Brynjolf inhaled deeply, glad to be free of the dank musk and general stench of refuse that typically meant 'home' to him. The air of the city was likewise free of the ever-preset stink of fish and sulfur and stagnant pond water, the cool air instead heavy with the scent of fresh earth and soft rain. Yes, winter had finally released its frigid grasp on the Rift, and springtime had arrived in all its gentle glory.
He stalked along the familiar back alleys, beneath the trees with their new crowns of leaves, making his way to the epicenter of activity that was the market. The tall ash and oak trees, interspersed amid their birch and yew cousins, made him feel decidedly underdressed when compared to their decorations of ribbons fair, but he pushed the thought from his mind. He was a master thief, after all, not a love-struck lad hoping to find his first kiss.
The sound of the raucous celebrations grew louder as he approached, filtering through the boughs and bouncing off the wooden structures before the echoes bled to silence behind him. He smirked, watching the nightingales swoop in and around the branches above, the audacious little fowl adding their own renditions of the joyous songs being sung. The warbles lilted skyward, calling unto the moons that hung like breathless sentries within the blue veil of the night.
The shadows of the festive trees meant safety, ensuring he remained unnoticed amidst the lantern light, and he melted away into them, preferring to watch, and wait, instead of mingle within the crowds. She would find him, he knew.
And so it was, as he was watching the revelry and listening to the priests ramble absently, that she returned to him. The scent of leather and sunshine washed over him as a loosely woven garland appeared about his neck.
"Well color me impressed, lass. I wasn't certain I'd see you again," he couldn't help but smirk as he recited the lines he'd said to her so many years ago, well expecting the light scoff that preceded her arms wrapping around his waist and her warmth pressing into his back.
"Finding you was easy." Her honeyed words whispered against his ear, sending shivers that had nothing to do with the cool of the evening down his spine.
"Ah, reliable and headstrong," he twisted in her grasp, pinning her against a gnarled trunk as he pressed himself to her, "you certainly turned out to be quite the prize." He'd intended to charm her, to work his way under her skin, and perhaps into her bed; he'd been shameless in his pursuit to get her to join the guild. It was typical of him. Everyone knew it.
He tilted her chin upward as he pressed his forehead to hers. "I missed you, lass." What no one had known, or could have even predicted, was that she'd be the one to charm him; that she'd be the one to get under his skin. She smiled beneath the press of his lips to hers, tasting of honey and mead and the soft promises of things he could only hope were yet to come as she opened to taste of him in return.
Her fingers trailed along the stitching of his doublet to settle at his waist while his moved to tangle in the pins and curls in her hair. She felt divine beneath him, even clothed as she was, and his free hand traced along the laces that held the bodice of her dress closed. He mirrored the route her hands had taken on him, touching and teasing until he reached the satin of the sash that cinched at her hips.
But all too soon her warmth was gone from beneath him, but her fingers laced with his as she dragged him into the square. The familiar stalls were adorned with streamers and flags, and garlands and lanterns hung aside the banners and tapestries believed to bring good luck for a successful planting and bountiful harvest. Baked goods and treats were displayed alongside spiced meats and wines, and tradesmen proffered trinkets and jewelry. Tavern wenches mingled, ensuring flagons were filled, and mummers danced and played, ensuring the mood stayed light. But Brynjolf took little notice.
Perhaps Mara was playing a cruel trick on him, punishing him for all of the hearts he'd stolen and consequently broken over the years. For all of the women he'd wooed then left to wake alone the next morning. Because how could the goddess not be?
Loose saffron curls tumbled around her shoulders, contrasting vividly against the pale blue of her soft linen dress. Her movements were easy, practiced, one could say, despite the cinch of the laces beneath her breasts, or the drape of the skirts that flowed as they walked arm in arm. It never ceased to amaze and enrapture him, the way she came to life around people. Her people.
She belonged to them really. Savior and hero that she was. Not to him. Yet, she'd come back to him, as she always did. She allowed him to see her, to know her, as she was truly. To him, she wasn't Thane, or Legate – though that one did still make him uncomfortable; she wasn't the Dragonborn, or even his Guildmaster. She was just Faere.
He could pick locks and pockets with his eyes closed, talk his way out of nearly any situation, and disappear into shadows at will. He could do and claim many things, but nothing compared to being able to say she was his.
And it was with that thought, and a smitten smirk, that he followed her further through the twisting and winding streets as she searched out their destination. The shaded grove was well visited already, despite the night still being young, and the shadows summoned by the muted lantern light deterred her no more than they had the droves of others.
