A/N: This is my NaNoWriMo novel for 2015 ( I know, you're not supposed to start writing until 1, November—but I'm doing it anyway because I can't get this out of my head ). It may or may not be finished by 30, November. There are fifteen chapters planned, but this is subject to change. Please refrain from asking me to update—new chapters will be added when I have time!
TaT is a major canon divergent, as Olivia is NOT the Dragonborn. The plot itself also diverges from the Thieves Guild questline. Bryn and Oli's relationship definitely won't be the main focus of this fic. However, it is woven between various plot drops. Some chapters will not cover it at all, while other shorter chapters may or may not be dedicated to its development.
Trigger warnings apply for typical canon violence, blood, and gore.
Thick as Thieves can be found on AO3 as well.
Dark. It was near silent within the Arcanaeum—void of all but the muffled sound of thick pages fluttering under dextrous fingers. Lavender and chamomile tea steamed within the confines of a copper mug: condensation forming along its sides. Tolfdir had said that it would help, but the tea had never done what was expected of it. Two whole weeks, and she remained unable to sleep—the sound of Anvil's streets buzzed in her head. She could still see every terracotta roof as clear as day. Saltine air had found its way into her bones and made them a home. It was stowed away: wouldn't ever leave her in peace.
A husky, weary sigh passed between dry lips. Fingers danced along the edges of her book once more: dusty and covered in decaying ink. This habit of her's—whatever it was—had become taxing. Rest was fleeting, and only in the early hours of the morning was she granted this little comfort. Perhaps it was her own doing that stemmed from her earliest days at the college: denying herself sleep until a spell had been perfected to her liking. Now, she couldn't break the habit. It wound up being an annoyance more than anything—only becoming problematic once her mind succumbed to this restlessness. At times, she had difficulty recalling her own name.
O-l-i-v-i-a.
"My name is—Olivia," she said aloud, her voice resonating between thick, stone walls. Head lulled back as she slumped in her chair, eyes fluttering closed for a brief moment. Beautiful arrays of purple and blue formed behind bruised eyelids—auroras making their way in from the frigid world outside. Nails scratched at the table: drumming and tapping to keep the woman awake. Robes felt heavier than normal. Had it been only a day since she'd last fallen into a deep slumber? Two or three? A whole week? She felt the icy hand of Sleep grip at her throat; but, it only woke the nerves beneath freckled skin.
Her body flinched and she was pried away from the invitation. Was it midnight? Or, three in the morning? She couldn't tell. Light was near absent from the library: blinded by yet another snow storm that had made its way into Winterhold. Such a decrepit, sad city it was. One could near feel the heartache trapped inside its ruins. She'd heard stories of how most of the town had simply fallen into the sea below—how the Nordic people blamed the College for this misfortune. No one could explain how it managed to survive ( the College in all its icy glory, resting 'pon a stone pedestal ). In turn, Winterhold's remaining residents simply assumed that great and powerful magic had been the cause.
Oceaned eyes averted back to the pages before her; scanning and picking out important bits hidden between remedial, insignificant babbling. She'd never understood why scholars found it so necessary to fill their books and journals up with useless fillers. Just list what is necessary, and toss the rest away. Most times, their rambling looked like an ancient tongue—sometimes it was.
She balled her hands into fists and shoved them at her eyes: rubbing dark circles with a whine of defeat. Footsteps could be heard—softly padding up stairs. Urag, most likely. Perhaps he'd finally chase her out of this little sanctuary. But, these footsteps ( nearly silent, slinking up the winding hall ), they were unfamiliar. She thought to rise: confront whomever had invaded her little space of solitude. Head lowered to shield her form behind stacks of ruddy books as the sound grew nearer and nearer. It would have been far better to remain as quiet and mousy as possible, but intrigue ( while not the better action ) rose over that thought.
"It's a little late to be here, don't you think?" The words tumbled from her mouth before they could be stopped—syllables dripping onto parchment. That—wasn't smart in the slightest. A certain kind of shock spread throughout her nervous system—could barely move, nor utter another sound. Heart raced like a rabbit's: fragile and uncertain.
"I could say the same t' you, lass."
His voice was spackled with a brogue—something hidden behind the snark. Twinkle in his eyes—up to no good ( as per usual ). Even so, the thief ( hooded man towering above, with vulpine mischief encompassing O's and dotting I's ) —he'd not formulated an alternate plan in the event that this quick burglary would go awry. He hadn't considered that he would not be alone in this wretched place deemed fit to be a place of learning. Walls encased powerful mages—students and independent scholars alike. He could have very well been just inches away from a fiery death; and that . . . well, it wouldn't be good for business.
