its voice thin and hollow, “but I sense that you are one of us.”
“I would ask the same of you,” Dag replied. “Who are you?”
“I’m the last of the Nightingale Sentinels, I’m afraid. I’ve defended the Sepulcher alone for what seems like an eternity.”
“You’re alone?” Dag asked. Karliah had said that at the end of the Nightingales’ lives they became Sentinels. There were three Nightingales at any time. There must have been many more Sentinels through the ages. “What has happened to the others?”
“We were betrayed by one of our own kind,” the specter said. “In fact, I’m to blame.”
“Why would you say that?”
The voice was calm, without inflection, but Dag almost felt rather than heard a sigh.
“I was blinded by treachery masquerading as friendship. Perhaps if I had been more vigilant Mercer Frey wouldn’t have lured me to my fate and stolen the Skeleton Key.”
Dag felt the hair on the back of her neck rising.
“Wait a second! You’re…Gallus?”
She felt a twisting, sharp, painful sadness. Oh, Karliah, she thought. He’s here. You should have come with me. Gallus is here. Much to her surprise she felt her eyes welling up.
“I have not heard that name in a very long time. How do you know of me?”
“Gallus, I have the Skeleton Key.”
The disembodied voice lifted. “The Key! You have the Skeleton Key! I thought I’d never see it again! And Mercer Frey?”
“He’s dead. He’s very dead. And I trust that Nocturnal has not accepted whatever pitiful excuse for a soul he may have had left.” Dag had no idea what powers a Daedric prince might have over a person who broke a contract with them but she hoped they included making him very miserable.
“Then … it’s over, and my death wasn’t in vain. The Guild owes you a great debt. My only regret is that you had to undertake its retrieval on your own.”
Dag shook her head. “Oh no, I didn’t do it by myself. The other two Nightingales were with me. Karliah helped me.”
“Karliah? She yet lives? I was afraid that she had met my same fate at the hands of Mercer Frey.” Gallus’ voice rose, almost joyfully.
Dag found herself warming to Gallus. His speech was formal, but not in the stiff, uncomfortable way that Mercer’s had been. This was the formality of a scholar, a well-educated man whose speech simply flowed from him in perfectly-formed phrases. How a specter could convey emotion was a mystery to her but he was doing so, gracefully and elegantly.
“Well I have the Key right here, Gallus. Take it and return it to where it needs to be. You deserve that honor.”
“Nothing would bring me more pride, but I’m afraid it’s impossible. You see, from the moment I arrived here in this room I’ve felt myself, well, dying.”
Dag shook her head. “Wait. How can a spirit die?”
Gallus stood quietly for a moment, his arms crossed, seemingly deep in thought. He shook his head.
“This isn’t just a temple to Nocturnal. Contained in the inner sanctum is the Ebonmere – the conduit to Nocturnal’s realm of Evergloam. It’s through this conduit that she influences events in the world, and the Skeleton Key is our means of accessing it. This is what we are sworn to protect. When Mercer Frey stole the key that conduit closed, severely limiting our ties to Nocturnal, and causing our luck to fade.”
“What we do isn’t luck. We have great skill.”
“Yes, of course, and you all should take great pride in it. But think of how the Guild was when you joined it. Have its members not spoken of having bad luck? Think of all the little things that have been happening: a pick breaking in the lock, clouds clearing away from the moon at just the wrong time.”
Dag certainly could think of any number of times when what should have been an easy attack, or a silent passage, had gone wrong. She had a vivid memory of the bandit turning to look at her in Cragslane Cavern, for example, and her perfectly-aimed arrow catching on the rope before her when it shouldn’t have. She nodded, slowly.
“Nocturnal doesn’t influence events directly. She merely nudges the resistances to our luck. If the Key is not returned, our luck will run completely dry.”
If a spirit could have drawn an audible breath, Dag was certain she would have heard it just then.
“I cannot return the Key because I’m weakening. I can feel myself … slipping away. Whatever damage was caused when Mercer stole the Key can only be fixed by returning it, and you’re the only one who is able to do so. I cannot manifest anywhere but this chamber, so I’m afraid I cannot help you. However, I did find the remains of a poor soul who came here before you. Perhaps his journal might help.”
