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“If you pass through again, stop by for a drink,” the innkeeper says as I leave the Vilemyr Inn.
It’s an expected thing to say, so there is no reason for me to hesitate on the doorstep and cast a look over my shoulder. I do it anyway, and for some reason, the sight stays with me as I turn right on the roughly paved road: a broad, tall, bald man with a weathered face in a roughspun shirt and trousers, lifting one big hand in farewell.
* * * * *
The second time I stop to rest in Ivarstead, Vex has sent me on an errand to Whiterun. The little hamlet offers a welcome respite on the way back as long as I ignore the mountain looming over it. I do not intend to follow the call of these Greybeards. What good could possibly come of that?
My place isn’t high up in a monastery – if they would even open their doors to me. It’s down below.
Always, without exception, down below.
The Thieves guild took me in and offered me a chance to prove myself. When Laurent sent me to Skyrim so I could stay out of sight after that disastrous heist in Daggerfall, I did not expect a warm welcome here. But then, they are a sad bunch down in the Ragged Flagon, not even a proper guild, and they didn’t ask too many questions. They gave me a bed and a chest and put me to work.
I can only hope that my little encounter with the imperial forces at Helgen, my unwilling association with those Stormcloak rebels, and the strange happenings in Whiterun with that dragon will not make it look like I am a liability to them.
I wouldn’t know where to turn next.
I purge these thoughts from my mind as I enter the Vilemyr Inn.
There is nothing noteworthy about places like these, but I’ve travelled far today, and I am cold and hungry. The warmth is more than welcome, and the smell of stew and goat roast makes my mouth water. I give a little sigh as I walk up to the counter. It is still early in the evening. The townspeople are just finishing their day’s work on the fields, and I am currently the only patron, not that this little place will ever draw a crowd.
“Welcome to the Vilemyr Inn,” the innkeeper greets me from the back as I approach. He wipes his hands on a piece of cloth and turns from the table where he has been chopping vegetables. “What can I get for you?”
He looks at me, and while I recall him, vaguely, from my first stay, I do not expect him to recognize me, but he does. “Oh, it’s you again. Found your way to Riften alright?”
A stab of panic. In my profession, being recognized is never a good thing. “Well, yes,” I say with a shrug and wonder if he means anything by it.
Did I miss any shadowmarks on my way here? They’re not always easy to find, and the leaders of the guild do not yet trust me with the names of their allies across the nine holds.
“I hope Bersi gave you a fair price for that blade of yours,” he says.
Now I do remember: the first time I passed through, I asked for the nearest merchant to sell the steel sword and shield of an imperial soldier whose body I had found along the road. He’d told me to take them to Riften and sell them at the Pawned Prawn, and to tell the shopkeeper that Wilhelm sent his regards so the man would not short-change me.
Wilhelm. That’s his name. I look at his face. Open and friendly, but by no means that of a fool. “Yes,” I say, “thank you,” and I’m usually more glib than that, but somehow, I feel like this isn’t the place for glibness at all.
I watch Wilhelm as he stirs his stew and turns the roast spit, as he swaps the burned-out candles for fresh ones, as he reaches for a broom and sweeps out the dirt.
Broad and tall, strong in the way so many of these Nords are. But there is more to him. Something that makes me notice him in ways I haven’t noticed anyone in far too long.
When I left High Rock, I also left a lover. The last thing Jasper told me, bleeding out on the floor of that damned armoury, was to flee even as he knew – we both knew – it was too late for him.
I loved him, so I left.
Jasper, with his long dark hair and his dark eyes, lithe and deadly with a blade in his hands.
I loved him, so I did what he told me and chose to live. I just haven’t felt truly alive since then.
Jasper, I think, watching that Nord man sweep his floor with the same assured confidence that my lover showed wielding his daggers. But where Jasper and I belonged in the shadows, and I instinctively look for the darkest part of the room to sit, a man like Wilhelm has nothing to hide, stands proud in the middle of the room and whistles to himself.
He is not a young man. Was he a warrior once? There are many veterans of the Great War among the people of Skyrim, or so I’ve learned. Something tells me that Wilhelm would wield a blade with similar ease as his broom if he had to.
I eat a bowl of stew and an apple, down one ale and then another. Then he brings me some honey-glazed nuts that I haven’t paid for.
“Leftover from the feast day,” he says, winking at me.
I know what Jasper would say, looking at his rugged face and his plain clothes, how he’d make fun of that honest man and empty his pockets without any sort of regret. I feel a pang in my chest.
