Author's Note: My apologies for the delay. Many kudos to my sister for letting me steal her internet. More notes at the end!

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Borrowed Trouble

Chapter Seven: The Ever Aftermath

While he'd never considered himself a sentimental man, and never a romantic by any stretch of the imagination, Brynjolf found himself looking back on his short time with Archer and that last endless night of sheer confusion with a fondness that bordered on affection; her, a whirlwind of a young lady bringing a world of trouble to his doorstep, and him, the willing victim, floundering in her wake.

And though he could honestly say he still marvelled at how she'd gotten herself tangled in guild business, and the chaotic way she'd untangled herself once more, how she'd walked away victorious, practically unscathed –

Awe. Now, that there was the appropriate phrase. As cautious and cynical as he was, he was in awe of what had gone down under his very nose, and damned if he could figure out how it had even managed to happen. In the weeks that followed that collision of stars, he found little that would answer the questions he had been left with when she had slipped from his grasp.

The events of that night were still branded in his mind, and the guild business was the raw edge of it, and as the hours turned to days, to weeks, the girl drifted to the wayside, like the remnants of a dream he couldn't banish. She was the catalyst, the stone's drop, there and gone in a moment, but her ripples were far reaching, and went on, and on, and on.

He saw it all again, as if remembering for the first time, as if he'd just closed his eyes. The corpses in the Ratway, elves with their golden skin and gilt armour, sneering even in death; the beggar and his bloody eye; and a few lowlifes, the dregs of the Warrens, worthless, nameless souls who hadn't known they were picking the wrong fight. Clean kills, messy kills, blood spattered the walls, the stonework, the straw on the floor, glistening black as sin. Most of the bodies were cold, death's grip firm and final; the others, the ones found in the Ratway just outside the Flagon, were still warm, their eyes scarcely turned to glass.

He remembered Dirge and the weary sigh he'd given as the count grew higher, the night not yet over and too much work left to be done. Delvin shaking his head and sifting through pockets, claiming with interest that the girl hadn't touched them, that all their gold and personal effects were still intact.

And Mercer, his face shadowed as oblivion, silently thinking and waiting to act. Their master thief, working ever and always on the benefit of the guild, trying to keep one step ahead of a world that never stopped moving on. The guild master had yet to speak to Brynjolf again about the girl, and his role in bringing her into their home. Then again, there wasn't much to say.

The girl was not who she claimed to be. Then again, she hadn't claimed all that much to begin with, had she?

It would seem that Delvin had been right after all. For all his fierce pride, Brynjolf still had a few tricks left to learn, and it appeared that there was a thing or two the girl could teach him.

It was too bad she'd vanished into thin air. None of the guards had seen her escape the Ratway with her precious cargo struggling to keep up. The good townsfolk of Riften were of no help, asleep in their beds at that midnight hour like decent, law-abiding citizens should be. No one remembered seeing her in the market. Keerava only shrugged him off, high and mighty as ever. Archer who?

He'd never imagined all the years he'd spent putting pressure on the population of Riften to look the other way would come back to bite him on the ass. No one had seen her leave the city. He couldn't even ascertain what gate she'd used to skip town. The guards had been elsewhere during those lost hours – Maven's doing, undoubtedly.

To track Archer down now would take gold and resources – both of which were in damnably short supply. There was also business as usual to consider, for his guild was a temperamental mistress, demanding, wearying, and a great tease with her favours. Loyalty and commitment were his bottom line, and he could not go chasing after a girl he'd known for only a day, not on a whim, not for anything.

And so Brynjolf was forced to face the truth. Archer was gone. This, he could accept. What he found far more difficult to come to terms with was the fact that somehow she'd stolen his thoughts – and his heart – away from him, and that when she'd left him in the cold shadows of the Flagon after only a single day, she'd managed to take what remained of his luck along with her.

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Two weeks after the incident with the Thalmor in the Ratway – as it was now known, common knowledge among the guards and the tavern patrons, a tale that seemed to grow in the retelling – Brynjolf once more found himself in the marketplace. However, he was not there to sell tonics or tinctures, nor was he there to play the crowd and keep an ear out for news.

Much to his personal regret and great dismay, he was there to finish shutting up his stand. This time, it was for good.