Dag nodded, scanning the area quickly. There was a skeleton at the far side of the chamber, and she would investigate it soon, but right now she needed to speak to Gallus. On another day of her life, she might have thought she was going completely mad; but on this day what the spirit of Gallus was saying made complete and utter sense. She had to do this thing for him, for Karliah, for Brynjolf, and for the rest of the Guild.
“But what has happened to all the others, Gallus?”
“After twenty-five years, my power is fading. In fact, even now I feel – strange, even though I shouldn’t be feeling anything at all. They have been here many more years than I. The others no longer remember who they were; they’ve forgotten their original purpose. Good luck, Nightingale.”
Dag nodded.
The skeleton crumpled as she eased the journal out from under its hand. She flipped through its pages quickly; it was the journal of one Nystrom, presumably the man whose skeleton she’d just disintegrated. He had been here with two others, Lythelus and Anders, and it seemed as though their motive had been to rob the riches in the inner sanctum. There wasn’t much of use in the journal but for some odd, riddle-like passages.
The first seemed fairly obvious. “Shadows of their former selves, sentinels of the dark. They wander ever more and deal swift death to defilers.” The word sentinels and the word death were all she needed to know. She drew her bow and moved past Gallus, up the stairs, into the long tunnel of arches, and around a corner to a set of iron doors.
Beyond the doors was a grand staircase leading down, and alcoves opening to either side. Dag didn’t have time to consider the alcoves, though, for there was a dark blue specter at the foot of the stairs. One of the Sentinels. She drew her bow, set her best arrow to its string, and let it fly. The figure turned and shouted “does someone live among the dead?” An arrow whizzed just past Dag’s ear. She flinched, then fired another shot of her own. The specter groaned and crumpled, moaning “I shall…be back,” then vanished but for a spot of glowing dust where it had stood.
Another arrow hit the stairs just behind Dag. She whirled to find a second Sentinel emerging from one of the alcoves above. This one took several arrows to remove; the specter was a good shot, and Dag had to dance about the room ducking for cover where she could find it.
The tunnel leading from this chamber led to a standard burial chamber. None of the draugr were moving, or threatening to do that, much to her relief. She headed for the iron doors at the end, and opened them to a room full of mist.
It was impossible to tell how large this area was. As heavy as the mist in Redbelly Mine had been, this was thicker. It filled the space, but was particularly thick around the base of the large platforms rising at seemingly random intervals. The room was darker than night but for a few firepots scattered at the tops of three platforms, and in several places at ground level. Dag could see her destination to the left and up – another pair of iron doors. She started forward, heading for the first of the lights; but as she neared it she heard a hissing noise.
And she felt her strength ebbing. Quickly.
She darted back toward the barrow from which she’d arrived. To her great relief, the hissing stopped as she reached the shadowed entryway. She dug around in her pack for a potion to restore herself, and considered her options. There were lights, firepots, at the top of three platforms. Up. That was the way through to reach the doors, and without being able to see around them she was willing to bet that she needed to get there via the platforms. She peered at the nearest of them; there seemed to be a narrow set of steps leading up. Taking a deep breath and holding it, she ran for it; but again, as soon as she neared the light she heard the hissing and felt herself being damaged, quickly, painfully. She ran back to the barrow a second time and cast healing on herself.
“What is this, anyway?” she muttered to herself.
What do you think it is, idiot? When was the last time you saw Nocturnal parading around outside in the sun?
She fought the urge to smack herself on the forehead.
Good grief. Nocturnal, Mistress of Shadows. Of course.
It was clear that Dag needed to get to the top of the platform, so that she could see where to go next, but getting there was going to be interesting. Her path wound around the base of other platforms, through thin slivers of shadow that lay between the edges of the pools of light cast by firepots. To her relief, she took no damage, heard no hissing.
She mounted the stairs to the first platform and cursed as she caught her feet on a rope. Arrows flew at her. Damn, another trap. She ducked and rolled to her left, praying that she wouldn’t roll off the platform, and then stood to survey the area.
