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They were bad times, the years that immediately followed Gallus's death. Most people, Mercer Frey amongst them, led through the sheer brute force of their will, using whatever strategies worked, which was usually a mixture of coercion, threats and bribery. With others, the rarer ones, it was like they were born to it, and not a single person would ever dream of resisting. That was Gallus, and in the wake of his murder, tensions in the Ratway erupted into violence. It was a war, conducted almost entirely in Nocturnal's shadows, but occasionally spilling out into the streets above.
No one could count afterwards how many throats had been slit under the cover of darkness in that brutal and bloody scrabble for power: in those days the Ratway had been thick with Imperial thieves, refugees from Cyrodiil who’d fled the Great War, and were smart enough to make themselves scarce when they got a sniff of another war coming.
Brynjolf, who had taken no sides and wanted no part of the power struggles, judged it wise to remove himself from Riften for a while, but even on the other side of the province it wasn’t possible to escape the infighting, and he had begun to wonder if he shouldn’t take himself out of Skyrim completely, try his luck in Hammerfell, maybe.
In Solitude he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched. He’d look up and see a shadow half-hidden in the lee of a building, or a skitter of movement on a rooftop in the corner of his eye.
Most thieves were superstitious, and although Brynjolf had never thought himself that way inclined, the feeling was catching. If stealing was like music, these days most jobs felt like songs being played in a discordant key. Something was off, and Brynjolf couldn’t figure out why. He saw things, and even knowing it was bullshit, they felt like signs, such as a flock of ravens he'd seen gathered around the corpse of a dead horker on the shore of the Sea of Ghosts. Brynjolf had no gods, he wanted no gods, but he was too canny a man not to know you didn’t always get a say in the matter.
One night, a couple of days after he’d spotted the horker, he felt that same itch again and saw a figure standing in the mouth of an alleyway. The space beneath its hood was so heavily shadowed it might not have had a face at all, but he knew it was Karliah, although he couldn’t have said how. The figure melted into the alley as he marched towards it, and he hesitated, his hand resting on the hilt of his dagger.
The alley was empty, ending in a dead end, and his gaze rose to the roof above, the slates slick with the same rain that had soaked his hair though, plastering it to his skull. Probably there’d never been anyone there at all, but if there had been, by now she’d be on the rooftops, as good as out of his reach. Even as a boy he'd never been that kind of thief. No head for heights.
Why'd you do it, lass? he wondered.
His momentary flash of rage had evaporated, washed away in the chill rain. He used to find the shadows a comfort; now they gave him the creeps. When you couldn't rely on the one thing you'd relied on all your life, what else was there?
And so because he’d finally come to realise he wouldn’t feel safe anywhere, he returned to Riften.
He was shocked by the state the Ratway had gotten into in his absence. He was expecting it to be run down, but he hadn’t realised it would be as bad as this. Aside from Delvin, he barely recognised any of the shadowy figures drinking in the Flagon. They looked like thugs.
Delvin was the only thing that hadn’t changed, and he really hadn’t changed, all too willing to explain to Brynjolf everything that had happened in his absence, the reasons for them, why it meant they were all fucked.
"Mercer’s angry with you," he told Brynjolf over the rim of his flagon.
"Where is Mercer?"
"He’s around somewhere. He’s taken to sleeping somewhere deep in the Ratway. He doesn’t trust any of us these days."
"After what happened to Gallus, can you blame him?"
Silence then, the flagon stilled, Delvin’s eyes glittering. There was a question in them, one neither of them would ever voice aloud.
It took him a while, but he found Mercer.
He went the scenic route, slowly, and as silently as a big man like him could manage, exploring the sewers, rats skittering ahead of him as he readjusted to the strange way the sound carried in the deeper Ratways, to the drip of water and the noises filtering down from the streets above, to snatches of conversation so close the speakers might have been whispering directly into his ear.