“Thank you.” I take the treat and give him a smile.
When I start to eat, I notice how his eyes fall to my mouth.
Just for a moment, but it’s enough, and my body awakens to that universal and unequivocal sign of interest. I am no stranger to the quick physical relief provided by chance encounters along the way, nor to the way men looking for them recognize each other in circumstances such as these.
As our eyes meet, I realize that neither is he.
The evening drags on. The townspeople come by for a cup or two and leave again. There are no other visitors, but the bard and the mill workers are residents here and Wilhelm has apparently given up his own bedroom and moved a cot to the back corner of the taproom where he sleeps hidden from sight only by a few massive barrels. I hear him jest good-naturedly with the bard, a pretty girl he seems to have taken under his wing, and I don’t fail to notice how at ease she is in his presence, that tall man who could easily snap her in half.
He treats her almost like a benevolent uncle, not that I would know anything about that, being an orphan.
It’s a while later that I step out of the inn into the darkness and quiet of a starlit night. Wilhelm is where I expected to find him, under the lean-to where he stores his firewood, leaning against one of the beams with his head turned toward the night sky.
“You never see stars like these in Riften,” he says, and I wonder whether there’s more to his words, whether he knows that I sleep underground in a cistern with damp stone walls, the smell of the sewers and fish constantly in my nose, wrapped into a faded cloak and some goat hides that I have to dry in front of the fireplace the next day lest they start to grow mouldy.
“No,” I say quietly. Even though I know why I am here and why he’s here and what we both want, I am a bit unsure.
He looks at me. “You do not talk a lot, do you, lad?”
He is right, but that’s because all I know are ugly secrets. “I’m a foreigner in these parts,” I say. “Not every Nord appreciates a Breton running his mouth.”
While that is certainly true for parts of Skyrim, Riften has been very accommodating, and if I encounter hostility, it is earned by my association with the Thieves Guild. But I cannot tell that to this honest man who doesn’t mince his words, whose gruff demeanour is offset by the warmth in his eyes and the genuine concern he shows to his friends.
“That sort of bullying has no place in my inn,” he tells me. “Anyone here say something to you, you let me know.”
I nod, but it’s not like I will. And in any case, I’ll be on my merry way come morning.
He takes a step toward me, with the same confidence that he showed going about his day. My mouth is suddenly dry.
“You are a good-looking lad.”
There are a thousand things I could say, but my wit has deserted me. “Is that so?”
“You know it is.” His eyes don’t leave my face.
“And you are a very strong man.” I’ve yet to see him wield an axe, but I can imagine it very vividly: how the muscles in his arms would bulge, his big hands wrapped tight around the handle. How the logs would split under each swing.
He could break me in half, too.
I swallow with a dry throat. Cured of my indecision, I lift a hand and put it on his chest. Feel the warmth, like a furnace. Do all Nord men run hot like that?
He draws a sharp breath. “Come here, then,” he says, and I obey.
He covers my neck with a warm, callused hand. Pulls me in, and then turns us around and pushes me against the pile of firewood. I let him. Breathe him in, that smell of wood smoke and grease from the cooking fire, sweat from a hard day’s work. My hands find his shoulders, strong and solid under my hands.
We don’t kiss, but men like us rarely do in instances such as these. He works my trousers and the loincloth open and wraps a hand around me. I hiss and then groan as he starts working me over, as his other hand finds its way under my shirt and strokes my back, up and down. The touch of his callused palm makes me shiver.
He is gentle but firm. A part of me knew that he would be, after I’ve watched him for so many hours, so it doesn’t come as a surprise even as it heightens my arousal. It does not take me long to spill into his hand. I bury my face in the crook of his neck and lightly bite the tendons of his throat.
He groans, deep in his throat, takes my hand and pulls it to his cock. I take a moment to learn the shape of him through the rough fabric. He groans again. “Harder,” he says, and I finally reach into his trousers and touch him. He is hot and hard in my hand, of considerable girth, and the short, tight strokes that I practised on men I have long since forgotten have the desired effect. After mere moments, he stiffens, grunts, and stills as warm stickiness covers my hand.
I do not immediately remove my hand, marvelling at the damp warmth of him, the scratchiness of his pubic hair. I wonder how he might look naked. When I withdraw my hand at last, he sighs, and then pulls me closer again. I rest my head against his chest for a second, and it might be my imagination, but I believe he kisses my hair.
