"That's perfect. Thank you."

Prim viewed the room with contentment, arms aching. Who knew that an entire day of housework could be so exhausting, but then again, Riftweald hadn't been properly cleaned in years. She flopped down on the cushioned bench behind her, and was soon joined by Mjoll. The blond woman was out of armor today, and her face free of war paint.

"I didn't think we'd get the bed down here," Prim smiled.

"Nothing the two of us couldn't handle," Mjoll replied. "Are you expecting guests that you're setting up the basement like this?"

Prim viewed the area that had once been Mercer's hidden chambers beneath the manor, and didn't know how to answer the question. She didn't intend for these rooms to be used by others, perhaps not even by herself, but it was no longer a sparse dungeon either. There was a single bed, a dresser with the old guildmaster's clothing, and then a desk and thick carpets. It was a cozy sitting area now, windowless and somewhat damp as it was. Mjoll had questioned why the chambers existed in the first place, but Prim had merely smiled and dismissed it as the previous owner's eccentric nature.

"I'm not expecting visitors," she mused. "But I didn't want to leave the place like it was. It was too...barren."

"Well, it certainly looks better now."

Yes, yes it did. Even Riftweald's basement had now been subjected to her touch.

"Come on," Prim prompted, rising. "Let's get some food. I think we're done for the day. If we move anything else, my arms will fall off."

"What about that?" Mjoll asked, pointing to a statue of Dibella. It sat near the dresser since Prim couldn't decide where else to put it.

"Oh," she chuckled. "That."

"Another of the owner's eccentricities? I hope this wasn't some sort of...worship chamber."

They both laughed at that, and the statue was left where it sat on the floor. Gods knew how or why Mercer had acquired the thing, and she wasn't quite ready to throw anything out. Even his old ledgers were carefully arranged on a shelf in the basement, where no one from the guild would ever notice and question their presence.

"Thanks again for your help, Mjoll."

"Think nothing of it."

But she did. Prim certainly couldn't have asked anyone in the guild for assistance. They'd helped seal the tunnel to the guild's vault, but if they were to know how she'd redecorated the lower chambers with some of Mercer's personal belongings...well, that wouldn't go over well. She was the only one who even knew about his continued existence, not that she'd seen any sign of him since her trip as a shadow to Whiterun.

Three weeks, she thought, walking back upstairs to the main floor. It had been three weeks since she'd last seen him, and she would probably never see him again, for what reason could he ever have for returning to Riften? She let the matter go, unwilling to dwell on it and compromise her current contentment. The first few days in Riftweald had been nearly unbearable.

Wherever you are, Master Frey, shadows hide you.

"This is a big house," Mjoll commented. "Did that man really live here all alone?"

"Yes, but I imagine that there will be people in and out now," Prim replied. "I'm turning one of the rooms upstairs into a guest room as well. My friends from Whiterun will be able to stay whenever they pass through."

"Nura's excited to have you as a neighbor."

"You don't need to tell me," Prim smiled. "She's been over twice already with jam and dinner invitations." And it would do the couple well to have her close by, she decided. Their little conversations seemed to encourage the family immensely.

Mjoll stayed for lunch, but didn't linger long, and just as well, because while the warrior left through the front door, a thief was entering through the back. Thieves, Prim corrected herself. Brynjolf had brought Delvin with him.

"You home, lass?"

"I can see there's going to be a problem with trespassers," she grinned, meeting them in the sitting room.

She'd poured her limited funds into the basement, so little had changed elsewhere in the manor, except that everything was now clean. She'd also taken the liberty of unpacking and rearranging some of the items that Mercer had stowed away. The more valuable ones like a bust of the Grey Fox were in the cistern now, but the unrolling of carpets had done wonders to make the entire place feel more inviting. Otherwise, she'd mainly invested in healing potions, which were shelved in the sitting room where she not stood, right alongside Mercer's drink collection. The room's display case boasted an array of imports that had Delvin's nose nearly touching the glass.

"Delvin," Brynjolf chided with a grin.

"What?" the man questioned with mock innocence. "A man can look around, can't he? I've never been in Riftweald before. Had no idea Mercer was so interested in drinks."