Well, Dag thought. This wasn’t what I was looking forward to. She cast healing on herself while checking her next move. The platform closest to her destination was too tall to jump up, but there was a rope-and-log bridge strung from it to the farthest platform from her. She couldn’t see a way to get up onto that one, but there was a small space, a possible path through the darkness to its far side. The descending stairs just in front of her had another tripwire across them. Off to her right she saw only a clean, dark edge. And I don’t want to find out how far down that drop goes. She decided to leap the tripwire and make for the shadows. The worst that could happen was, after all, the worst that could happen.
It wasn’t quite as dark, where she moved this time, and she could feel herself being damaged as she dashed around the end of the platform and ran headlong into a set of wooden steps that had been invisible from where she stood before. Wincing and trying hard not to gasp, she jumped onto the stairs and up, just as more arrows began flying toward her. She crouched and slid along the left edge of the bridge and up to the top of the tower, practically falling over in an effort to stop; for at the far end of this platform was another, very bright, brazier.
Again, she used up most of her energy healing herself.
It wasn’t far from this platform to the iron doors. Down, across a short gap, and up. There was a tripwire at the top of the stairs, though, and the mist between here and there was especially thick, making it hard to see what was between her and them. It was going to be hard to avoid being damaged, though; she could only see a narrow sliver of darkness up the center of the stairs. She took a deep breath, jumped the tripwire and sprinted for the stairs.
By the time she got to the top of them and through the doors, she was trembling and hurting, coughing hard from the exertion. Dag sat down in the corridor and found a few more potions in her pack that helped, and eventually her breathing returned to normal. This was another section of normal Nordic barrow, holding a few skeletons and carefully-wrapped Draugr and little else, but at the far end was a large statue flanked by two more of the light pots that had shown her the way through the mist.
Dag approached it and looked it over. It was a lovely woman with outspread hands. At its base, a flat bowl for offerings had several gemstones, some rare flowers, and a few coins in it, and just in front of it, on the floor, was a dead bandit. There was nothing else to indicate what Dag should do.
She opened the journal and flipped through to the riddles. Give her what she desires most, it said.
“Well. This is Nocturnal’s shrine, so this must be Nocturnal. What does she most desire?” Clearly, the gemstones and flowers had not been the right choices.
Dag thought. How had Karliah called for her? Empress of Shadow and Queen of Murk. Walk true with the shadows. Nocturnal was a thing of darkness, and she was being flooded by light. She looked more closely at the light pots, which were raised, sitting atop ornate stone sconces. There was nothing that looked like a mechanism for shutting them down, and she had no way to get to the top of them and somehow manually scoop the burning material out. Then her hand brushed against the back wall and hit a chain, much like the ones in Snow Veil Sanctum that had raised metal gates. Indeed, as soon as she pulled it the light went out. She ran to the second light, found its chain and pulled it; as the light was extinguished a heavy stone slab lowered itself into the ground, revealing a tunnel behind the statue.
Dag was about to sprint through the narrow hallway before her when a set of swinging blades dropped from the ceiling and started sweeping the width of it. She screeched to a halt. Those things are too closely spaced for me, she thought. I can’t possibly time it well enough. She moved forward a few steps to check. Maybe there was some way to turn them off, a chain, a lever…
There was an alcove to her left, with a set of iron doors.
“Here we go.”
The doors were locked.
Dag broke a dozen lockpicks, and was beginning to swear under her breath.
So use the Key, her other voice said.
She shuddered. No, she replied. I don’t want to let it into my head any more.
How else do you intend to get it back where it belongs, then? This lock is too hard for you.
Dag knew her voice was right. She simply had to do it, or she would be sliced to ribbons in the other hall. Against her better judgment, she pulled out the Skeleton Key and began working the lock.
It nearly hummed. Its ornate, colorful, rounded handle fit in her hand as though it had been custom made to do so, and she felt it appealing to desires she hadn’t realized she had until… until…
Think of all we could do together, it told her. You and Brynjolf could be so very rich. Nobody could ever touch you again.