In a chamber with a high vaulted ceiling, he heard the scuff of footsteps just in time to freeze against the brickwork, and an instant later saw Mercer emerge from a passage and skirt around the edge of the chamber, circling closer. Brynjolf hesitated, uncertain whether he ought to announce his presence and step out from his hiding place. From what he’d heard from Delvin, nothing good would come of Mercer thinking that Brynjolf had been spying on him: the man didn’t trust anyone these days, even old friends. What he ought to do was slip back to the Flagon and wait for Mercer to find him there, which he inevitably would, but it was as if the shadows had solidified, holding him pressed to the brickwork. His instincts had been less than reliable lately, but he was struck by the certainty that something bad was going to happen.
Mercer could feel it too. His footsteps slowed, his eyes glittering. Then a shadow detached from the wall behind Mercer and edged towards him. As it passed under a grating, light glinted on an unsheathed blade. Brynjolf opened his mouth to call a warning.
He didn’t get the chance. Mercer spun, like he knew what was coming. As the figure made for him, Mercer knocked the arm holding the dagger aside, drove the flat of his palm upwards into the would-be assassin’s nose, and then brought his own dagger up up into his guts and wrenched. For a moment the two men were locked close as lovers, staring at each other, then the assassin coughed black blood over his lips, and Mercer jerked his dagger free and shoved the dying man away.
Brynjolf would have laid good coin on his never having made a sound, but it was as if Mercer knew he was there anyway. Before Brynjolf even knew what was coming, Mercer had gabbed his shirt and slammed him up against the brick, the blade to Brynjolf’s throat and a look of contempt in his eyes. He didn’t appear surprised.
"You too, Brynjolf?"
"I was about to help."
"You're lying. She sent you back, didn't she?"
"Who–" The blade pricked deeper, nicking the skin of his throat. Brynjolf tried inconspicuously to grope for his own dagger, but the slightest movement caused Mercer to shift position, and his threat was clear.
"I’m not in the mood to be lied to, Brynjolf. Karliah, of course."
"Karliah's long gone. She wouldn't be stupid enough to come back."
Mercer shook his head. "She knows she won't be safe until I'm dead. And there’s always someone willing to crawl into the gutter for a pretty pair of eyes."
"I loved Gallus too," Brynjolf spat back. "And if I ever see Karliah, she's a dead woman."
The dagger at his throat eased, but only a fraction. Mercer’s lips peeled back from his teeth. "You expect me to believe you're loyal to me."
"I'm loyal to whoever can earn me the most coin." Wary, but hoping he’d judged Mercer right, Brynjolf reached up, and grasped his wrist, expecting his throat to be cut at any moment. "We both know that's you, Mercer."
"So long as I represent a good investment."
"Aye. Did you ever doubt me?"
Mercer eyed him for a few more moments, then, just when Brynjolf had begun to think he’d have to risk making a grab for his dagger, after all, and risk the inevitable slitting of his throat, Mercer eased the dagger away with a dismissive sweep of his hand that he might have intended as a conciliatory gesture. Brynjolf rubbed his throat and pushed himself away from the wall, rolling his shoulders. No harm save a nick in his throat and a kicking to his pride, but he'd always known Mercer was one of the best.
Even Gallus couldn’t have matched him in a fight, he thought, and then wished he hadn’t.
"I suppose I should be grateful," Mercer said sourly as he turned to the body and kicked it onto its back to look it over. "Your pragmatism makes you predictable. If you ever decide to cut my throat, I'll probably see it coming." He checked the corpse’s face, then gave a hiss of disgust, before he straightened up and stepped over it as if he’d forgotten it was ever there. "Come on then, if you’re coming."
"Things are still difficult around here, then," Brynjolf said, catching up with him.
Mercer grunted. "They're like skeever nests. As soon as you poison one, another two spring up." He took an abrupt turn down a passage so narrow Brynjolf had to squeeze through sideways on, the grimy brick scraping against his battered leather armour, and then left, ducking his head beneath the lintel of a doorway too low even for a Breton.
The room beyond was lit by a lantern, and was clean enough, if sparsely furnished. There was little sign of habitation: a couple of mouldering books; a spare shirt hanging on the back of a chair. If this was where Mercer slept these days, it didn’t look like it got a lot of use.
Mercer locked the door behind them, crossed to the desk and picked up a bottle of brandy to pour them both a glass.