"You'll have to stop by in the evenings to sample," Prim suggested.

"You'd best not encourage him, lass," Brynjolf sighed. "He's in enough trouble as it is."

"Trouble?" she questioned.

Delvin looked almost bashful as he shrugged, and she was immediately suspicious.

"It's nothing," the man dismissed. "I got a little tipsy, and told everyone that Vex has a birthmark on her ass. How was I supposed to know what I was saying?"

"Delvin," Prim groaned. "Vex is going to kill you."

"Not true," the man gruffly deflected, looking to Brynjolf.

"He was saved," the redhead explained. "By blubbering on and on about how he thinks he's in love. Vex looked downright furious until that started, and then she was helping him get to bed."

"She's sweet sometimes," Delvin murmured. "Sometimes."

Thank the divines that the two hadn't killed each other yet. Prim smiled, and silently wished them the best. The two had a good chance of lasting, she decided. It really depended on Delvin minding boundaries and Vex letting her defenses down a little more. It was almost a miracle that they'd finally taken the plunge.

"We came to see how you've cleaned everything up," Brynjolf stated. "And to ask about Vald."

"Vald? What does he want?"

"That's the thing, lass." Brynjolf almost grimaced as the three of them say down to chat. "He doesn't really have anywhere else to go. He was thinking of leaving for mercenary work, but he's a bit worried about Maven. Mercer hiring him was his only means of keeping the woman from noticing him too much. She holds a grudge against him."

"So he wants me to hire him?" Prim questioned.

"I'm not asking you to do it," Brynjolf quickly clarified. "But yes, he asked through Maul."

"I..." She pinched her eyes shut, and sighed. "I don't need someone to guard the place, but I'll think about it. Maul has been awfully nice lately." And now she knew why.

"I like the new place, Prim," Delvin commented, still examining the room.

"Just take a bottle with you, Delvin. Akatosh's mercy."

Brynjolf laughed while the older thief helped himself to her display case. It wasn't like the alcohol was even hers. Almost everything here was Mercer's, except for the clothing that she'd moved upstairs to the master bedroom. She hadn't slept in the bed yet—wasn't ready to do so since it stirred such strong memories—but at least she could feel peaceful enough in the rest of the manor.

"I received a letter from Whiterun," she shared, looking to Brynjolf. "Apparently the letters aren't just for me anymore."

She passed a folded parchment to Brynjolf, who took one look at the wax seal and grinned. His fingers ran over it, and then his gaze was on her, questioning. She wondered if there might be something more between them one day, but she couldn't think of that now. It was the furthest thing from her mind, and Aela truly seemed quite taken with the redhead. Maybe one day there would be someone else, but even now, the smell of Mercer lingered in this place. Moving his clothing down to the basement had made her lungs ache.

"Things are getting better, lass," Brynjolf quietly assured her.

"I know."

They locked gazes, and unspoken warmth passed between them. Things were getting better, and they would continue to do so.

"This one!" Delvin said in triumph, selecting a bottle. "Don't worry, Prim. I'll share it around the Flagon tonight. I haven't had stuff this good in ages."

"Don't say that around Vekel," Brynjolf joked.

"Nah, of course I won't."

The older thief cradled the bottle while the three continued to chat. Brynjolf was doing a fine job as guildmaster, and already, several new members had joined. It would take time to rebuild their wealth of course. Mercer had left them with nothing, but everyone was doing their share, especially Karliah, who'd made it a personal mission to contribute as much as possible. The dark elf was starting to find her place again, and for that, Prim was grateful. Their conversations were always brief and stilted, but maybe there would come a time when they would finally be able to sit down and sort out their differences. Brynjolf certainly seemed to think so.

"Are you still seeing shadows?" he asked.

"I'll always see them now. I can reach out and find one whenever I want."

Or become one, she thought, but she'd been wary of experimenting with that.

"Creepy," Delvin said. "Are we really going to set up a shrine to Nocturnal again?"

"I don't know," Brynjolf frowned. "Karliah hasn't asked, and I don't think it's a good idea. We already have the Nightingale hall, and it's not like we're worshiping her."

"I agree," Prim offered.