Encounters like these rarely provide more than a moment of relief in a life full of hardships. He and I, we are strangers, and it’s with that thought that I pull back from him and wipe my hands on a pile of leaves.
In the morning, he’s still sleeping on his cot as I leave the bunk room. It’s better this way. I leave a few coins on the counter.
I can see Jasper shake his head in contempt and have to smile, if a little wistfully.
* * * * *
So it begins. There are other errands, an unending string of missions the guild sends me on. Every couple of weeks, convenience makes me choose to stay the night in Ivarstead. The Vilemyr Inn rapidly becomes familiar. Wilhelm greets me like an old friend, making me feel welcome, and then, after dark, we meet on the outside. It’s quick and friendly, a bit of pleasure and a fleeting connection that means nothing in the grand scheme of things yet warms me nevertheless, and so does the wine he pours for me after we’ve both returned to the taproom and the apple pie he sets aside for me so I can have a slice in the morning.
* * * * *
I am at odds with myself, the next time I pass through town. It’s late afternoon, but I should keep riding for a bit, just in case that there is someone on my trail.
Then again, no one in Whiterun seemed overly interested in what had happened at the meadery. I got out of there easily, mounted the horse that I bought in Riften a few weeks ago. Taking the mountain path to Ivarstead instead of the main road to Riften was just the easiest way to make sure I would not be followed, or so I told myself.
There are no stables in Ivarstead, but I pay the woman working the farm down the road a few coins, and she allows me to put the horse in the pen with her cow.
The sun is setting as I make my way up the road to the inn. Lynly is at the counter when I enter. I’ve been here often enough for her to recognize me, and she brings me a portion of meat pie and a mug of ale without asking. I sit down at a table in the corner. I wonder where Wilhelm is, but I don’t ask.
It turns out he’s been out fishing with a friend of his, and when he enters the tavern a little later with a basket full of salmon and brook bass, he’s smiling broadly while Lynly teases him.
He doesn’t notice me at first, but it doesn’t take long for him to spot me once he has changed out of his fisherman’s boots into his normal clothes and taken up his usual position behind the counter. He smiles and comes over to me with a fresh mug of ale that he sets down in front of me. “Welcome back, my friend. How are you faring?” There’s a twinkle in his eyes.
“Very well, thank you,” I say.
He tilts his head at my riding gear. “That horse that I saw in Jofthor’s barn, is it yours?”
“I am afraid so.”
“A fine steed.”
I hide a smile. In High Rock, the stout, hardy mounts of the north would not be considered breeding stock. But here they serve their purpose, resistant to the cold and sure-footed in the mountains. Wilhelm nods at me, his eyes smiling even as his lips do not, and leaves me be; other patrons are calling for him. For once, I am not the only foreign visitor.
Later that afternoon, I hear him talk to the merchant who is passing through and asking about the haunted barrow on top of the hill. I vaguely recall Wilhelm saying something about it to the bard, once; it appears to be a concern for him.
Well, I could maybe sneak inside and look around for a bit, see what I find. I’m not even sure why – I’m not an adventurer, especially not where these Nordic ruins are concerned. And I should probably head back to Riften. Brynjolf will want to know that I succeeded and the guild is back in Maven’s good graces.
But it’s not like anyone in the Flagon will be counting the days and rejoicing at my return.
So a little later, I quietly slip out of the inn and make my way up the hill.
* * * * *
For disposing of that dark elf wizard, Wilhelm gifts me with a strange device of a design that I’ve seen only once before, on that golden claw that granted me access to the depths of Bleak Falls Barrow.
This one is adorned with sapphires that will earn me a small fortune, should I decide to sell it to Tonilia. With that and the money Brynjolf promised me for this quest, I should be able to rent a room at the Bee and Barb for a while, or at the bunkhouse, anywhere that offers me reprieve from the gloom and dampness of the Cistern. Still, for some reason, I hesitate to take it. These devices aren’t something to be sold for gold.
If Wilhelm knew what kind of man I am, he would never entrust me with such a treasure.
But he doesn’t know me and he never will.
The thought is a sobering one.
I take the claw. After all, I am a thief, and thieves always take what’s on offer and more, don’t they? I give him a coy smile, detesting myself even as I seek his gaze. “I admit, when you spoke about a reward, I thought you had something else in mind.”
“Is that so?” He laughs. “I fear that it would rather feel like I was rewarding myself, friend.” His eyes don’t leave my face.