In the lantern light, Brynjolf could see him better. He looked like shit, his skin grey and waxy, like he hadn’t seen the sun in a while, and his exhaustion, as much as he was trying to hide it, was evident in his posture, the way he leaned against the desk when he thought Brynjolf wasn’t looking. He hadn’t shaved in days, the stubble on his jaw patchy and flecked with grey hairs Brynjolf couldn’t remember being there before, and there were new lines deep-scored around his eyes. He looked like he’d aged a decade in the past year alone.
"Exactly how many people have tried to kill you, Mercer?"
At that, Mercer glanced up with something that looked like the shadow of a smile. "I've lost count."
"Gods." Brynjolf slumped into a chair, overwhelmed by a momentary pang of pity.
Mercer’s smile didn’t last. Grim-faced, he handed Brynjolf a glass of brandy and sat down. "Someone has to lead this rabble. I owe it to Gallus. And I have plans for this place. For the Guild. The gods know I can never live up to him, but know this, Bryn, I mean to try." He brought the glass of brandy to his lips, eyeing Brynjolf over the rim. The glasses were grimy, but the brandy was good. "Unless you think you can do a better job."
"You know me, Mercer. I could never be a leader."
"Content to follow, Brynjolf?"
"Aye. Always."
"Good. I need men I can trust."
Brynjolf sipped his brandy, aware of his throat stinging where the dagger had bit through his skin. If that was trust, he thought, he didn't want to know what Mercer would do to someone he actively distrusted.
"Bad times," Mercer was saying. "Without Gallus to follow, they turned on each other. They turned on me. It was her, Brynjolf. Buying time. I'll find her. I'll track her down." Mercer's lip curled. "She left the Guild a bloody mess, all of them slipping in the blood she spilled, scrabbling over each other to position themselves as leader. She knew exactly what she was doing. She killed Gallus and she set this in motion."
"Why?"
"She doesn't need a reason," Mercer said roughly. He looked away, the muscles in his jaw working furiously. When he spoke again, his voice twisted with grief. "That bitch. If I'd known…" He fell silent, his voice choked off.
When he looked back, his eyes were filled with a depth of despair Brynjolf had never seen before, and had never expected to see from Mercer Frey of all people. A moment later, the flash of vulnerability was gone, and Mercer’s jaw had tightened, his eyes dark with anger, but it was too late, and if Brynjolf had ever been harbouring any doubts about the truth about the way Gallus had died, in that moment they were wiped clean. Whatever else Mercer was, whatever else he might have done, his grief was real. His desolation and despair for the man he’d loved like a brother was so intense a knot in Brynjolf’s throat tightened with remembered grief.
He swallowed it down with brandy, said roughly, "Karliah’s gone."
In his mind he saw the rain-streaked rooftops, the suggestion of a cloaked figure, crouched on the tiles. He could hear the doubt in his voice, and so could Mercer.
"Are you hiding something from me, Brynjolf?"
"No." Even before the word was out of his mouth he knew it sounded like a lie.
He snatched for his dagger, but he was nowhere near fast enough to match Mercer’s speed. In seconds, the chairs had been knocked over and Brynjolf was pressed against the desk with the point of Mercer’s dagger pricking against his gut.
He's losing his mind, Brynjolf thought.
Mercer was breathing hard, his breath raspy. His hand had clenched so tight around the hilt of his dagger his knuckles were white. "You’ve seen her too," he demanded, seeming half-mad with paranoia and grief. It seemed more a question than an accusation.
"I don’t know what I saw," Brynjolf said. "Things have been strange lately. I’ve been getting spooked." Delvin’s words, his dire warnings of a curse, returned to his mind but that was a familiar tale, nothing new there. This time, though, it actually felt like there might be something in it. Something in the air, something in the shadows.
Mercer might have been quick to anger, but it was vanishing already. Brynjolf gripped the back of Mercer's neck, wondering just how close he was to the edge these days. Whether he should have come back sooner. He’d considered Mercer a friend once, told himself he still did. More or less.
"We’re seeing ghosts," he said, as gently as he could. "Shadows."
Mercer let out a bitter laugh. "Shadows. Oh, Brynjolf, If you knew..." He broke off, clenching his jaw against whatever he’d been about to say, then he glared at Brynjolf. He’d bared his teeth in a humourless grin of contempt and anger, all the fiercer at the pity he had to have seen in Brynjolf’s eyes. Brynjolf’s certainty that something was up with Mercer seemed now like the understatement of the era: Mercer was all but drunk with grief, paranoid, and struggling to contain the depths of a rage Brynjolf couldn't have begun to guess at.