Around him, the market was busy in the crisp, cold afternoon. The month of Heartfire was rapidly coming to a close, and it was preparing to whisk the autumn away with it. Every morning there was frost on the grass in the temple courtyard, and the winds coming in off the lake turned sharp and icy, ready to take a bite out of the unwary and under-dressed. Most of the trees were bare now, skeletal sentinels braced against the sky. The Rift could brave the cold for a while and cling to autumn's fleeting beauty, but there was no escaping the fate of the seasons. The dark storm clouds over the mountains promised snow; a shift in the winds could change everything. Winter was truly on its way.

That day, however, held no promise, only miserable damp and a bitter chill. Brynjolf did not like the quiet, lonely pall that had fallen over the plaza since he'd last stood there, selling his false tonics and brokering what deals he could. The arrest of Brand-Shei and Brynjolf's own sudden departure from day-to-day trade had everyone rattled, on edge. No one had approached him in the scarce hour he'd been topside, but he could feel a half-dozen sets of eyes burning into his back, and the air around him was thick with curiosity and unasked questions.

Just when he'd nearly finished, a slender shadow finally fell across his back. Now there's a brave fool, he thought to himself, smirking as he stood and turned. His smirk faded and he forced himself to smile as he came face to face with a very unhappy looking Ingun Black-Briar.

"Something I can help you with, lass?" he asked, taking in her frown, the flush of her cheeks, those careful dark eyes.

"Grandmother said this morning that there would be one less fool merchant in the marketplace," she said sadly. "I had hoped she meant that loudmouth Argonian."

Brynjolf found himself hard-pressed to keep on smiling, and the effort of it made his jaw hurt. He'd used the jeweller as a pawn in his scheme to oust Brand-Shei. It had been meant as a warning. Now there he was, packing up his stand while the Argonian looked smugly on from across the plaza, calling out to the patrons and boasting of the quality of his craftsmanship, the gleam of his gemstones. Rubbish, all of it.

"I am sorry to see that you're closing up shop," said Ingun, but her eyes sparkled with interest. "I quite enjoyed hearing the reactions you witnessed. Did any of the last elixir sell at all? Did anyone sample it?"

He thought on the potions he'd tried to hawk while Archer crept close enough to Brand-Shei to slip her fingers into his pocket. He'd upended the lot in the cistern, where it had frothed and bubbled as it hit the cold, murky water. "I'd steer clear of that particular concoction again, if I were you," he said, not unkindly. Despite the touch-and-go quality of her work, he would miss this chance partnership, and her daily visits.

"You might have told me sooner you were planning this," she said, pulling her head from the clouds and in that moment, he saw the thorny gnarl of the Black-Briars in her, and he didn't know whether to be proud or frightened. "I had a new batch ready for you. What a waste. All that deathbell nectar..."

Brynjolf frowned. It came as no surprise to him that Maven and Mercer had laid the blame for this at his feet. Just as he had subtly warned the Argonian, Brynjolf was now being reminded of his place in the scheme of things. His own fault, really. A man should never forget his place in the world, as it caused him to make sloppy mistakes, damage that could not be repaired. He of all people should have remembered that.

And so without a single falter to his smile, Brynjolf picked up their lie as easily as if he'd told it himself, ignoring how cowardly it tasted as he said, "This little venture of ours has grown stale of late. People are becoming suspicious. A good merchant knows when he has overstayed his welcome."

"A Black-Briar is always welcome," she said coldly, pursing her lips to a thin line. "And you're no merchant."

"Aye," he said, "and I'm no Black-Briar, either."

She chewed on his response for a moment, and looked as though she might spit something back at him that he'd regret hearing. There were some burdens that a man did not want on his conscience, and many, many times it concerned the trembling puppy eyes of a young girl who didn't know just what she was getting into. He held up a hand before she had a chance to respond to him, all the better for both of them.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, lass –"

"I know, I know," said little Ingun Black-Briar, "you've got important things to do." She left him to it, turning on her heel and all but storming off toward the rickety stairs that led down into the canal and her refuge at the alchemist's shop. There was no doubt in his mind that they would never again have the opportunity to speak on such open terms. With that, he was fine. All the better, he kept telling himself. All the better.