I … and Brynjolf? Don’t you mean the Guild?
Yes. As you say.
The lock clicked open and Dag hurried to put the Key back in her pouch. A shudder ran up her back. She felt somehow unclean, violated, as though the Key itself had somehow reached into the deepest parts of her mind. I have got to get rid of this thing, she thought, her unease mounting by the moment.
Beyond the doors was a long, multi-level chamber with great ornate pillars and what seemed to be an audience chamber of some sort at the bottom. The balcony on which she stood hugged both of the room’s long sides and across its back, to her left. Across the way, Dag could see another spectral Sentinel. She thought for a moment. There may be treasure down there, she thought, and I know I can dispatch that spirit. But I need to move. She crouched and crept along the balcony to the corridor she could see beyond it. The spirit never moved. Was this the Key working again, keeping her hidden? She’d proven often enough that she was not nearly as stealthy as she’d like to be.
There was one more set of doors, just to her left as she emerged from the corridor. To her right, she could hear the blades sweeping their deadly path. She opened the doors and strode down the darkened hallway.
And into an enormous pit.
It was at least fifteen feet deep, probably more, and the fall into it onto the hard stone beneath hurt a great deal. For a moment she wondered whether she might have broken her ankle, but standing proved that it was only sprained. She worked on healing the sprain, thinking “I must be getting better at healing by now, you would think, given how often I have to use it on myself.” There was a skeleton here, with a note next to it.
“So here’s where you ended up, Anders,” she murmured. The note indicated that he was starving to death when he had written it. She’d better hope that there was a way out, or she’d be joining him here.
Dag looked up. She could see the opening through which she’d fallen, well above her head, and directly overhead an opening to what looked like trap door, a well opening perhaps.
She was just beginning to feel as though she should panic when the world shifted.
She had the Skeleton Key in her hand, with no recollection of having removed it from her pack. She turned it in her palm, examining it, baffled. Suddenly, with a huge, ringing sound, the floor began glowing in shades of blue and green in elaborate patterns. There was an indentation in the center of the floor that seemed to call to her. A keyhole. She reached forward and pressed the Skeleton Key into it. Instantly, it felt as though an enormous weight lifted from her; but she didn’t have a chance to savor the feeling.
The floor dropped. How far, she could not say; but it was to the bottom of a large cavern, shaped much as the one at Nightingale Hall but with a deep blue, pulsing, shimmering pool in its center, and stone discs with the phases of the moon rather than circles at the end of arches. A familiar sound began, a hum of energy from which emerged not just the ball of light Dag had seen when she became a Nightingale but a human figure, a barely-clad woman of stunning beauty with ravens on each of her outspread arms. It was the statue she’d seen, but in animate form. Dag was dumbstruck. An actual Daedric prince, a thing of legend like Dardeh, like the dragons, like the Nightingales themselves, but this one from its own plane of Oblivion.
“My, my. What do we have here? Once again the Key has gone missing, and once again a hero has returned it. And now that you’ve performed your duty you stand here awaiting your accolades: a pat on the head, a kiss on the cheek. But understand that this was merely a part of your contract. Your actions were expected.”
Well thanks, Dag thought sourly. You’re telling me that it was all nothing. Nothing but Fate unrolling my life like a ball of yarn, right? I reject that notion.
Nocturnal reassured Dag that she was quite satisfied with having the Key returned, but that she should not misunderstand her own motivations. “We both know it has little to do with honor and oaths and loyalty. It’s all about the reward.”
Are you sure, Nocturnal? Dag thought. I don’t need a Daedric prince to give me a reward. I can take what I want without too much trouble, or at least enough to make me satisfied.
Except for people. I can’t just take people, I have to earn them, and thus far I haven’t done tremendously well on that front in my life until now. The Guild has given me a chance to prove something to myself. No, Nocturnal. As tenuous as their hold on honor is in the Guild, it’s there. They showed it in the way they rallied around Brynjolf when Mercer disappeared, when they thought Karliah and I were enemies, and then afterward when they found out we weren’t. And that means something to me. That’s why I killed Mercer.