“Dariel,” I say. Clear my throat. “My name is Dariel.”
He hasn’t asked my name so far, just called me lad, as is the Nord way.
It’s been a long while since I have told anyone my real name.
I wonder why I did it.
“Dariel,” he says, almost thoughtfully. “A good name, and an honour to finally know it, my friend.” There’s warmth to that word now. And then the twinkling in his eyes is matched by an actual smile, a broad grin that makes his face light up and gives him – not beauty, no, but an allure nevertheless.
It’s impossible not to return that smile with one of my own.
His grin fades. But he keeps looking at me, and there is something in his eyes that makes it difficult to hold his gaze. I don’t; I turn my head to the side. It’s not like I’m playing coy. If it’s a bashful gesture, that’s because he makes me feel shy, and that is not a small feat.
“What kind of reward did you have in mind then?” he says, and now he’s flirting with me, this simple, unrefined man, and I am blushing like a maiden, incapable of replying.
“I see,” he says, a wealth of meaning in these two syllables.
My cheeks are hot and I swallow and somehow try to get a hold of myself. I am by no means a boy anymore, I …
He offers me his hand. “Come on, then.”
He pulls me into the back corner of the taproom where he sleeps. Pushes me against the wall and then gets down on his knees for me. I am helpless against the surge of it, the incredible heat and generosity of his mouth. It does not take me long. He keeps his mouth around me as I finish and then spits, a moment later, into a piece of cloth.
And then it’s my turn, and I make him sit down on the cot, sink to my knees easily as my legs still feel a little weak. I take him into my mouth. He fills me, thick and musky, and I breathe in deeply through my nose. He gently curls his fingers in my hair, tugs at the longer strands, and I close my eyes and do my best to work his cock with my mouth and my hands.
I have done this for more men than I care to recall, though not recently. I know I could earn some extra coin if I did this for one of the guild leaders – I’ve seen Rune on his knees for Brynjolf in a shadowed corner of the Cistern, with a coin purse changing hands in the aftermath. I know that Vex likes it when the men give her their mouths, and she pays mostly for them to keep quiet about it.
I thought about it, in the beginning, after I’d fled Daggerfall with nothing to my name but the clothes I wore and my knife. But it wouldn’t be pleasure, just another act of service. Different, and not in a good way.
Not like this, with this strong, sturdy man falling apart for me, his thighs shaking, his head tipping back. It doesn’t take long for him to groan and flood my mouth, salty and a little bitter and surprisingly sweet. Must be all the mead he drinks. I swallow his essence before I can think better of it.
I didn’t think … I didn’t think that I would want to.
But I realize that I am hungry for him.
* * * * *
In the morning, it’s raining. The sky is a uniform shade of grey that couldn’t possibly be any gloomier. I frown at it when I leave the taproom and the dampness immediately wets my face.
Wilhelm is standing under the lean-to, splitting logs for kindling. He lifts his head and smiles at me, and I …
I smile back, a little hesitantly. “I have to get back on the road.”
“Hm.” He looks up at the sky. “It’s going to be a long, miserable ride back to Riften in this weather. You could always stay another day.”
But I can’t. And in fact, I’m starting to think I should not come back. “Another time,” I say and give him a nod. “Farewell.”
He narrows his eyes. “Now, that is not the way to say goodbye to a friend, is it?” he says lightly, and then he comes to me and reaches for me, catching me off guard. He pulls me close, wraps me in his bear-like arms, and ruffles my hair like I’m a lad of fifteen. “I hope to see you soon,” he says and then winks at me before he returns to his kindling. “Safe travels. Divines bless you.”
“And you,” I say, feeling numb, and watch him for another second even though I should not. A dark shape under the lean-to’s thatched roof, forearms bare even though there is a chill in the air.
I turn away and try to focus on the road ahead rather than the place I leave behind.
* * * * *
The Thieves Guild has things for me to do. I sneak and I steal and I kill and I ask myself why. Why am I doing this? Why have I never felt like questioning what I am doing before? Back in Daggerfall where I worked under Laurent with Jasper and Nessa and Glory.
And then I witness Mercer Frey’s betrayal of the guild, and a woman named Karliah sends me to Winterhold to do her bidding. From there, I follow the trail to the City of Stone.
