Chapter Text
Hel leads them through Riften, Mercer trailing along in her wake. It’s much warmer than Winterhold, but there’s still a stiff chill blowing in from the lake, and Mercer shivers, pressing closer to Hel’s back.
They make for the cemetery, opening the normal entrance to the underground, and Hel descends first.
Mercer’s breathing hard after only a few steps down the ladder, his arms shaking, but he manages to descend all the way, stumbling when he drops off the ladder. Hel catches him, her strong arms wrapping around his shoulders, releasing him when he finds his feet.
He turns and sees every member of the Thieves Guild staring at him, their eyes wide.
“What?” he snaps, baring his teeth at them all.
“Mercer,” Brynjolf greets, recovering more quickly than everyone else. “Karliah came back. She said you were dead. She…told us something else.”
“You’re alive,” Karliah says, walking out from the Ragged Flagon and into the Cistern.
Light blazes, and Hel steps in front of Mercer, flames wreathing her arms.
“ You ,” she growls. Her eyes are full of rage, but the flames only emit gentle warmth toward Mercer. The others shield their eyes, and Brynjolf dives in front of Karliah.
“Brynjolf, move,” Hel orders. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Please, let her explain.”
“She tried to kill Mercer. She’ll never see another sunrise.” Her voice is cold as an ice wraith and hard as daedric steel. Mercer sways, fatigue getting to him again, and he steadies himself on Hel’s back.
“Hel,” he says, gripping the back of her cloak. “It’s fine.”
Hel turns, the flames extinguishing immediately as he grabs him again under his elbows. “Easy,” she says, helping him sink to the ground. She kneels in front of him, her hands coming to cradle his face, her thumbs brushing over his cheeks.
“Disgusting,” Karliah snarls. “After what you did, you don’t deserve to have someone care about you.”
Hel spins, the fire relighting in her palms, but Brynjolf is still in the way.
“Bryn!” Hel shouts. “Move!”
Sweat beads on Brynjolf’s forehead, and he looks to Mercer.
“Hel,” Mercer coaxes. “It’s fine. Leave Karliah alone.”
“But she killed you. You died.”
“I killed Gallus, so we’re even.”
Dead silence in the Cistern.
“You…you killed Gallus?” Brynjolf asks, his voice small.
“You don’t know the whole story,” Mercer defends, struggling back to his feet with Hel’s help.
“Then tell us,” Delvin chimes in.
So Mercer opens up and gives the whole sad tale, and is met with ringing silence. Brynjolf looks torn between loyalty to his Guildmaster and sympathy to Karliah. Most people never met Gallus, so they’re just looking on with confusion at this point.
“Lass, what do you make of this?” Brynjolf asks Hel.
“Honestly?” Hel asks, tilting her head. “I wouldn’t care if Mercer murdered Gallus in cold blood.”
Karliah takes a dangerous step forward, but Hel quells her with a look. Mercer’s never seen her so coldly furious. He’s sure if he hadn’t stopped her, Karliah would be dead now. Mercer’s glad Hel has his back, no matter what. Why was he so worried about telling her about Gallus in the first place?
“Who do we believe?” Etienne asks, sheltering next to Rune. He hasn’t been out thieving since his release from Thalmor prison, but Mercer didn’t have the heart to force him out there. Not when Hel went through a similar event.
“Mercer’s obviously lying,” Karliah says.
Mercer doesn’t even care. He’s tired.
“Gallus used to keep a journal,” Delvin points out. “If we find it, it might hold the truth.”
“The journal’s in my house,” Mercer offers. “I’d get it for you but…” he trails off, lets his head drop onto Hel’s shoulder, takes a deep breath. He can’t imagine leaving the Cistern, going up all those stairs to his house. Besides, they might not even believe him.
“Mercer,” Hel prompts, stroking a long-fingered hand through his hair.
He hums, his eyes still closed.
“Mercer,” she says more firmly.
He blinks his eyes open and does his best to straighten up.
“Yes. I’m fine,” he says, trying to head off any worrying.
Hel helps him straighten. “Come on,” she whispers. “Let’s get you to bed.”
He doesn’t protest, doesn’t try to put on a brave face in front of his Guild. He supposes it’s over now. They’ve probably lost all respect for him. He glances over, and everyone looks devastated.
Brynjolf can hardly meet his eyes, Delvin looks grim, Vex looks furious. The others are watching everything with bewilderment and worry on their faces.
