Rumirin was, indeed, shaking in his boots.
His thin, long fingers pressed into the lean muscle of his upper arms as he shuddered while walking down the stairs of Understone Keep. Rain was falling around him and pooling on the stone, making one big miserable mess that matched that in his mind.
He'd meant to buy a house, damn it. A place close to Endon (his fence) and the Marketplace so he could sell off things he'd picked up here and there on his travels on this side of Skyrim. This house was supposed to sit here, empty, so he could lock up valuables and leave them to collect dust until it was time to barter them; a place for him to rest in a real bed instead of those damned stone ones the local inn offered. Rumirin felt absolutely god damned stupid for thinking it would be that easy. No, there was always a hidden ordeal underneath every innocent seeming thing that happened to him. Without fail, something would go wrong.
He'd furnished the house a few days before and been allowed inside after it was done to check up on it. Pleased with the effort, he returned to the jarl to thank him.
He shouldn't have gone, because the next thing he knew he was being honored as Thane of Markarth and given a two-handed blade he didn't necessarily want (he'd always been a dagger and spell sort of man, thank you). His stomach flipped as the jarl continued on, giving him a housecarl. His huge green eyes had gone blank as his ears stopped picking up noise, one word buzzing around in his head like an angry bunch of bees. That word was no.
No, no no no NO.
He was beyond pissed, spluttering, cheeks turning pink under his pale golden pallor. He'd been thanked and congratulated, his fury being misread as profuse thankfulness. Rumirin could have died as Yngvar the Singer slapped him on the back with a huge grin, knowing full well the Altmer absolutely did not want a housecarl. He could have strangled the Nord right then and there and not felt a hint of regret, even if he rotted in jail for it.
He could feel nausea build in his throat as the anger wore off and was quickly replaced with worry rolling in his stomach. He hadn't lived with anyone besides Lydia, his housecarl in Whiterun. He hadn't wanted her either, to be honest. Somehow they'd become friends after he'd asked her to hold his staff for a moment so he could rebuckle his left boot. With a deep sigh, she mumbled something he'd never forget, "I am sworn to carry your burdens."
He'd burst out laughing at that, and then her façade crumbled into a grin and she gave up her stony demeanor and treated him as an equal. He'd won her over on accident, and he wasn't exactly good at winning people over. At all.
But damn it, he was Dovahkiin, and he'd defeated Alduin (as far as he could tell). He'd been to the Nord heaven of Sovngarde and breathed in the coldly beautiful air and been allowed to look into the swirling sky and have his entire heart drop in absolute wonder. He'd climbed through the ranks of the Stormcloaks despite his obvious racial differences and become Ulfric's Stormblade though strenuous effort and the Nord had developed a soft spot for him even though he was Altmer. And after that ordeal was done, he'd become the master of the Thieves Guild, for crying out loud. He could do anything, and damn it if he couldn't handle living with a housecarl again.
And, by the gods, if he couldn't handle it, Rumirin would drive the housecarl out himself with any means at his disposal.
Marching up the steps to his new home with a grimly determined expression, he pulled the key from one of the pouches on his dark leather jerkin and, with slightly shaking hands, attempted to unlock the latch to Vlindrel Hall. He failed numerous times even though his usually steady demeanor allowed him to pick a lock in less than a few seconds.
Fuck, he was nervous. He hadn't been this nervous since the Legion had his neck stretched across a block and was about to cleave it from his shoulders.
He took a deep breath and heard his teeth clatter, sending another flash of heat to his high cheekbones. Holding his fingers steady with his other hand, he felt slightly humiliated as he finally was able to open the door. Shaking his head and flexing his jaw, he pushed back his leather hood and shoved the door open, keeping his face impassive as he stepped into the dry warmth of the hall.
He wasn't greeted at the door like Lydia had done upon is first arrival at Breezehome. He stopped on the first steps in the front entrance awkwardly, straining his ears for any sort of sound within the home.
Nothing; maybe the housecarl wasn't here yet. The weather was bad, and he'd only stopped by a shop on the way home to buy mead to cure his bad attitude before heading over here. Rumirin shucked off his knapsack and gripped it by the straps, carrying himself through the front room and past the set table there. Empty. He breathed a large sigh of relief and stepped through the doorway, freezing as he entered.
His heartbeat ran blood into the tips of his ears, and he raised a hand to his long, messy brown hair as his eyes adjusted to the flickering light of the hearth in the center of the room.
The table was freshly set, and a huge Nord had his back turned to the door, leaning over the heat as he stirred something in the cooking pot hanging above the flames. He was one of the biggest men Rumirin had ever laid eyes on, with muscles in his arms clearly defined even with fur covering his shoulders. He was blonde, had a commanding presence, and absolutely huge hands with thick, long fingers. The Altmer's knees went weak and his mouth dried at the sight.
Nice… ass.
He prayed to Talos he hadn't just said that out loud. The Nord didn't turn around, so he nodded to himself and gently began to creep to the table. He placed his knapsack down and pulled out the chair softly as he could, perching on it and unbuttoning his pack to pull out the three bottles of Black-Briar Reserve he'd previously thought to drown his sorrows with.
He jumped and gave a horridly pathetic squeak as a silver bowl full of the most deliciously hot stew he'd ever smelled was placed in front of him. Looking up, he caught the gaze of his housecarl; his breath hitching in his throat as the half-blind man smiled down at him.
"My thane," he nodded politely, stepping backwards to place his own food at the other side of the table, sitting down and tucking into the stew without another word. Rumirin's heart stopped very suddenly and he felt weak and shaky even though the Nord paid him hardly any mind. He wrenched his jaw shut in complete embarrassment, not even realizing it had been propped open. Shit, how long had he been slack jawed like that? He picked up his spoon and dug in, his mouth watering as his chest warmed from the venison stew. Damn, the Nord had cooked for him and won his heart in that fluid movement; it had only been a matter of moments after he'd walked in the door. Lydia could suck it.
And he was fucking handsome.
The Altmer's face burned as he slid a bottle of mead over to the man, who grinned in thanks and uncorked it with his teeth, taking a swallow. Rumirin could only watch in appreciation as the Nord's throat muscles worked. Shit.
He placed the blue bottle down in front of him and nodded toward the struck young elf. "I'm Argis. It's good to meet you, my thane."
His voice was so deep and gravely that it sent the fine hairs on Rumirin's arms on end.
"Y-you can call me Rumirin, i-if you want. Thank you for cooking; it's delicious…"
He trailed off. Fuck, he was stuttering like a schoolgirl.
Argis's mouth curled into a damned smirk that worked to dig deep claws into Rumirin's racing heart. Gods.
"Alright then, Rumirin. And it's no problem."
He tried desperately to right himself, pressing his cold hands to his hot cheeks as Argis watched him curiously. His thoughts ate at his mind, drowning him in throes of pressure and relief. He took the neck of his mead bottle in his hands and tried forcing the cork out. Argis held out a thick hand after the Altmer failed miserably, glaring at the infernal contraption, and Rumirin handed it to him hesitantly.
Argis lifted it to his lips, gripping the cork between his teeth and pulled it away with ease. He handed it back to the elf, pulling it out with his free hand. Rumirin took it and lifted it to his lips to take a deep drink, inwardly groaning as his housecarl flashed a grin at him that made his knees weak.
Maybe living in Markarth wouldn't be so bad.
(AN: Whew, finally got this out of my system! This'll probably be only a few chapters long, and I hope I can give Argis the love he deserves with this. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed the first chapter.)