* * * * *
When I finally reach Ivarstead a few hours after dawn, I haven’t truly slept for days. It’s one thing to attract the attention of the city guard, another to anger a powerful wizard who has enough gold to send his personal guard after you. I nearly drowned when I jumped from the balcony in front of Calcelmo’s tower, then I nearly got caught twice sneaking out of the city. I didn’t dare stay the night at the Old Hroldan Inn or at Rorikstead for a proper rest; instead I caught a few hours of sleep by the wayside, wrapped only in my cloak. I pushed my mount to her limits. Even Falkreath did not feel safe: I paid for a bed but then got back in the saddle as soon as the mare had recovered some of her strength.
I’m confident by now that I have managed to escape, but it’s only when I see the sign of the Vilemyr Inn that I allow myself to breathe in relief.
When I enter the inn, Wilhelm is already awake and in a good mood. The second he sees me, a smile lights up his face. It fades quickly as he takes me in; a frown takes its place. “By Talos,” he says, “what happened to you?”
I don’t answer, but I ask him for a room. “Of course,” he says, and points toward the bunk room. He follows me inside. Tired as I am, I don’t even protest as he takes my backpack from me and kneels before me to help me take off my boots. I feel numb, both with exhaustion and with feelings I dare not name.
From a great distance, I watch myself lift a hand and rest it on his cheek. He stills and looks up at me. His face shows a great many things. Fondness and concern and maybe worry. I cannot look at him for long.
“There you go,” he says softly, and then a blanket falls over me and I’m asleep the very next second.
I sleep until the evening. The inn has filled with the usual crowd as I wake. Lynly is playing her lute in a far-away corner. The smell of freshly baked bread and stew fills my nose. I stumble into the taproom, disoriented and hungry, and for the next hour or so, I just eat and drink and think of nothing more.
After days on the road, I stink. I negotiate with Lynly, and she brings me a bit of hot water. I wash myself in the bunk room, then put on my spare shirt and trousers. My armour needs to be cleaned and oiled before I put it on again, and I get the leather oil from my backpack and sit in a quiet corner to see to it.
As I gather from the conversation, Wilhelm has gone to help Jofthor with his crops, to bring in the harvest before the next rain. He returns just as I consider another bowl of stew, accompanied by Jofthor himself, and the two of them are in a good mood, sharing jests and a bottle of mead that Wilhelm has apparently saved for this special occasion.
I watch from my place in the shadows, feeling wretched in entirely new and unpleasant ways.
These past months, I have almost come to forget that this is not my place. That I do not belong here, that this place of light and laughter is not my home and will never be.
Down below. I belong down below, with the skeevers and the thugs who have to protect their eyes from daylight whenever they leave the Ratway.
Wilhelm doesn’t ask me what happened. But later that evening, when all the others are asleep or supposed to be, he leads me to his cot and unceremoniously pulls his bedding to the floor.
The walls are thin in these northern houses. The doors to the single bedrooms and the bunk room are closed, but I know that they will hear us, if they aren’t sleeping like the dead. I don’t care, or so I tell myself. I will be gone in the morning. I want him, and I’m not going to feel ashamed of it, not when he clearly doesn’t care.
He has me under him on the thin straw mat, rutting against my arse and between my thighs. We haven’t taken off our shirts, but my lower half is bare. I feel both vulnerable and terribly aroused by the carnality of it, by his little grunts and the tight grip he has on my hip, the slapping of flesh on flesh as he takes his pleasure from me until I’m wet and dripping from his seed. And then he takes his time touching me, draws it out, makes me shudder and strain against him, wrings noises from me that I would never make if he hadn’t kept me on edge for so long. Stopping, starting, and while I try to keep quiet and not let the entire province of Skyrim know what is happening, he murmurs softly in my ear, little endearments at odds with the merciless way he teases me. He uses his free hand to push my head down and bare my neck and bite it. I tremble, helplessly, caught in his arms, and then he finally allows me relief. I almost pass out at the intensity of it, barely remember to muffle my scream in my forearm.
He strokes my back as I slowly regain a sense of time and space, as I start to shiver from the cold, my shirt damp with sweat and sticking to my skin. He mutters something and then moves away, leaving my entire backside cold. Just a moment later he is back and carefully wipes me off with a piece of cloth.
Exhaustion catches up with me, and even as I’m thinking about getting dressed and moving to the bunk room to sleep, my body succumbs to it; the last thing I notice is how he shoves a fur under my head and pulls a quilt over me.
* * * * *
I sleep late into the morning. As I awake it’s to a quiet conversation at the counter.
“… one of Mercer Frey’s lot. You should be more careful with him.”