Karliah glares him down, but Mercer doesn’t have the energy to care about it. Besides, Hel keeps herself between Karliah and Mercer the whole time. The air shimmers with protective magic, and Mercer squeezes her hand in thanks.
Hel takes him outside, helping him through the dark streets to his house. She nods at his guard and leads him up the stairs, supporting him subtly.
Mercer’s legs are dragging, his entire body is fatigued, even after sleeping for days straight. He just wants their bed.
Hel pauses inside the door, casting runes of protection. The air smells like ozone, and Mercer knows that anyone with ill intent will be destroyed if they try to break in.
He catches his breath while leaning against the wall, and when she’s done, Hel pulls him up the stairs and slowly lowers him into their bed.
“Stay here,” she says. “I’m going to protect the house.”
Mercer tries to wait up for her, but he falls asleep before she returns.
Brynjolf comes by the next day for the journal. Mercer has staggered from his bed to his sitting table, and Hel has brought him breakfast. She sits with him now, the book she was reading to him facedown on the table as she watches Brynjolf stand in the doorway with mistrustful eyes.
“Don’t look at me that way, lass,” Brynjolf begs, clutching Gallus’ journal in white-knuckled hands.
“What way?” she says, her voice glacial.
“Like I’ve betrayed you.”
“Mercer was killed by that bitch, and you chose her over your guildmaster. Over me.”
“He looks fine to me,” Brynjolf ventures, trying to lift the tense mood with a joke. It falls flat, and Hel remains unmoved.
“Get out,” Hel snarls, her hands flattened onto the table. Mercer knows it’s her way of trying to hold herself back. He can almost taste the smoke.
Brynjolf leaves, and Hel relaxes marginally, picking the book back up to resume their story.
Mercer sighs. “You can’t be mad at him forever.”
She glances at him over the book, her golden eyes narrowed. “I’m sure I’ll forgive him eventually. Only when he comes grovelling on his knees.”
He chuckles. “Fine. His funeral.”
They’re invited (summoned) to the Ragged Flagon after a few days. Mercer is feeling better, if a little short of breath after moderate exercise. He’s not so exhausted, and his chest has stopped hurting. They walk into the Flagon, Hel watching with sharp eyes.
She bristles when she spots Karliah, but Mercer tugs her over to an empty table with two chairs, and Hel reluctantly sits down next to him, not taking her eyes from the Dunmer.
Everyone else sits down, following Mercer’s lead, and Brynjolf pulls out a piece of paper.
“Thank you for coming,” he starts. “Gallus’ journal was in ancient Falmer, but we were able to find a translator.”
“Enthir, I presume,” Hel cuts in, her Arch Mage mantle falling about her shoulders as she names one of her mages.
Brynjolf nods reluctantly. “R-right.” The stutter is uncharacteristic, but Hel’s fiery glare is piercing. Mercer is glad it’s never been turned on him. “I’ll read off the translation.”
He clears his throat and reads.
Mercer Frey continues to elude my every step. I think he's aware I'm following him, and appears to be taking no unnecessary chances. I'm bringing all of my skills to the forefront in order to deceive him. It still pains me that the deception is necessary. When I became a Nightingale, using my new found talents against my own was the furthest thought from my mind.
There was a close call today. I was settling down for a night's rest in the cistern when Mercer Frey entered unexpectedly. He was creeping along the wall, but I spotted him immediately. He edged closer to the vault door, making his way carefully around the perimeter of the room, but suddenly stopped and turned towards my hiding place. I froze instantly, even holding my breath for a moment, but my position was already compromised. He abruptly turned and walked back towards the Flagon. What was he doing?
At last I have evidence that might explain Mercer Frey's actions. Instead of trying to follow him or break into his manor, I used every loose-tongued source at my disposal to scour the Ratway looking for answers. It took several weeks, but Maul was able to provide an interesting bit of information. Mercer had been spending inordinately large sums of coin on all manner of things unrelated to the guild. How he was able to afford this was a mystery to me. The vault was impregnable, so what was the source of his coin?
It's been confirmed by my sources - Mercer's been living an unduly lavish lifestyle replete with spending vast amounts of gold on personal pleasures. I have more than my share of evidence to confront him now. He must be stealing from the guild, but without proof all I have is baseless accusation. Mercer came from wealthy stock, but the amount of coin he's been spending is immense.
I've been giving it some serious thought. There's only a single way that Mercer could have access to vast amounts of coin. I hesitate to even believe it's possible. How could he possibly desecrate the Twilight Sepulcher? This goes far beyond mere greed and transcends common theft. His actions could represent the failure of the Nightingales, something that hasn't occurred in hundreds of years. Why? Why would he readily throw away everything he believes in? All I need is proof.