He finished his work quickly after that, in a hurry to get back to the darkness and solitude of the cistern. The confrontation with Ingun only signified one thing: life truly was getting back to normal. Business as usual. Which meant that he'd be hearing from Maven again very, very soon.

His suspicions were quickly confirmed. It was later that same afternoon when he was finally called up to the Bee and Barb to meet with Maven where she held court on the second floor, sitting higher than the Jarl herself. He didn't do her the disservice of making her wait. Something like this was best done quickly – and with as little pain as possible.

He had never liked Maven, her ambition painted so boldly all over her bony face, those eyes hard and cold as iron. She flicked them over him now as he went against protocol and pulled up a chair to sit in front of her. Always ready to give her a little push, a challenge. She liked backbone, and so he gave it to her in spades. There was nothing quite so satisfying as the curl of her lip at his lazy disrespect.

Let Mercer be the straight-laced businessman. His tightfisted reign had kept them afloat when trouble and tragedy always seemed a heartbeat away from swamping them. That, however, was Mercer. Brynjolf had never gotten things done that way.

For all the good it had done him.

"Maven," he said with a wolfish grin as he lounged back a bit in the chair, the full effect of his charm. Always his weapon, always his shield. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten me."

"I don't doubt you hoped I had," said Maven. "I understand that I have you to thank for that debacle in the Ratway."

Brynjolf smirked. "Oh, I won't take as much credit as all that. The girl would have found her own way down there even without my help. The Ratway is hardly a secret, and there are too many loose tongues in Riften to pass it along."

"That is your concern, not mine. I know how to deal with loose tongues," she said, levelling him with that contemptuous glare. "I suggest you learn the same."

"You wound me, Maven," he said. "Our friend in the marketplace has learned his lesson, hasn't he?"

"He has, and will continue to do so," Maven said, frowning. "His empty stall should be reminder enough to the others."

Brynjolf said nothing to this, knowing full well that a few shopkeepers in Riften were well beyond the reach of such subtle messages, but that was guild business, and none of Maven's. His silence said more than enough to Maven, however, because she crossed her arms over her chest and sat back in her chair – but if she relaxed in the slightest, Brynjolf couldn't tell.

"I want to know more about this girl from the embassy who has everything in an uproar," Maven demanded coolly. "Elenwen has no sense. I knew there was something off about her the very moment I saw her. A wispy thing, wasn't she? Dark-haired, impish?"

Brynjolf chuckled at impish. After the carnage in the Ratway, how could he not?

"Aye, that's her," he said. "Said her name was Archer."

Maven sniffed disapprovingly. "Mercer had absolutely nothing to give me. I find it hard to believe he never bothered to meet her down in your –" and here she paused, and her lip curled, "– your guild hall."

"Mercer's a busy man," Brynjolf said, raising an eyebrow. "He doesn't usually make it a point to meet with potential recruits."

"A pity," said Maven, still with her obvious sneer. Again, Brynjolf held his tongue. He full well knew that while she maintained this charade of cool logic and ruthless business sense, Maven had no idea of what went on in her brewery and warehouses most of the time. The men and mer under her employ were far beneath her notice, unworthy of remembering. She only learned the names of those who crossed her – and those, she never forgot.

But when it became clear to her that he was not going to fall all over himself to give her the answers she sought, Maven was forced to ask for them. Brynjolf had never been in the business of giving away information for free, and bringing Maven low, even if only a little, brought him a pleasure he rarely found anywhere else.

"And what, precisely, were you hiding in the Ratway that brought both this girl and the Thalmor –"

Brynjolf shook his head. "It was one of our tenants. An old man. I don't know more than that. Maybe it was something he did. Maybe it was something he had." He'd seen with his own eyes the mess the Thalmor had left the old man's hideout in. Whatever they had been looking for, he'd gotten away clean with it. There was nothing of importance on any of the bodies they found.

Maven snorted her disbelief. "You couldn't track them?"

"Oh, they're in the wind now," he said, and shrugged. "No one saw them leave. Guards were scarce on the gates that night. That was your doing, I believe."

"Yes, well," Maven said slowly, "you certainly made a mess of my explicit instructions."

