The Thief of Hearts (A Brynjolf Fanfic)

1

"Dawdling away again, you lazy lout? Up with you! Maven will have your backside thrashed until it's raw. Get on with you, now!"

I looked up scornfully. The old woman was a crusty, winkled bag of a creature with a beaked nose like the witches had in Mama's stories. I sighed and did as told, however--she was right to an extent. Maven Black-Briar was hardly a gentle soul, and getting caught being idle with my time would only get me the beating of a lifetime. I smoothed out my skirts and followed the woman to the front of the meadery. People came and went throughout the day, so it we were constantly busy with keeping the shop looking top notch.

Mistress Maven certainly liked her Black-Briar Meadery looking pretty.

"Now see here, girl," the old woman was instructing, "take this to the Bee and Barb Inn. Keerava needs to sign below if she wants her share of mead for the month." She handed me a parchment that was to be kept safely in my leather satchel, where it would stay nice and flat for the Argonian woman to scribble away.

"And if she bickers like the last time?" I asked. "You know she doesn't like our prices."

"Don't be daft, you silly thing," the old woman hissed. "Keerava is ugly, but not stupid. Now go!"

I sighed and went on my way. The air was humid as always, made worse by the smelly canals underfoot. Only the bravest went there, or so I was always told once I'd come to Riften. Only the bravest and the very foolish. For somewhere in a twist and wind of the sewers was the Ratway, and that's where the notorious Thieves Guild dwelt. I'd yet to witness any of the elusive members of the guild, but I did like hearing stories about them in their leather garb, sneaking about in the shadows.

I had left Whiterun to come to Riften two years ago, when I was but sixteen. Since my father had died during my infancy and my mother was getting too old be much help to the Jarl's wife anymore, I had left in search of employment in Riften. Almost at once I had found a job as an errand girl for Maven Black-Briar, the wealthiest woman in the city. At first I was naive and found the hustling lifestyle exciting and thrilling. But that was until I had learned of the extreme, distasteful measures my employer liked to extend upon using should something she didn't like happen.

I learned fast to watch myself. Despite the old servant woman's harsh words, I wasn't as stupid as I seemed. I had been educated, just as my mother had been, and could read and write well. Not to mention I was fairly gifted with a quick, able wit which got me into trouble from time to time. But having gotten used to Riften's harshness, I also found that it helped keep me alive. Such as when I caught sight of the huge man in black a second too late.

"Oy, you," he growled. "Come here."

"I don't answer to the likes of you," I shot right back. A few onlookers stared in shock and that's when I realized why: The man wore the clothes of the deadly Dark Brotherhood. They were the rivals of the Thieves Guild, bloody assassins who dabbled in wicked practices and destroyed lives like it mattered little. They were the ones I'd learned to watch out for almost immediately upon my arrival in Riften. And I'd just mouthed off to one.

"You must have been dropped when you were born, girl," the man snarled. "Come here. NOW."

I swallowed. I saw no blades on him, but that hardly meant he wouldn't kill me. Still, I figured I'd be smart to do as he said. So I approached him cautiously, aware that a few guardsmen by the city gates had their eyes on us. At least, I sincerely hoped they did. I stopped a few inches before the man, clutching my satchel tightly. He towered over me, broad muscles stretching his black clothing tight. He had a mean face and murderous eyes that made me tremble.

"What do they call you?" he barked.

"Spina," I said instantly. It wasn't my real name, but the servant alias I'd been given when Maven hired me. None of the servants used their real names. I'm sure it was because of a social status ideal, but with bloodthirsty assassins running about, I would have chosen a false name anyway. Who knew where else these bastards roamed? I would have been horrified to learn they traced my name back to my mother in Whiterun.

"Spina means 'thorn,' does it not?" he inquired.

"Yes, m'lord," I said, lowering my eyes.

"So you're a trouble maker then?" he said without humor. "A thorn in your mistress's side?" He didn't wait on me to respond. "Whatever. Listen, I've been tasked with warning those I don't recognize to stay away from trouble. Do you hear?"

"Aye?" I asked questioningly.

"Mind yourself. The Dark Brotherhood is watching, little thorn. Even worthless slaves like you." He crossed his powerful arms. "Now leave."

Though I found the conversation pointless, I turned on my heel and darted away, eager to be rid of the man's soulless eyes and cold countenance. And while it made no sense initially, I took his words to heart as soon as my feet entered the Bee and Barb Inn: The Dark Brotherhood was alert about something. And they were watching.

Even worthless slaves like me.

~

Spina is Latin for "Thorn." :)

Welcome to the "Thief of Hearts!" I have been wanting to write a Skyrim fanfic for a long time (preferably circling around the hunky Brynjolf) so I figured I may as well do so. I'm referring actual characters and people in here as much as humanly possible, but will also be creative and using made up people, places, and things.

Rate, Comment, & Subscribe!