When Mercer kissed him, he didn’t bother to remove the dagger from Brynjolf’s gut. The kiss was violent, open-mouthed and hungry, Mercer’s stubble scratched against Brynjolf’s jaw, his tongue forcing itself between Brynjolf’s lips. Brynjolf responded in kind, gripping Mercer's hair, and pulling it with violence to match the kiss, tasting blood and brandy on Mercer's lips.
Mercer pulled away, eyes gleaming, lip still curled. There was a deliberate intensity to his words when he spoke: "You'd follow me into Oblivion, Brynjolf?"
"If there's enough coin in it," Brynjolf said. It was an honest answer, but suspicion glinted in Mercer's eyes.
"If that's true," Mercer said, "then it means you can be bought." He lingered over the words, rolling them in his mouth, eyes bright with a feverish glint. Sweat shone on his brow.
"Anyone can be bought. Anyone who says otherwise is a liar."
"Not exactly reassuring, Bryn." Mercer shifted, his gaze dropping to where Brynjolf’s erection pressed against the leather of his pants. "Take your cock out."
A moment passed. Brynjolf was thrown, unsure whether to obey. Then he leaned back against the desk. His mouth dry, he fumbled at the fastenings of his pants and did as Mercer ordered, curling his fingers around the base of his shaft and keeping them there. Mercer didn't so much as glance down; his glittering eyes remained fixed on Brynjolf's face, his hair sticking to the sweat on his forehead, but he swallowed, his hand flexing around the dagger as he deliberately shifted his hips to press his own cock against Brynjolf’s thigh.
It was one of the hardest things Brynjolf had ever done, trying to keep his sweat-dampened hand from stroking the shaft of his straining cock, but he wanted to hear Mercer say it, wanted him to break and give the order. His cock seemed to be hardening more with every second that passed, and the leather pants bunched around his hips constrained his movements, focusing his attention on his cock. His grip tightened reflexively as Mercer leaned in and ran his open lips over the skin of Brynjolf's throat. His tongue flicked against the skin. "Do it," he growled. "I want to see you come."
"The knife’s a bit of a distraction."
Mercer's other hand skimmed over the head of his cock. He barely brushed against it, but the sudden contact was enough to make Brynjolf's hips jerk in search of more. Mercer grinned without humour. "It doesn't seem to have bothered you so far," he said.
Brynjolf's breath came shallow, the heat of his arousal pooling in his gut. He obeyed, beginning the familiar motions of masturbation, although in truth, it wasn't just for Mercer's sake: he couldn't have held out much longer. There was no art to it, and it had been too long. He felt like an adolescent again, the pace fast and urgent, and his orgasm already threatening to come too quickly.
"Slower," Mercer hissed in his ear, and Brynjolf gritted his teeth, forcing himself to obey Mercer's command, but if the idea was to delay his orgasm it was only ever going to be partially successful. He drew out each stroke – and gods how he wanted to squeeze tighter – sliding his loosely clenched fist to the head, drawing the foreskin up and over it in a slow circular movement, the head nestling in the warm damp hollow of his sweat-slick palm, then drawing it down again agonisingly slowly. With his other hand he braced himself against the table.
Mercer nipped at his ear, sucked the lobe between his lips. Distracted as he was, Brynjolf didn't even notice when the dagger went from his gut, not until Mercer began using it to slice through the fastenings of his leather armour, roughly stripping Brynjolf to his undergarments.
He was getting close, edging closer to his orgasm. His balls had tightened, and his cock twitched in his hand like it had a mind of its own, demanding more. Seemed like every muscle in his body had gone rigid, because he was having to fight to hold himself still, to stop himself from thrusting his hips in his desperation to come. He’d take orders, yeah, but that didn’t mean he had any intention of humiliating himself by letting Mercer see just how badly he’d needed this. His cock was aching, and it had been too long, far too fucking long.