Brynjolf remembered her instructions far too well. "If the order had come down sooner, we would have stopped the girl from interfering. It was all out of my hands after that." Speaking to Maven about Archer bothered him more than he cared to admit, and so he stood, wanting to put an end to it. "Was there anything else?"

Maven's lips twisted in displeasure, but she did not chastise him for his abrupt and rude behaviour. Just as well, as his pride was stinging, and his patience for her conceit was wearing thin.

"Tell Mercer I want a closer eye kept on Goldenglow," she said. "That elf is up to something and I want to know what it is."

"Mercer's already looking into it," he said – a bold faced lie. Though late, Aringoth's last payment had arrived in full, and Mercer had already all but dismissed it as one more of Maven's overzealous reactions to competition. "Now, if we're done, there are some things I need to take care of."

Maven nodded, magnanimous, and he turned and began to walk away.

He should have known it would not be as easy as all that.

"I don't want to see her back here, Brynjolf," Maven said to his back. He glanced over his shoulder to see her smiling at him. A smile from Maven was a terrifying thing. "If she returns, I will hand her over to Elenwen and the Dominion without a second thought. I don't want that kind of trouble in my city. I hope we understand one another."

"Perfectly," he said, and left it at that. He felt his face flush hot with anger. He swore under his breath all the way down the stairs and out the doors into the glare of the setting sun.

He stood in front of the Bee and Barb for a moment, leaning against the rail and taking the crisp late autumn air into his lungs. Maven's last threat echoed in his head, and he ran a hand down over his face as if he could wipe it all away. Meetings such as the one he'd just escaped were too gods-damned wearying. He always, always preferred to have the upper-hand when dealing with clients. It was the only way to keep things running smooth – and it was why he hated dealing with Maven Black-Briar. She had gotten all this information from Mercer weeks ago when the bodies of the Thalmor agents were barely cold, and yet now she continued to grill him, looking for cracks in the story, a way to turn it all to her advantage, stay a step ahead.

He knew he had nothing to worry about. While Maven's interests might lay with the empire, she was loyal only to herself. Riften and the guild benefited from that, and neither Maven nor Mercer would do anything to jeopardize the balance. Still, her suspicion and her arrogance were a tiresome burden to bear because of it, and it seemed that Mercer had thrown Brynjolf under her fire for no other purpose than to watch him burn.

One thing remained clear to him: he would not make the mistake of handing Archer over again – though, in the end, even his blundering error in judgement had not been enough to hinder the girl in her quest. He could not have stopped her had he wanted to – and aye, it was undeniable that he had wanted to. She was something special, and he wanted to bring her into the fold. For the sake of the guild, his own personal reasons be damned. And he had known that whatever, whoever she sought deep in the Warrens, it would only serve to take her out of Riften again, away from his influence and his reach.

Brynjolf was not in the habit of allowing himself to hope, that most foolish and insatiable of desires, but now he found himself hoping, and dearly, that whatever path Archer's feet were leading her down would someday cross with his once again. He'd had a feeling about the girl the moment he laid eyes on her, and this was his strongest remembrance of their short time together. A feeling that could not be ignored, nor dismissed. A feeling that had not gone away.

Sighing, he cursed at his own foolishness and pushed himself away from the rail. Wanting, hoping, these were not the trademarks of a practised thief. His heart was not made for pining. Where was the thrill in it? With no tangible prize to covet, with no foreseeable payoff, he could not force himself to waste his days when there were still jobs to be lined up, clients to be dealt with, loot to be claimed.

That was what a thief did. He took, and then he prepared for his next mark. And if there was nothing to take that he wanted, then he waited. Because a thief was nothing if he was not patient, and Brynjolf prided himself to be among the best in his trade.

He could wait for Archer. One way or another, she would come to him again.

He just... had a feeling.

The End

To be Continued in
"Archer's Paradox: The Fortunate Favourite"

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Author's Note II: I'm no good at final author notes, but I always want to start with a ridiculously large thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, and subscribed. Keep an eye open for the next story in the series, "The Fortunate Favourite". The title is a little reference from one of my favourite books from my childhood. Maybe you can guess! It's also a reference to the way I am going to write this series - a little out of order.

Thank you again for reading. I hope you enjoyed it!