Is it really?
Shut up, she thought. Nocturnal was speaking again.
“Drink deep from the Ebonmere, for this is where the agent of Nocturnal is born. The agreement has been struck, the die has been cast, and your fate awaits you in the Evergloam. Farewell, Nightingale. And make sure the key stays in place next time, won’t you?”
Nocturnal transformed into the ball of light Dag had seen once before, then disappeared.
“She seemed pleased,” Karliah’s voice spoke from behind her.
Dag whirled, startled. “How did you…?”
“I saw the portal open in Nightingale Hall and knew you had succeeded in your task. And here I am.”
Dag was about to start complaining. How could she? She wouldn’t come along for the dangerous part but popped in at the last moment? How could she? She had just opened her mouth to take a breath when a sound cut her short.
“Karliah?”
Gallus emerged from the shadows and walked forward.
“Gallus!” There was so much in that one word, that one name. “I thought I’d never see you again. I was afraid you’d become like the others.”
Dag stepped back, hoping to dissolve into the shadows. The Key. It opened his access, too, so he could leave that room. I can’t interrupt this moment, she thought. They’ve waited so long. But Gallus turned and looked directly at her.
“If not for the actions of this Nightingale in returning the Key, your fears would have come to pass. She brings honor to us all.”
Thanks to me? Really? Dag felt a wave of gratitude sweep over her. Thank you, Gallus, she thought, her eyes beginning to well up. You understand how difficult it all has been, even if Nocturnal does not.
“What will you do now?” Karliah asked.
“Nocturnal calls me to the Evergloam. My contract is complete. My debt has been paid, and now I can rest.”
“Will I ever see you again, my love?” Karliah’s voice was steady, strong; but there was so much emotion in it, both longing and acceptance. Dag swallowed hard. How many times had she thought those same words but not been able to do so with acceptance and grace?
“When your debt to Nocturnal has been paid, we will embrace once more.”
“Eyes open. Walk with the shadows,” Karliah said, her voice overflowing with emotion.
“Goodbye, Karliah.”
Gallus looked at Karliah, a long, lingering gaze taking in everything that he could of her. Then he vanished.
Dag found herself wiping tears away. It just wasn’t fair. She wasn’t sure how Karliah was feeling, but it hurt her to her core. All of that time, all of that struggle, and they had only a few moments together.
Karliah stood staring at the Ebonmere.
Is she all right? Dag thought. Do I break this silence? What do I do now?
She stepped forward and spoke quietly. “Where did Gallus go?”
Karliah turned to look at her.
“He has become one with the shadows. In death, he has become a part of what we all use, to live.”
And then she began to explain.
The shadows, she said, were those who had come before and had returned to the Evergloam, and who were always with them. They were part of the darkness that surrounded them, a real and lasting part of it, who guided them, unseen, every day.
There was something infinitely comforting in that to Dag. That’s what it is, she thought. “Eyes open and walk with the shadows” didn’t just mean “be a fortunate thief.” It meant “be with all of us. Be part of us as we are a part of you. We will always be together.”
She looked at Karliah with her heart rising up to her throat and thought again about Gallus. No, Karliah. Falling in love with him was not wrong, nor his falling in love with you. You’re both part of the same thing, both a part of each other. It’s not your fault that Mercer Frey existed in the world.
With every moment that passed, Dag felt more distressed. Mercer had managed to separate them for twenty five years, but he hadn’t been able, in the end, to rip Karliah and Gallus apart. Watching Karliah at this moment was exquisitely painful and yet beautiful at the same time, and it pulled at her in ways she wasn’t able to understand. Karliah was calm, peaceful. Why wasn’t she?
Karliah explained that Dag would be called back to defend the Sepulcher if necessary, and showed her how to accept one of the three powers of Nocturnal: Stealth, Subterfuge or Strife. She thought about what Mercer had done in the cavern, and wondered whether, somehow, he had managed to tap into all three of the powers by using the Key. She didn’t want either the power of subterfuge or strife after watching him. Those things were too dangerous. But she had watched him pop in and out of visibility while she’d been chasing him. That power, now that was useful. She chose to become the Agent of Stealth. I need this one more, she thought. I can barely sneak well enough to save my own hide.