When Mercer stepped back, his expression unreadable, Brynjolf took the opportunity to earn himself a little respite. He stripped, hauling his undershirt over his head. Shivering slightly in the cool damp air, he eyed Mercer, trying to ignore how vulnerable he felt to be naked while Mercer was fully dressed. Mercer's eyes were so dark they were almost black. He seemed to be taking as little joy in this as he did everything else in his life. Brynjolf felt a twist of a painful emotion in his throat. Unsure which of them he was trying to distract, he gave up and gripped his erection again.
This time he needed no urging to take it slow and make a show of it, not with Mercer watching him, surreptitiously squeezing his own through his leather pants.
"Take it out," Brynjolf suggested.
Mercer eyed him grimly. "Who's giving the orders here?"
"You are–" He broke off at a sharp stab of pleasure, his slow rhythmic movements losing their cohesion. He wanted to do it harder, wanted to bring himself to his peak as hard and fast as he could, wanted Mercer to close his mouth around the head of his cock, wanted to do the same to him. Each time he moved his hand or shifted his grip, the sensations multiplied, the pleasure tightening in his groin, the rhythm harder to maintain. His strokes were already losing their rhythm. His hand clenched reflexively, one moment his grip too tight and the next too loose, because he was over-compensating for the urge to pump himself hard and frantic until he came all over Mercer's lovely filthy floor. He bit back a groan of desperate pleasure.
Mercer rose to his feet and came toward him. Brynjolf started to drop his hand in anticipation, but a sharp reprimand from Mercer prevented him. He had just enough time to see the dagger was thankfully nowhere in evidence, and then Mercer’s callused hand was wrapping around his, their fingers momentarily lacing together. He guided Brynjolf in the next stroke, but as Brynjolf drew his hand back down, Mercer’s hand lingered at the head of his cock. He slipped the pads of his fingers over it in delicate teasing movements, gathering up the slippery precome and spreading it across the silken skin as Brynjolf dropped his head back with a groan.
Mercer's forefingers found the underside of his cock, and while his thumb caressed the top in slow circles, his forefingers straightened out, reaching down the length of his shaft. They slid upwards with gentle but insistent pressure in a coaxing movement while Brynjolf panted, his hand clenched at the base of his cock.
"Fuck, Mercer," he whispered through gritted teeth. Mercer leant into him. Brynjolf drew in the smell of leather and fresh sweat, soap and the sewer-stink none of them could ever quite get out of their skin and hair. Mercer was distractedly grinding himself against Brynjolf’s thigh, his cock rock-hard. Brynjolf imagined him rutting himself to his own sticky orgasm, coming inside his pants at the sight and weight and feel of Brynjolf's cock in his hand, and he groaned deep in his throat at the thought of Mercer so aroused he couldn’t help himself. "That's–"
"Don't you ever shut up?" Mercer growled.
"Not often, no." Brynjolf grinned up at the ceiling. "Of course, I might," he added deliberately. "If I had a cock in my mouth."
Mercer's hand stilled. Even his hips stopped their movements. Brynjolf took advantage of his own size and strength and used the strap of Mercer's scarred and battered armour to pull Mercer's hips harder against him. Mercer's breath caught in his chest, mingled arousal and what Brynjolf recognised a second too late as anger. Mercer drew back, his mouth pressed into a hard line, his jaw tensed in a way that suggested his teeth were gritted and it was taking everything he had not to grind them.
One look at his expression and Brynjolf was regretting joking about it, because if he wasn't entirely certain he wanted to be here himself, then Mercer was absolutely fucking positive.
"Mercer–" he started to say, without knowing quite how he was going to complete the sentence.
With sudden roughness, Mercer kissed him again, knocking his hand away and shoving him back against the desk with sudden violence. His hand clenched tight around Brynjolf’s cock, hard enough to hurt. So hard that Brynjolf was already opening his mouth to tell him to go gentler, and then he didn't because while it kind of hurt it was also perfect, and safer than something gentler might have been. He didn't want gentleness. Not now. Not from Mercer of all people. The last thing Brynjolf needed was to start caring about another guildmaster. He'd have thought Mercer would have been a safe bet in that at least.