"Still thinking about being my second in command?" the redhead prodded.

"I'm thinking 'yes'," she smiled, making him smile as well.

"I don't mean to be rude," Delvin spoke. "But I promised Vex that..."

"Go," Prim laughed. "Both of you. I have work to do, and I'll be down in the Flagon later anyway. I'll have a decision for you then, Bryn."

The two men departed, leaving Prim alone in Riftweald. She found herself in the master bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed, and already knowing that she would accept Brynjolf's offer. Riften was home, and she had no intentions of deserting it or running to escape dealing with recent events. It was easier now, knowing that Mercer was out there somewhere thieving, but also painful to wonder if their paths would ever cross. She'd never gotten to say goodbye or to express just how much he'd taken from her, but she could live with that. She didn't have a choice.

Riftweald was silent as a shadowed figure picked its lock and stepped inside. The manor was certainly occupied these days, and someone had cleaned out the dust and cobwebs. There were carpets, and the larder was fully stocked, hot coals lingering in the fireplace, and a cork sitting on the table. The manor wasn't just occupied; someone had been busy making it their own, and if that someone proved to be Karliah, Mercer Frey was not going to be happy. It was the cork that made him consider the possibility, its stained end indicating red wine, which had always been her favorite.

He paused at the foot of the stairs, where he gazed upward into darkness, but quickly opted for the basement. Part of him hoped that the vault tunnel hadn't been sealed—that he would be able to slip inside the guildhall once more and leave a small token to indicate his intrusion. He could just leave Skyrim, of course, but his feet had brought him back here, to Riften, as if drawn of their own accord. How many years had he spent in the city? How many days pacing through the cistern and watching footpads struggle with the basics? At least one of those whelps had turned out to be worth the effort, even if the redhead grated on his nerves, more so after Prim had arrived.

You were so sure those two were lovers.

Mercer scoffed at himself, at everything really—the fact that Brynjolf's easy confidence and charm reminded him of Gallus, that he'd been irked by how quickly Prim had grown close to the redhead, or perhaps he was just annoyed by his own reaction to the matter. He neared the chambers that had once been his secret, and felt a momentarily swell of contempt. Maybe the guild would prosper again now, but it wouldn't continue on its merry way without a reminder that they hadn't really won. No, he couldn't just leave Skyrim without stopping here first. He had to let them know that he'd slipped through their fingers once more.

They can all go to Oblivion, he thought. He was still the best thief around.

He paused as he entered the most secluded corner of Riftweald, acutely aware that it had changed significantly. The rest of the manor was nearly the same, but this? He ran hands over the edge of a bed, and then the handle of a wardrobe. A quick tug opened the door, and inside was his clothing. He nearly slammed the door shut as he backed away, leaning against the wall and asking himself who had moved into his home. There was only one person who would possible keep his belongings.

"I loved him!"

She knew that he lived, of course, or would know as soon as she went to Whiterun. What she would never know was how close he'd been to their camp, laying behind rocks and oozing blood onto stone, only moving to prevent the wind from carrying his scent to them. It had been a long time since he'd suffered such severe injuries.

He moved upstairs, unsure what he hoped to accomplish. Time and affection were such treacherous friends, rubbing each other raw. There was no telling whether she would try to drive a dagger into his gut or maybe just yell. For all he knew, someone else had already joined her in bed, but he doubted it.

The door to the master bedroom was open, and a candle burned low on the nightstand, but the bed was vacant. He suspected a surprise attack for a moment before his eyes settled on a woman curled up in a chair near the window. A blanket was wrapped around her, a goblet of wine on the floor beside an open book. He studied the way Prim's hair cascaded over her shoulders, and the soft rises and falls of her chest. Her lips were slightly parted, her face angled away from the light.

Mercer didn't reach for her, but didn't leave either. He had debated whether to look for her while in Riften, and here she was, flesh rather than dream. Nocturnal probably had a hand in ensuring that he dreamed of Prim slipping through the shadows, melding with them and passing him without so much as noticing his presence. He'd been angry that night in Whiterun. Furious, really. After that strange shadow had left him, he'd fallen asleep and woken up thinking that Prim was beside him. He couldn't have her, but couldn't forget her.

