Most Housecarls were assigned their Thanes, but as she and her previous charge had been ... how had the Jarl put it? "involved", and his death had been especially gory and sudden, she had been offered a choice between early retirement or the next acceptable Thane in need of a Housecarl. As far as Lydia could tell, an "acceptable Thane" was someone unlikely to begin ravishing her on top of a banquet table. To be fair, that had only happened once, and almost twenty years before her birth.
Lydia shook her head, dispelling her conveniently placed introductory flashback. Today, she reminded herself, is a very important day. It was the day she would meet her (maybe) Thane and face the choice between a life of boredom or a life of servitude. Most people thought her a whore because she and her Thane had been in a relationship. In truth, that relationship had been one of the most fulfilling things in her life and ...
She remembered sitting beside the fire with Rognak, laughing at his wit. Remembered watching him deck an uppity bard. Remembered making love in his bedroll, sheets rubbing against her face. Remembered watching his head crumple inward. Remembered the blood gout out of a crack in his forehead. Remembered gore dripping from his open mouth onto his tusks. Scary ass frog.
She flashed back to reality and realized she was curled on the floor, sobbing. She made up her mind. No matter what, she was turning the Thane down. She would just quietly inform Jarl Balgruuf and he would be assigned to Anya, the next available Housecarl. Anya was way more beautiful than her anyway, and she knew exactly how to make men swoon. Anya could probably make women swoon too, come to think of it.
Lydia slowly rose to her feet and pulled on a leather tunic and pants. She wiped her face and pulled her hair back into an elegant (or at least half presentable) ponytail. As she left, she tucked Rognak's amulet inside her shirt. It was her only link to him now.
The "walk" to the Palace took less than five minutes as she was excited to get this over with so that she could get home, get drunk, and have a good cry. It was less a walk then a run. She blew past children (attracting yells), men (attracting curses), and women (attracting thrown vegetables).
Opening one of the double doors of the Palace always released a warm blast of mead-scented air into the face of the opener. Usually, Lydia stopped or at least slowed a bit to enjoy this phenomenon, but she hurried through this time, which was so off that a maid cleaning by the door actually did a double take.
Lydia walked up the stairs and stood at attention a respectful distance from the Jarl, who was in a heated discussion with one of her advisors. Minutes passed. Lydia's posture slipped slightly. After a little while longer, she cleared her throat. Balgruuf looked up and jumped. "Ah, Lydia. I, uh, didn't see you there. I assume you're here for your assignment?" the Jarl asked, quickly regaining his composure.
"Yes, about that, I have decided that -" Lydia was interrupted by a cough from the advisor standing to her left.
"Yes, yes, well, that is wonderful, however the Dragonborn has evidently decided not to grace us with his presence. He has just been spotted in a bar, drinking like he has sprung a leak." The advisor looked slightly proud of his wit.
"Lydia? Do us a favor and go get him." Balgruuf didn't wait for a response and immediately went back to bickered with the advisor. "Ahm, I've decided not to accept him?" It came out as a question, and both men ignored her. Lydia rolled her eyes and headed out. She assumed that the Thane (she really needed to learn his name; she simply couldn't keep referring to him as "the Thane") was drinking in the Bannered Mare as that was Whiterun's largest establishment that sold alcohol. She strolled, slowly this time, down the large stairs in front of the Palace.
Lydia couldn't help but to feel offended that Thane (that was his name now, she decided) had decided to snub the ceremony. She knew it was ridiculous, but she took his rejection slightly personally. She wondered why, exactly, he had decided not to attend his own appointment to Thane. Most true Nords, actually just most people, enjoyed being honored. But being honored for what? She still had no clue what Thane had done to deserve a Housecarl.
A minute later, she opened the doors to the Bannered Mare, quickly aside as three large Nords staggered out waving mugs and slurring out drinking songs. One tripped and fell, catching himself on both of his friends, grunting something about vampiric pastries. Another appeared to agree and all three slumped down the street. Typical Nord behavior, reflected Lydia, hoping that Thane wouldn't be a drunkard. She liked a man that could handle his alcohol, but drinking until you believed that wheat products were going to suck your blood is not "handling". She remembered that she was going to turn him down anyway, and felt silly. She stepped inside the inn, surveying her surroundings.
Drunk Nords abound, the center of attention was a man simultaneously dancing, drinking, and complaining about Whiterun's "abysmal security". A thin man led six enormous men in a drinking song while he juggled bottles of wine. A small hooded figure sat in a corner, surrounded by empty bottles. And a woman was dancing on top of a table while people flicked gold at her.
Lydia was trying to decide which could possibly be a hero worthy of Thanehood when the innkeeper approached her. "You're looking for him." The innkeeper pointed towards the slight man in the corner. "You sure arrived quick, he just placed a request."
Lydia was puzzled, but decided that the small, dark man would be as good of a place to start as any other. She strolled over and realized two things simultaneously: he was the most attractive man she had ever seen, and he was the most inebriated man she had ever seen. He rocked back and forth slowly, his eyes at half-mast, humming a little as he took a swig from a bottle.
The bottle slipped from his fingers, splashing both him and Lydia as it shattered on the floor. His eyes followed it down, then back up her legs. His gaze stopped for a moment on her breasts and then continued up to her face. "You the whore?" His voice was quiet and controlled even though he was way past the "vampiric pastry" stage of alcohol consumption. His eyes drifted closed for a moment, giving her a chance to study his face. He had the high cheekbones of an elf, and his Dunmer skin was a unique purple color. All his features were all hard-edged, there wasn't a single round or soft feature. In short, he looked chiseled from stone, even while drunk.
"The whore?" she asked, shaking her head and frowning in confusion. His eyes snapped open, and he regarded her with interest. "Ah'll tehk taht sn 'o." Lydia must have frowned, since he cleared his throat, blinked, and tried again: "I'll take that as a," his eyes closed again and he swayed violently, "no." "Are you ... alright?" she was becoming concerned. He looked almost unconscious. He grinned, unexpectedly.
"Awwwhh... Youh care, dahll. Ah dun't deservh yah." He looked up at her with a dreamy face and stood up, half fell. He caught himself on the table, stepped forward, stepped back, stepped forward, and kissed her.
His lips were soft, warm, and he tasted like a mixture of wine and mead. Lydia felt herself responding instinctively. He swayed a bit more, and began to snore. He was perfectly still for about ten seconds, then swayed and toppled backwards. He bashed his head on a table leg, toppling a bottle of wine onto his head, emitting a CLONK. After all that, he was well and truly out for the count. Lydia stood still, unsure about what to do. She was about to leave him when he twitched a bit and belched. At least he's still alive, she thought. But that means I can't really leave him on the floor. Dammit. She frowned, and made up her mind. She'd rent him a room, but that was it. She was leaving after that.
She ended up staying for a good ten minutes after renting the room, just trying to get him positioned comfortably on the cheap bed. Everytime she put him on his back, he rolled over and tried to suffocate himself in his pillow. Everytime she put him on his side, he rolled until he fell of the bed. Finally, he ended up on facedown, half on and half off the bed. One arm and a leg hung off the bed, while his face was turned sideways to prevent death by asphyxiation. After arriving at home, she couldn't stop thinking about him and the kiss. How could he just kiss her? How was that okay? A small voice in the back of her head said, He was drunk. He thought she was a whore. How could she kiss him back?