With barely two unforgiving jerks of Mercer's wrist, the orgasm seemed to hit him out of nowhere, as violent and unexpected as Mercer’s attentions. Brynjolf groaned into Mercer’s mouth as he came, his seed pulsing over Mercer’s hand and his entire body shuddering with the force of the orgasm.
As he recovered, he found Mercer glaring at him. Mercer lifted his hand, and wiped Brynjolf's seed deliberately on his leather armour. The urgent press of his erection was impossible to ignore. When he spoke, his voice was a low growl. "Turn around."
"Mercer–"
"You said you'd follow me. That means obeying orders. Turn around."
His jaw clenched, Brynjolf turned around, bracing himself against the desk, his chest tight with mingled anger and arousal. Mercer set his hand on his back between his shoulder-blades and ran it down his spine to his backside. There was the scrape of a drawer opening, Mercer using his weight to keep Brynjolf in place, although if Brynjolf wanted to shake him off he could have done and they both knew it. It was Dwemer oil, he realised with a creeping shiver he didn’t quite understand; he could smell its cold metallic edge when Mercer slicked him up, spreading Brynjolf's buttocks and working his fingers inside his arsehole.
He didn’t bother undressing entirely, only enough to free his cock. When he pressed against Brynjolf, positioning the tip of his cock at his entrance, Brynjolf felt bunched leather rough against the backs of his thighs, the buckles and pockets of the armour against his back.
He hadn’t expected Mercer to be gentle, and he wasn’t, not exactly, but he paused for a long time, his breath ragged. In fact, there was a moment when he thought Mercer had thought better of it and was having second thoughts; when Brynjolf glanced back he caught a glazed expression in Mercer’s eyes, like he’d lost himself for a second. Then he began to ease inside, insistent but taking his time, his cock thicker than Brynjolf had expected even from what what he'd seen of the bulge beneath the leather. The momentary pain was made worse somehow by the care Mercer took, and how each slow push deeper felt excruciating as Brynjolf's body adjusted, the sensation somewhere between pleasure and pain.
Brynjolf's hands tightened on the edge of the desk as Mercer forced him forwards. The wood rasped against his thighs. The physical pain of being stretched and the painstaking care Mercer was taking mingled into two twin strands, impossible to untangle. Occasionally he would stop moving completely so that Brynjolf reached the point where all he wanted to do was push back against Mercer and demand that he just shove inside. Then Mercer would shift again and his cock would stab a little deeper, sending a sensation of sudden pleasure spasming through him. Or Mercer's grip would tighten on Brynjolf’s hip in a deliberate warning.
Even when Mercer was fully inside, he was still for a long time, fingers biting into Brynjolf's flesh. Regretting it, maybe, like this intimacy was a step too far. Brynjolf growled and pushed back against him. Mercer gave a sharp intake of breath, and then he began to move. Slow at first, with a few testing thrusts, but he quickly gained pace and grew rough, fucking Brynjolf so hard there'd be bruises on his upper thighs the next day from where his thighs were banging against the desk. What pain there was from being stretched tight around Mercer’s cock was rapidly transmuted through the alchemy of arousal to pleasure, and his cock was already hardening again.
Mercer gripped his hair and leaned forwards across his back, forcing Brynjolf’s head around for a biting kiss, all teeth and tongue and spittle. When Mercer came, he came hard, and without warning, slamming into Brynjolf with a groan that seemed to have been wrenched out of him by force, his hips spasming.
He shuddered and went still. His grip on Brynjolf’s hair eased and he rested his forehead on Brynjolf’s back, his panting breath warming his skin. One hand was planted on the desk, the nails of the other scratching in lazy circles against Brynjolf's spine in a curiously tender gesture. Brynjolf's throat tightened. By the time Mercer eased himself out, his cock was softening.
Brynjolf straightened up, eyeing Mercer warily. His eyes were closed, and it occurred to Brynjolf that he'd never seen Mercer looking so vulnerable. It didn’t last. Brynjolf gripped his shoulder and Mercer's eyes snapped open and the moment had passed, but before he could open his mouth to snap something or give another order, Brynjolf leaned down and kissed him. It was a gentler kiss this time, despite Brynjolf's own misgivings.