“Be that as it may.” Wilhelm’s voice isn’t particularly quiet. “He is a guest under my roof, Lynly. So are you.”
“It is not the same thing! I am not going to rob you in your sleep.”
“Neither is he.”
“You don’t know that.”
He sighs. “I am old enough to be aware of the danger. But not cynical enough to bar myself against someone who has yet to do me any harm.”
“So it’s all right if he only does harm to others?” There is no immediate reply. “What if word gets back to Riften, of me being here?”
“He is a quiet lad. I don’t believe you have anything to fear from him.”
“You don’t know that!” she says again.
“And neither do you.” Never before have I heard him sound so forbidding.
Lynly mutters something unfriendly about men being led by their pricks, and then the discussion appears to be over, leaving me wide awake with time to think.
The bard is right: this cannot go on.
Wilhelm doesn’t know me. He just feels fond because I am a pretty young thing for him to fuck.
The fact that I haven’t robbed him blind does not mean that I wouldn’t, if I felt like it. How many people have I stolen from even though they were decent folks who didn’t have a lot to spare? How many homes have I broken into, to take what wasn’t mine, how many men and women have I robbed of their livelihood? That brewer in Whiterun, what did he ever do to me?
Wilhelm couldn’t have known that I was of the Thieves Guild when he first saw me. He certainly had an inkling that something was wrong when he took me to bed last night. Now that he knows, he will think differently of me, even if he’s not going to admit that to Lynly.
I’m going to start seeing it in his eyes, the contempt. The anguish.
I wish I could just quietly get my things and slip away. But my backpack is in the other room, and so are my daggers and my bow. It means I have to get up and face Wilhelm again, face the bard knowing what she thinks of me.
Why does it matter, says Jasper's voice in my head. What do we care about the judgment of others? They’re too cowardly to do what we do, they lack the skill and the determination.
But while Jasper may have believed in these things that we told each other as a means of putting on armour against the world, I never did, not truly.
Us thieves, we are wretches, no matter what lies we tell ourselves.
I get up from the floor. Wilhelm has put my trousers and my loincloth on top of the cot, and so I get dressed, very quietly. I wait until I can hear him leave the room on an errand, and then move out from behind the barrels.
“Good morning,” I tell the bard and smile at her as she frowns.
I fetch my things from the bunk room and then I leave, not even saying goodbye. What would be the point?
* * * * *
It doesn’t take much to find out who she is. I could easily destroy her and earn a good amount of coin doing so.
It takes even less to realize that I am not going to do it, and not just because she plays a good tune on her lute or because Sibbi is the kind of person that even Jasper would turn from in disgust.
I imagine it, late at night. How Sibbi’s hired thugs would storm the inn after bribing the guards with an obscene amount of Black-Briar money, and murder her and everyone rushing to her defence.
In my dreams, I see her lying on the floor with her throat cut, just like the guards in the Dwemer Museum, and her eyes look at me and judge me for who I am. A liar, a thief, a murderer.
* * * * *
I avoid Ivarstead. It’s not difficult at all. In truth, I never really had a reason to be there.
I proceed to do the guild’s bidding, which eventually leads me to Nightingale Hall. And even though Delvin and Vex are of higher rank than I am, the offer to become one of the trinity is extended to me.
“Once the Oath has been struck, the terms are binding,” Karliah says in that quiet voice of hers. “Knowing this, are you ready to undergo the ceremony?”
Dedicate my life to Nocturnal? Dedicate my death to her, too? Everything inside of me cries out. It is slavery. I spent my entire life trying to forge my own path, knowing that whatever decision I made, at least it was mine.
This is a promise of forever. Once I accept, I’ll be bound to the Thieves Guild for the rest of my life.
Bound to the shadows. To the twilight.
Unbidden, an image comes to mind. I stand at the bridge spanning the Darkwater River, looking at that quiet little town at the foot of a mountain. The wind whispers in birch trees that are starting to shed their yellowed leaves. The air is cool and fragrant. As I cross the bridge, my eyes are drawn to the sign of the town’s little inn. A tall man stands on the porch, his forearms resting on the banister. He looks up into the evening sky. Light and music spill from the open door behind him.
I take a deep breath. “No.”
“Lad,” Brynjolf says, “We need you.”
I shake my head. “I have been a member of the guild for a few months. There are others, more deserving than I.” But that is an excuse, isn’t it? I take another deep breath. “I cannot. I will not.”
Karliah stares at me. Her eyes narrow. “If we don’t …”
“Ask someone else,” I say.