She pulled the matching ribbons from her hair, her fingers lingering over his as he took the silken band, and together they took their turn beneath the boughs. He'd never been one to put too much weight in the divines, or in what he'd considered the silly and frivolous ventures that were the traditions of his homeland. At least, until her. She seemed to believe, in what exactly he didn't know, but if it meant being at her side, he could perhaps believe in something too.
He wondered briefly what someone like her, the Dragonborn, would wish for as he watched her ribbon flutter amidst the countless others. Would she wish for health and good fortune? Or a successful seeding and plentiful rains? Would she wish for luck, as would befit her family of thieves? Would she wish for love? It wasn't the first time he'd wondered, and he knew it wouldn't be the last as he tied his ribbon near hers. He genuinely hoped the coming spring would see hers, and his, and the others, fulfilled.
"There goes somebody's wish," she nudged his side as she clung to his arm, pointing at a magpie that had wrested a silken band free, and he could only laugh with her as the songs of the birds mixed with the shrieking of the townsfolk who tried to chase them away.
"One for sorrow," he wrapped his arm around her shoulders, frowning slightly.
"Two for joy," she pointed to another, the bright yellow of the fabric harsh against its dark feathers.
She rested her head against his shoulder, their counting apparently already forgotten. Superstition notwithstanding, the spirit of the festival meant that woes could be put aside, at least for one night, and Brynjolf slid his arm to Faere's waist as the fiddles and flutes returned to offer solace and distraction. Other couples paired off in similar fashion around them, and they were all lost in the twists and twirls of their dance.
Their voices – hers more than his really – joined with the songs, rejoicing in the freedom of a past let go as they danced to celebrate a new journey with the new life that Kyne brought with spring. But it wasn't just theirs to share, much to his chagrin, and when the fiddles dictated, they linked their hands with stranger and friend alike, swinging round and round in circles and arcing through in rows until the journey of the moons descended.
The shades of shadow were nearly gone when they passed the worn headstones into the shadowed guild entrance and he finally had her to himself. She was ready, demanding even, beneath him, and as needy for him as he was for her. All but exhausted and drunk on their shared lust, the sheltered stone concealed all but her gasp as he hauled her up beside the archway and sank himself into her with selfish abandon. Her breaths came in pants against him as he peppered her jaw and neck with kisses, feeling her pulse tick against his lips as if in time to his thrusts.
"Bryn…" It wasn't a question, but nor was it a plea, and he captured her mouth with his in answer. They were as practiced in this dance as they were the previous, and he knew that the frantic way her hands tore at his tunic, seeking any and all expanse of skin she could find, meant that she would break beneath him soon. But so as he knew her, she knew him, and her hands expertly alighted along his skin, coercing him to the precipice beneath the scratch of her nails and the bite of her teeth to his lip.
"Aye, lass," his fingers dug bruises into her flesh as her nails left answering crescents of red, and he felt her tense beneath him. Her velvet walls spasmed around him, her body braced and her features awash in a silent ecstasy that spoke more to him than the wanton screams he knew her to be capable of. But he was nothing if not a gentleman, despite what stories the women of Riften might tell, and he held her to him, his pace even and gentle as he eased her from her high before seeking his own release.
There were so many things about her that called to him. Her wit and charm, her skills as a thief, her beautiful, if at times terrifying, voice, her body… but just then, it was her eyes, soft and green and containing nothing but trust and affection for him, that did him in. She seemed to drink in his pleasure as he came undone within her, tangling her hands in his hair and silencing his telling sounds with her mouth.
The first slices of sunlight arced into their hideaway as he shuddered through the last of his pleasure, pulling away and resting his forehead against hers as he tried to slow his heart and even his breaths. "I love you, Bryn," her voice was almost lost beneath the morning cacophony of birdsong, but that did nothing to quell the swell in his chest.
"Aye, lass, and I you." He drew her against him again, never mind the mess that they both were; he was simply content to have her in his arms.
Maybe there was something to this 'believing' thing after all, he thought, gazing outside the stone archway; across the small graveyard, perched on a low-hanging bough of a nearby tree, were a familiar-looking couple of magpies squabbling over a likewise familiar pale blue ribbon.
Brynjolf smiled and hugged Faere closer. Perhaps the Lady Mara wasn't so angry with him after all.
A/N: This was inspired by the song "The Mummer's Dance" by Loreena McKennit, and also by the fact that I've seen little to no attention given to the various holidays that can be found within the Elder Scrolls world.
Please R&R, comments are love and the life-blood of fic writers :)