She stirred, but didn't wake, and reluctantly, he reached down, running a finger along her jaw as though indulging in some forbidden fantasy.

"Mercer?" she mumbled.

Her eyelids fluttered as he bent forward and ran a thumb over her lower lip, his other hand near a dagger in case she suddenly jumped to her senses. She smelled of wine though, and her gaze was unfocused as she blinked upward at him.

"I might be a bastard, but I guess this is goodbye," he mumbled. "Be glad I didn't kill you."

Part of him felt appeased. This was better than letting Whiterun be his last touch, and for once in his life, something hadn't ended in violence.

"You," Prim suddenly breathed, jerking upward.

Before he could step back, she wrapped arms around his neck, pulling him down. He braced himself against the chair, and tensed as she buried her face in his shoulder.

"Missed you, Mercer muffin."

"Shadows take it," he rumbled, lifting her. It couldn't be simple, never with her.

She hasn't tried to stab you yet.

"Ouch," she grouched when he dumped her onto the bed. That seemed to do the trick. She rubbed her wrist where it had smacked the bedframe, and shook her head as though trying to rid it of the alcohol. His mouth slipped into an amused smirk when she stared at him in shock. He hadn't come here with a plan, but this was better than leaving her inebriated on a chair.

"Don't tell me you thought I drowned," he remarked.

Her mouth snapped shut, gaze flickering down to the hand that he kept on his dagger.

"You left mud all over Breezehome."

"Oh?" he questioned, loving the way her eyes narrowed in concentration. How much had she drank? She seemed mostly sober, but a comment like that made him wonder.

"And you took my gold," she added. "You could have at least left my jewelry alone. I thought guild members didn't steal from each other, Master Frey."

Sober, he decided, watching her collect herself.

"I'm not in the guild anymore," he stated. "And I didn't follow the rules when I was."

"That wasn't always the case," she noted, lapsing into silence, but holding his gaze. There was a dangerous concoction of emotions in that stare, and one that left him wondering just what she'd seen to understand so much more than people he'd worked with for decades. It was an odd realization, knowing that someone held the truth and wasn't staring at him with malice.

"Have you told the others?" he asked.

"...No." Her gaze dropped to her lap, and she exhaled. Her fully conscious self didn't seem happy to see him, although he hadn't expected more. Maybe it would all end on a bad note yet. Typical. "Why are you here, Mercer?" she asked.

"This is my house. I'll come and go as I please. And what about you?"

"You mean why am I here?" she questioned, looking up.

"Why aren't you in charge of the guild?" he sharply corrected.

"I didn't want the position. It should be a Nightingale, someone who can devote themselves to it wholly. No divided loyalties."

Divided loyalties. He thought of the room in the basement, and wondered whether it had been purely symbolic on her part, or whether she'd really expected him to return. The way her gaze softened when he took a step closer made him reach for her again, letting her cheek rest against his palm.

"I made you bleed," he lowly reminded her.

She ignored his comment and stood, wrapping her arms around him once more, and stepping close enough that their chests nearly touched.

"Mercer, I know this is probably pointless, but if Karliah had never come back, could we have...? Would you have ever...?"

"You're right," he dismissed. "There's no point wondering, whatever it is you're thinking."

He pulled her closer, and let her lean against him. It didn't seem possible that she should still be so comfortable in his arms, or that after all those damned years, she had to show up in the same one when everything unraveled. He didn't bother saying anything more as he kissed her, grabbing her hips and holding them firmly against his own. He would have her at least one more time. Fate owed him that fucking much.

He stripped her clothing free, and tossed his armor aside, losing no time in pressing her against the bedpost and running hands over every inch of her. He paused only when a strange darkness slid down his spine. He would have though the touch hers, except that her hands were in his hair. It was the caress of darkness, and he seized her wrists, pulling them away as his gaze sharpened.

"You used the key."

His grip on her wrists was rough, and Prim stared at Mercer in confusion. Surely he wanted this. Not a moment ago, he'd all too eagerly removed her clothing, the heat in his gaze and touch all-consuming. Gods, she wanted him so badly, and this wasn't a dream. He was really here, in Riftweald, with her, and never had she felt such a bittersweet flood of emotions in her life.