Mercer Frey has requested I meet him at Snow Veil Sanctum today. He sent a note by courier, so I can only assume he's already there. All of my senses tell me that it's a trap, but I have no choice. His message indicated the meeting was of the utmost urgency and involved guild business, so I'm obligated to go. I can't risk bringing anyone else with me, but I'm almost certain Karliah will disobey and follow.
Brynjolf places the paper down and waits for everyone’s reactions.
“Well, that’s heavy,” Vipir breaks the tension.
Delvin frowns and leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “It says that Gallus was still trying to find proof when he died. All he had was speculation.”
Vex looks torn, looking to Delvin and over at Mercer before her gaze hardens. “We still can’t trust him in case Gallus was right.”
Mercer feels his heart fall as the guild is torn two ways. Half the members think he’s guilty of stealing from the guild, the other half believe his side of events.
Hel cuts through the debate neatly.
“So what’s the ultimate decision? Is Mercer still our Guildmaster or not?”
The rest of the guild exchange glances, and they all seem to come to an agreement. Mercer’s heart drops into his stomach.
Tonilia delivers the news, and Mercer appreciates her no-nonsense attitude. “Regardless of the truth, trust has been broken. We can’t continue with you as the Guildmaster.”
He nods as if this is only expected, and he can feel Hel’s comforting hand on his back.
“Understood,” he answers. He has nothing else to say. “Give me a few days to tie up loose ends then I’ll be on my way.”
“You don’t have to leave,” Delvin cuts in.
“Speak for yourself,” Vex snarls, crossing her arms.
Brynjolf makes the decision. “You can stay on. We’ll give you a partner until you’ve rebuilt the trust you lost. And no, it can’t be Hel.”
It’s more than he thought he’d get. He doesn’t know if he wants to take the offer. After being the Guildmaster for 25 years, he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to go back to being a subordinate and taking orders from someone.
“I’ll think about it,” is what he lands on. He gets to his feet and returns to his house, Hel a golden shadow at his back.
He hides under his covers for a bit, trying to turn over the idea of being a guild member instead of the master. He doesn’t know. He has his friends here, but he doesn’t particularly enjoy thieving. Of course there’s the challenge of it, but after so many years, the novelty has really worn off. It’s more like a habit now.
He hears the covers rustle, and a familiar golden figure squirms underneath the blankets until they’re right next to him. Her hair is wet from the bath, but the heat radiating off the both of them and filling their soft little cave will soon remedy that.
“Septim for your thoughts?” she says, nudging their noses together.
It gets him to cross his eyes, and he smiles at her light giggle.
“I don’t know if I want to stay in the Thieves Guild.”
Hel hums noncommittally. “What will you do instead?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I always thought my life would end sooner rather than later, and now that it’s later, I don’t know what to do.” It’s a difficult admission. He’s always had a plan about everything.
“Do you want time to think about it, or would you like some suggestions?” Hel asks.
“Suggestions,” he answers. “Please.”
She pretends to think. He knows she’s already come up with several possibilities.
“Well, you could come join me at the college. Be the Archmage’s consort.”
“I did enjoy playing that role,” he admits.
“Or, I could resign my position and we could start a new life together.”
“Doing what?” he asks, intrigued.
“We talked about Solthseim that one time. We could go there, see what it’s like. Adventure a little. Explore.” She strokes long fingers up his bare arm.
He wrinkles his nose. “Maybe."
She doesn’t seem offended. “We could buy a house, settle down, have a garden.”
“How would we make our living?” he asks, buying into the fantasy.
“I could open an apothecary, or I could enchant items for people. You could train people in sword fighting.”
“Where would we live?” he asks.
“Falkreath. Or Rorikstead. Somewhere warm, where the soil is rich.”
“That sounds nice,” he says. “On weekends we could go exploring together. Keep in shape.”
“We could execute bounties for the Jarl to keep our home safe. We’d be locally adored.”
He huffs a laugh. “Imagine being publicly adored instead of shunned,” he jokes. He’s always been a thief, and Hel has always been a mage in a country that hates magic.
“I don’t know,” she says. “It might be nice.”
Even in the darkness under the covers, he can sense her smile. He scoots in until they’re intertwined, and he takes a deep, happy breath. He has a future. A plan. The Thieves Guild is safe, and doubtless Brynjolf will be elected the new leader. And he has Hel. He goes to sleep happy.