She exchanges a glance with Brynjolf. It’s a moment of indecision. No, they cannot force me to take that oath, but they can easily decide that my refusal makes me a liability.
“Please,” I say to Brynjolf, seeking his gaze and ignoring her.
He’s recruited me, he’s been my mentor of sorts, keeping an eye on me. He’s used me, as they all have, without much care, but I have always felt that he did not want to see any real harm come to me. “I can still help you hunt down Mercer,” I offer. “But this … this is too much.”
He keeps looking at me. I hold my breath.
“All right, lad,” he says. “It is your choice, and I will respect that.”
I take a breath in relief.
Karliah shifts her weight. “The trinity still needs to be restored.”
“That it does,” Brynjolf says with a sigh. “But not today.”
We leave the sanctum. Karliah melts into the shadows and is gone, leaving behind an air of silent disapproval.
Brynjolf turns to me. “Now, lad, I am only going to ask this once. Do you want out?”
Is he … is he offering to set me free? “Is that even possible?”
Another deep sigh. “We are not the Dark Brotherhood. We do not keep people enslaved. As long as you promise to guard our secrets …”
I nod. Vehemently.
“Then I guess we do owe it to you to let you prove that you will.”
There is a warning in his words. I hear it, loud and clear. “I promise,” I say, and I have never meant anything as seriously. “I swear it.”
“I will take your oath,” he says. “And you will give it in front of the Delvin and Vex in the Cistern.” He looks – and sounds – fierce. “If you break it, then every thief in Skyrim will have reason to hunt you down, and there will be no mercy given. Do you understand?”
He’s grim and serious, and I will not take his warning lightly, but at this moment, my thoughts fly ahead on newly-acquired wings.
* * * * *
I take the oath, and I help them hunt down Mercer, and then, after everything is said and done, I quietly pack my things and leave the Cistern for the last time. I take a deep breath as I exit the Ratway. The early morning sunshine lends a certain glow even to this lower part of the town. I climb to the upper level. The market is busy, and I just breathe in and out as I slowly walk by the stalls, drop a coin in Edda’s bowl, then head for the city gates.
I saddle my horse in the stables and leave Riften behind.
* * * * *
I have a reason to come here, or so I’m telling myself, and by the time I arrive in Ivarstead, I’ve almost convinced myself that I expect nothing more from my visit. It’s late afternoon on a late autumn day, and the few guards that patrol the village walk with lazy steps and often take breaks, enjoying one of the last warm days of the year. One of them nods at me in greeting as I pass by.
I leave my horse at Jofthor’s and greet Klimmek as I walk past him on my way to the inn.
The front door stands open. I enter with measured steps. There have been a few changes since the last time I was here. The taproom seems more cluttered, with some of the larger barrels now occupying the space right behind the door.
Lynly stands at the fireplace, stirring the stew. There is beef in it, I can smell it. “Oh,” she says, with a suspicious glance at me, “it is you again.”
Wilhelm is nowhere to be seen.
Just as well.
“Are you going to stay?”, she says, not hiding how little she wants me here.
“That depends,” I say, but I don’t say on what. I put my things on a bench. There is no one else around.
I step closer. “Sibbi Black-Briar keeps looking for you,” I tell her.
She freezes.
Then she whirls around, pulling a knife from her belt.
I take a step back, lifting my hands. “I am not here to threaten you,” I tell her. “I’ve heard people talk, in Riften.” Her eyes are wide and fearful. “However, a little while ago, another rumour reached his ears. One that says that you were seen heading east, into Morrowind.”
“A rumour,” she repeats and narrows her eyes.
“A rumour. From what I’ve heard, he appears to believe it. In any case, he is still in prison where he rightfully belongs.”
“Oh,” she says, and then she lowers her knife.
I turn around and move away from her. Giving her the opportunity to attack, if she feels that this is what she must do.
And then I see him, standing in the doorway with an arm full of logs.
I cannot meet his gaze, not quite, and I don’t know what to say or do. So I wait, quietly, as he enters the taproom and puts the logs down by the fireplace.
And then he walks over to me. “There you are.”
I feel warm and uncomfortable under his scrutiny.
From the corner of my eyes, I see that Lynly is watching us. As I turn my head, she stirs the stew one final time. “I’ll be outside for a bit,” she says, not that Wilhelm seems to notice.
His attention is focused on me.
“I wasn’t sure I’d see you again,” he says. “For what it’s worth, I am glad you are here. Come. I want to show you something.”