"You used the key," he stated.

She said nothing at first, merely assessing whether he was being critical or not, but his expression betrayed nothing but careful deliberation. She tugged at his hold, willing him to release her.

"Just once," she admitted.

"Just once?" he spoke, eyebrows raising. "After all those vows of yours?"

"It saved you a night without a fire, didn't it?" she dismissed. "It was a reward for returning the key." He released her hands, and rested his palms on her hips. "She had a piece of me the moment I got swept up in this," she exhaled. "Maybe since Henric blessed me. I think it might have been worth it though," she thought aloud, trailing a finger over the scar on his chest, then to a new one on his shoulder.

"That one's from you," he commented.

She pulled him onto the bed with her, laying beneath him and planting kisses along his collarbone. He unexpectedly chuckled, and she shifted to meet his gaze, unsurprised by the smugness she found dancing in his eyes and tone.

"It was you in Whiterun," he smirked. "That bitch gave you a present, and you used it to tell her and the whole guild to fuck off."

"That was not the statement I was trying to make! How dare you...oh, stop that."

But she didn't mean it as he slipped a hand between her legs to tease her. She didn't care why he'd chosen tonight of all times to show up, and didn't care what the guild would think if they found out he was here with her. She just wanted to hold him, and close her eyes, and pretend that everything was fine—that he would be behind his desk tomorrow, and that she would look up from a lock to see him watching her. It would never be, and he whispered a reminder in her ear as he entered her.

"I know," she murmured.

They rocked into each other while the candle flickered out, and she might have sighed something about loving him when he pulled her against him to sleep. There might have been something about him being a horrid bastard as well, and both statements were equally true. She wrapped her arms around him, afraid that he would leave in the dead of night, and fell asleep that way. When he woke her up sometime later, it was still dark outside.

"Will you come back?"

Prim stood near the back door, watching him settle a cloak around his shoulders. The sitting room was lit with lanterns, and she stood in a dressing robe, toes curling into the carpet. He turned near the door, and regarded her.

"This is my house," he stated.

"Not according to the deed, it's not," she playfully corrected. "So that's a yes?"

"Don't assume anything, thief," he scoffed.

No, she knew better than that, but didn't lose her smile as he opened the door and paused on the threshold. It didn't feel like a goodbye as she stood beside him, feeling a touch of loss, yes, but not as much as she had after Irkngthand. When she found his grey eyes, they were as deep and demanding as they'd ever been.

"You're mine, you know," he declared.

"Typical thief mentality."

He stepped outside, and she followed him to the gate.

"I'll always be able to find you now," she quietly told him. "Don't think that you can just..."

"Foolish woman," he grumbled, silencing her. "Don't get yourself killed, and don't think you can just become a shadow without consequences."

Her hand brushed his in farewell, for she didn't know what else to do. Maybe he didn't either, but he kissed her one last time, and she smiled softly to herself.

"Take care of yourself, you stubborn man."

In the moonlight, his departing form left a shadow. There would always be shadows, and in their darkest depths watched a daedra with a knowing smile. And in their whispers, Prim heard the echoes of Nightingales, and watchers, and those who'd given their souls away without knowing. She would always be able to find him—would always walk in the shadows now, just as he did—and when the true night of life descended, maybe joining the shadows would not be so terrible, not with him by her side.

"I win, mortal."

"I think that's debatable."

Prim smiled at the night sky, and returned to bed, nightmares of running never to return.

Author's note: That's the end, folks! Thanks for reading along, and I hope that you enjoyed the ending. Thank you for all of the feedback as well. I had great fun writing this, and hope that appreciation for Mercer as a character has been spread far and wide. Haha.

As a note, my thoughts on what would happen next are something like this: Mercer ends up in trouble somewhere, and Prim sees it as a shadow. She runs off to find him, and the two of them have this big adventure, and then, maybe one day, Mercer stops by to visit and finds a baby with grey eyes sitting in a crib, staring at him. Oh, and Delvin and Vex stay together, although they bicker a lot.

Until next time, if there is a next time,

Ornamental Nonsense