Mercer stiffened and for an instant Brynjolf was certain he’d wrench away, then he shuddered, his arm slipping around Brynjolf’s back and tightening like he wanted to force Brynjolf to kiss him harder, to introduce some violence into the mix, anything other than this unwanted tenderness. Then he felt Brynjolf's semi-hard cock against him and he growled deep in his throat, his eyes darkening.
In bed, and naked now, he took Brynjolf's cock in his mouth, swallowing it to the throat with an expertise that Brynjolf sure as Oblivion hadn't been expecting, then drawing it out, to play around the head with his tongue. He was as rough in this as he was in everything else, but there was an edge of something else to it too, the occasional glimmer of something that could have been tenderness if they’d both been different sorts of men. Maybe they’d come to an understanding, Brynjolf thought, although probably that was bullshit. Either way, at the moment he came, burying his fingers in Mercer’s hair, he didn’t give a fuck. Afterwards, he raised his eyebrows in an unvoiced question, reaching out his hand for Mercer’s semi-hard cock, and Mercer shook his head with the same not-quite-a-smile. He appreciated the offer, he said, but that was wishful thinking. Brynjolf wasn’t convinced, but Mercer didn’t turf him out and neither did he get dressed, giving Brynjolf the opportunity to see his scars old and new, the changes in his body as a result of too much time spent underground. His skin was fishbelly white, his chest hair grey and sparse.
"You're getting flabby," Brynjolf said. "When was the last time you did a job? Earned some honest coin."
"Coin," Mercer said bitterly. "Is that all it comes down to?"
"What else is there?"
"There used to be a time when we stole for the joy of it. Because we could." Those tales Gallus used to tell, weaving around them like smoke, which seemed to make the shadows grow as thick and black as velvet, so deep they could swallow up a man. "You remember those days, Bryn? Because I don't think I do."
"You said you had plans for the Guild," Brynjolf said. "Mind sharing them with me?" His only reply was a glare, and he let out a breath of disgust. "I'm no use to you if you don't trust me enough to tell me anything. Gallus would–"
"Don't talk to me about Gallus," Mercer snapped. "If secrets were water, Gallus would have had enough to fill an ocean."
"I know he had secrets," Brynjolf said. He rolled towards Mercer, his hand on the other man's chest. Mercer cast it a sour glance. Brynjolf expected him to knock it away, but he didn’t. "He also knew when to share them. You have to tell someone your plans at some point, Mercer. Delvin thinks the Guild's dying."
Mercer grunted. "Delvin's a fool."
"He's a good thief. And he's right about this. Something strange is going on. I've felt it myself."
Mercer gave a scoff of disgust and shook himself free. He rolled up, and sat on the edge of the bed with his back to Brynjolf. "Not you, too."
"Maybe we are cursed," Brynjolf said carefully, watching the way Mercer's back stiffened, the muscles flexing and tightening under the skin, bunching around his scars. "Delvin said something else. He said you were thinking of dealing with the Black-Briars."
"Did he," Mercer said, the words deliberate. It wasn’t a question. Brynjolf’s heart sank. "What did you say to that?"
"I told him he was full of shit. But then, that's Delvin."
"Yeah." Mercer coughed and twisted around. "We lost a lot of people, Bryn. Not just scum like that piece of shit who tried to kill me, but good men. Good thieves. Maybe Delvin's right. The Guild is dying. It took everything I had to keep it together. And Karliah isn't done. She's not going to stop until she's destroyed us, you know that."
"I know..." Brynjolf searched Mercer's face, uncomfortable. "But the Black-Briars. We're supposed to steal from scum like that, not sell our souls to them."
"Yeah, well. I already sold my soul," Mercer said. The weight of weariness and exhaustion in his voice seemed enough to crush him, and there was something contagious about it. He dropped back down on the bed, draping his arm across his face. "A long time ago." He turned his head, and stared at Brynjolf, his eyes dark and unreadable. "Do you trust me, Bryn?"
"You already know my answer. I do. If there's enough coin in it."
Mercer smiled. It was a brief flash, there for an instant then gone, and Brynjolf had the feeling it would be the last smile he’d see from Mercer in a long while. "There will be. You have my word on that."
"Then yes," Brynjolf said honestly, and he meant every word. "And I'll always follow you, Mercer. Into Oblivion itself."