He leads me to the back of the tavern.
It looks very different from the last time I saw it. I stop. “You … you made some renovations,” I say after a moment.
So this is why the barrels changed place.
His counter has been moved to the right. There is a timber wall where the barrels stood, or rather, there are two of them, and a narrow doorway.
He steps into the new room and beckons me to follow.
Inside stands a big bed, even though the room itself is rather small. It takes up so much space that there’s only room for one additional dresser and two little end tables on each side. The bed looks sturdy and inviting, with furs and woollen quilts piled on top of it.
Wilhelm closes the door behind us. He takes my hand and makes me sit down beside him at the edge of the bed.
“When …” I moisten my lips. “When did you build this?”
“A while ago,” he says. “It seemed the right time.”
I don’t know what to say.
“I had hoped that we could share it,” he says, as if that hadn’t been obvious. “If you want to.”
And there it is, the question that I’m not sure I can answer.
I take a deep breath and pull my hand from his. “I am a member of the Thieves Guild,” I say, even though it is no longer true. “I was a thief back in High Rock. I came here after a heist went wrong and I had to leave Daggerfall in a hurry. I’ve been a thief all my life, and I’ve … I’ve done so many things.”
I look down at my hand. At my fingers, dextrous and nimble, so adept at picking locks and sleight of hand. There is blood on my hands, an invisible stain that will never wash off.
Wilhelm stays silent. I lift my head and look at him. He meets my eyes, and I see no surprise in them. A little sadness, maybe.
“I am not the kind of person that you thought I was.”
“Are you not?” he says, and then, after a moment, “Why did you tell me?”
“Because …” Because I cannot continue to be with him under false pretence. I can’t have him thinking I am an honourable man. “Because you should know.” He says nothing. “You don’t seem surprised,” I say after a moment. “For what it’s worth … I am no longer with them.”
He moves slowly as he reaches for my hand again, giving me time to pull away. I don’t. His fingers close around mine, warm and steady. “I think …” His chest lifts with a sigh. “I think that I would rather know a man who found the strength to pursue a better path than one who never took a wrong turn in his life.”
I take a sharp breath. My hand trembles in his.
“Stay with me,” he says. “You do not have to travel that path alone.”
“Are you sure that you want me to?” My voice wavers. “I am not even sure how to earn my keep without – without –“
He laughs. “Hands never stay idle for long in this village, lad. There’s more than enough work to be done. So you’ll stay?”
“I will,” I say, “if you want me to.”
And then he kisses me, and I shake apart under his touch, and his arms come around me. He holds me tight.
“I never stole from you,” I confess, with my head resting against his chest.
“Oh, but you did,” he says, and his little laugh warms me through and through. “You stole my heart the very first day.”
* * * * *
“What would you have done if I hadn’t come back?” I ask him, that first night in his new room.
Our new room.
The walls are still thin, but there are more of them now between us and his residents, and I no longer feel that we have to be furtive in what we are doing.
I wonder how long it will take me to get used to it.
“I was prepared to come to Riften,” he says, and if I didn’t know him, I would think that he is just inventing the tale. “It is long past time I paid another visit to Bersi, so I had reason enough. But that would not have been the true purpose.”
“It would have been a gamble,” I say.
“Yes, lad,” he says. “But what would life be if we didn’t take our chances?” He kisses me. “We still have to go to Riften, one of these days.”
“What for?”
“So we can be wed, of course,” he says, and I feel like laughing and crying all at once, and then I have no choice but to kiss him deeply and let him have me again, until I feel like my body is only half mine and my heart is his entirely.
* * * * *
There are plenty of ways to occupy my time, especially once winter has passed. I help with the crops and go on hunts, keep the ledgers immaculate and tend the kitchen garden while Wilhelm indulges in his passion for fishing. My days are sun-drenched and bright, and sometimes my former life starts to feel like a long, unpleasant dream.
Every now and then, I travel to Riften for supplies that Bersi sets aside for us. Upon my return, I find my husband waiting for me. He stands on his porch and lifts a hand in greeting.
I have missed you terribly, lad, he will whisper in my ears when we lie in bed that night, and I will teasingly ask him to show me how much.
There is joy in this life and no little satisfaction, and I feel like I am slowly becoming a man who can stand tall and not shy away when he is seen.
Maybe one day soon, I will even brave the seven thousand steps to High Hrothgar, now that I am no longer caught in the shadows.