Steps were measured carefully, feet padding along, nearly silent. Nord in stature, feline at heart. Satchel clattered against metal buckles: coins and pearls and little pieces of misplaced gem fragments colliding within. The thief could hear only blood rushing through his veins as he came to a halt. Perhaps ( perhaps perhaps perhaps—mantra floating through his mind ) the silvery, feminine voice had been a figment of unheard and unacknowledged paranoia.
'Twas for naught.
Willowy form wrapped in layers of dull silks rounded a stone barrier lined with parchment and quills—studious materials that were worth nothing. Calm and collected, gathering whatever senses were available in her dead-tired state of being. Shoulder pressed against the wall: arms and ankles crossed. Annoyed. She'd no patience to deal with petty criminals.
"It would be a shame if Urag knew that his sanctum had an overnight intruder," Olivia quipped. Eyes narrowed at the darkened form—shrouded in shadow and pliable leathers. She could make out the shape of an angular jaw dusted with dark, titian stubble beneath the shade of the thief's hood. Cocky smirk twisting into something serrated and amused as her words flew into the air.
"Aye, but you won't be tellin' him anything. I'll be gone before ya know it," was the reply. She wasn't sure if it was a hollow threat aimed at a soft and tender throat, or something to lead her astray. Something to sweep his intrusion under the rug. But of course, if this intruder had known the mage better, he would not have been so leery—casting out defensive words. However, the thief did not know. Always ( always always always ) he treaded thin ice. Ever so cautious, choosing words carefully when faced with potential threats that could spell out his death, letter by letter. There was no sense in taking chances now . . .
"What you're looking for isn't here—unless you plan on robbing us of our inkpots."
That reply garnered a brief laugh from the intruder—lithe and wispy beneath his breath. Inkpots—how quaint. He near mirrored the mage's posture now: back pressed flesh against an opposite wall, an amulet of sorts tucked between agile digits.
"That'd be the heist of the century, but no, lass. I didn't come all this way for rubbish."
"Then why are you here?"
"Can't tell ya that."
"Of course you can't," Oli droned. If she'd rolled her eyes any further, they might've fallen onto the floor. A shrug—she watched as the other's movement grew impatient and fidgety. He had no desire to linger within the College any longer than necessary, and the mage before him was already putting a halt to his job. "If you're not going to allow me to assist your thievery, I'll assume that you'll be compensating me for remaining quiet about this—ordeal, no?"
Skeeving woman—for a brief moment, the thief believed that she'd simply leave and allow him to pry open the locks of each bookcase without further intervention. But, he should've known better. Only a con-artist would remain in the presence of one such as himself. Only a charlatan would have the nerve to not run away screaming for help. This lass meant business, and oh, he was good with business.
"It's a book," he said through a heavy sigh, painted with pique and aggravation. Careful—he composed himself, not wanting to drive opportunity away. Minds were too similar, and he'd no plans to anger the woman: destroying all possibilities of leaving with what he sought after. "A very old book. Somethin' to do with Falmer—"
"The Falmer? What in Oblivion would you need that for?"
This was no petty criminal. This man was part of something organized. The Guild—he had to be a member of the "all mighty Thieves Guild" to be asking for such an exotic thing. All mighty and fading into the past: a silent snicker rested in her lungs. They were near unheard of since the fabled Grey Fox had vanished ( d i e d ). She felt the words tugging at her vocal chords, wanting to pull themselves free. No time for realization and beratement: she'd much rather find what he needed, and send him on his way.
Maybe they were doing better than the common rabble thought.
"That's confidential—Boss' orders," the thief responded, quick and on his toes. But, he huffed and scratched at his chin, wheels in his head spinning at a faster than normal pace. "I wasn't actually told what it's for. Supposed t' be translations."
Olivia did not address the hidden inquiry—and with heavy boots and swears echoing up the staircase, she vanished behind a blinding white light. Only shimmers and drifting patterns remained in the atmosphere, and the thief near panicked.
"Hide, you filcher."
Words tickled the thief's ears, and he ducked into the cover of darkness, eyes trained on the glimmering remains of the mage that skulked across the way. Urag—in all his Orsimer power and rage—stormed into the library ( nearly feral, words packed together in unrecognizable sentences ). An atronach followed at his heels, fire crackling over its form. Olivia could feel her lungs tighten behind calcite ribs—she tried not to breathe. What the other settled on doing was not her concern. If he were caught, no blame would ever fall on her. As far as the Orc knew, she was not there—the mage was nestled snug into her bed, unaware of the chaos boiling above the main hall.
The Arcanaeum was combed over by the lumbering, imposing Orc and his summoned lacky. The two lingered for what seemed like hours—though only unbearable minutes had passed before the flame-wielding giant returned to his own quarters.
"This is why you don't burglarize the College," Olivia snapped, phasing back into reality. Her words were nothing but whispers falling on deaf ears. Useless, it was, to try and explain why this invasion was unwise. Urag's strange sense of things gone sour was just the tip of the iceberg if the other scholars were even briefly considered.