Dag stepped through the portal into the Sepulcher’s entry hall, then walked slowly to the iron doors that let her out into Falkreath Hold. She blinked, her eyes watering; the sun had finally emerged. It was, for once, a beautiful day in the forests of Falkreath. Birds were celebrating, filling the air with sound. She could hear elk bugling off in the distance. The stream before the cave burbled and chuckled as it rushed down over the stones. The forest was alive. She was alive. So was Karliah. And so was Brynjolf.
It took her back to the moment when she had emerged from Bronze Water Cave, blinking, confused, still feeling the strength of Brynjolf’s embrace.
Dag sat down and burst into tears.
It finally made sense.
It wasn’t just Karliah and Gallus she was crying for.
Her mind returned to the desperate moment when Mercer had promised to give Brynjolf her “regards.” That had been the moment when she should have known, but hadn’t; and she had taken what felt like a lifetime to understand it. She again saw Brynjolf looming at the door of the Cistern, taking out his despair on her because she was the closest thing at hand and because… why? Because she was the bearer of bad tidings? Could it have been more than that?
And then she saw him gently persuading her that she, not he, needed to be Guildmaster. She’d accepted because of him. There hadn’t been a single other compelling reason to do so. She hadn’t even wanted to be in the Guild, in the first place.
The Key really had reached into her and read what was there to be seen. It wasn’t the Guild it had talked about to her, not at first. It was Brynjolf.
Brynjolf infuriated her. Everything about him had annoyed her, the way he brushed everything off with a snide comment, his bragging, his sneers, his … everything. He’d done so from the instant she’d met him. On top of that, he was a dangerous man, a devious one, who dabbled in things she hated. He had an unfortunate relationship with Maven Black-Briar and, by extension, the Empire and the Dark Brotherhood, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about that. He had done so many awful things.
But to Dag, he had been supportive. He had treated her like an equal when she was clearly not. He hadn’t put his head together with Vex or Delvin, but with her. He had even suggested that she become his superior, in the Guild that was his life, when it was ridiculous to think such a thing. That meant that he trusted her. He considered her a friend, of that she was certain. He treated her like his partner.
And then she thought about his laughter. Sitting beside her at the Flagon. Teasing her about this thing or that. He certainly hadn’t ever shown any sign of physical attraction to her, had he? For that matter, she didn’t know whether he preferred women or men. She had no idea; there were rumors about Tonilia with Brynjolf, about Vex with Brynjolf, and the boys hovered around him like bees to honey, as well. Who knew? She thought about his constant following her with his eyes. Maybe there was something there. Maybe?
Am I thinking about this clearly? Dag wondered. Is it just the intensity of the situation getting to me, the meeting a Daedric prince, nearly dying yet again, watching Gallus and Karliah be reunited ever so briefly? Will I go back to Riften and discover it’s just business as usual?
Dag sighed, and thought once again about Bronze Water Cave, her mental cry to Brynjolf not to leave her alone. It wasn’t the being alone part that had bothered her; she’d had no problem with the notion of Karliah returning to Riften then. It was being without him that had seemed like a gaping wound, the same way Mercer’s comment in Snow Veil Sanctum had.
The last thing that had been on her mind was being involved with him. At least that had been her belief. She had actively wanted to not be involved with him. At least that’s what she’d thought. And yet against all reason, contrary to all common sense, and likely without any hope of reciprocation she had found herself tangled up with Brynjolf of Riften, head of the Thieves Guild in Skyrim; and, she realized with a sense almost of desperation, she wanted it to stay that way. She didn’t want yet another important person to walk out of her life the way Coyle had, the way Roggi had.
Almost, Mercer. You almost succeeded. But you won’t have the satisfaction from the grave of seeing us apart for decades as well, at least not if there is anything I can do about it.
I have to at least try, to see whether it is even a possibility.
She stood up, brushed off her Nightingale armor and started east, back to Riften.