"Do you have what I'm looking for or not?" No time was wasted reminiscing about the close call with a blazing demise. This place was an utter death-trap—it appeared to be a suicide mission from the very moment Mercer had mentioned sending someone to Winterhold.
"No—we have no such translations of the Falmer language," the mage countered just as quickly, stepping over to a bookcase situated adjacent to the main desk. Syllables formed strings of prompt sentences that were mottled with polished undertones—her voice still low, as to not alert any lurkers as she dealt in clandestine activities. "We have only studies and speculation about their alphabet and culture. The only so called 'expert' in the tongue happens to be in Markarth—you're quite a few days off your mark."
"Bloody—" the thief near growled in sheer and unbridled frustration. Sent out of his damned way to waste time. He tore his satchel from his belt and tossed it onto the desk—furious anger seeping out from every pore. "One-hundred gold and a few knick-knacks—'s all I have on me. Jus' give me what ya can, lass."
Olivia only nodded, her hands thrumming with blue light fixated upon the bookcase. Bit by bit, a barrier of potentially caustic magic evaporated under her delicate touch.
"Urag keeps his hoard behind barriers—at least his more unusual collections," she mumbled: half to herself, and half to the other. "If you'd have fumbled with the wrong cabinet…"
He would have been ( at the very least ) singed beyond recognition.
The magical lock that had been weaved 'round the cabinet fell under the pressure of Olivia's assault. It popped and fizzled, before vanishing without a trace. She carded over the old and dusty tomes arranged in neat rows—titles organized meticulously. Two. Three. Four were pulled from their rightful homes and set upon the desk.
"This is all we have—you have my word." But what good was her word if she was just as conniving as the other? It would have to do. "They're ancient, so be careful—Mara's mercy—burn them for all I care. It's best that you leave the way you came."
Scratch that. She didn't know how he managed to sneak passed Faralda ( if that was the case at all )—and frankly, she couldn't care less.
"No—there is a hatch that will be located to your right if you leave from the main doors. The passage is not exactly the safest, but it's quick and reliable if no one is to notice."
"Aye—your aid's appreciated," the thief responded with a prompt nod: wicked grin painted upon the sharp features that could be seen. Tomes were stuffed into his pack carelessly, pages and bindings fluttering in protest of the sudden abuse. He turned on one heel to leave, but was given pause as his mind prodded with thoughts much greater than the simple run in with this unassuming mage. "Ya know, my organization could use someone like you. We need contacts—recruits and fences."
"I'm perfectly content where I am, thank you." ( Lies ).The sentence was clipped short, almost sounding frantic in her own ears ( leave leave leave ). Olivia only wanted to retire to her small chambers and forget about this peculiar ordeal. "Goodnight."
"Very well then, lass. I'll be in Riften if ya change your mind." A pause, and for whatever reason, he found the need to press the issue ( desperation at its best ). "There's gold to be made."
"Good. Night. Filcher."
She didn't bother to watch as he slinked back down the path he came from—her mind was too set on restoring the barrier that she'd broken. Too set on seeing that nothing appeared to be trifled with. Magical lock had been relatively simple to cast away, but she spent what must have been an hour recreating what she'd destroyed. There were no doubts that the Orc would know his collection had been defiled. There'd be a manhunt for whomever stole the treasured tomes; but, it was unlikely he'd ever find the wretch ( unlikely—that he'd pin the crime on her ).
The scent of herbs still lingered, though tea no longer steamed. Olivia was quick to collect her belongings—tidy up the alcove she had occupied. Tired feet took over, and lead the mage down and out into the unforgiving, violent storm. If there were footprints left by the thief ( left by anyone, for that matter ), they'd been covered long before she set out. She shook the thought from her mind—best not to dwell on something potentially promising, and wholly out of reach.
The Hall of Attainment was filled with nothing but soft snores and gentle breathing—shifting beneath thick, wool blankets. No one fumbled around to dawn robes and hoods whilst shoving various breads and fruits into their mouths. It must have not been as late as Oli had believed it to be.
Her plush bed was all too inviting. She'd not had the mind to peel off layers, let alone strip herself of her boots and hood. With a soft thud, Olivia fell upon down and stacks of collected pillows. She hadn't had any time to mull over the chance meeting before Sleep pulled her into dark arms. But, visions of Anvil found purchase in clouded dreams—sights and sounds, scent and taste of thick, sea air. She could just feel a breeze against her face, whipping and weaving between white buildings. Scene shifted—a city unseen, brimming with that little promised opportunity. Winds told her to chase it, but feet remained still—paralyzed.
But, upon waking, it was all she could think of. Parts of her bones longed for such a thing. And yet, just as there is a price for silence, there would be a price to pay for one new life exchanged for another.