A/N: Thank you all for the follows, favorites, and reviews. Especially SkyrimJunkie, who made me laugh so much this morning with her reviews for The Curse's Bounty. Scythe, you still rock. You know what, the whole damn bunch of you rock. I love you. Saturday love. That's what this is.
Chapter 11
An hour later, the group had scattered inside the cavernous room just inside the entrance to Raldbthar. Aldric, Khal, and Raj had made the first kills of the trip already—a sleeping bandit just past the doors, three inside a small corridor fashioned into living quarters, and three more that were stationed inside the great room.
Everyone had hung back to watch them work, and it had been impressive. Khal moved like his steel greatsword was part of his body, fluid and poetic, and Raj's twin steel daggers whirled and flashed, catching the light so frequently it was like watching him fight with two handfuls of fire.
Aldric's style of combat was not beautiful or awe-inspiring. In fact, Twigs found himself wincing and trying not to look away when Aldric engaged an opponent. Whether or not he was doing it on purpose, each of his kills were… messy. Before today, Twigs had never seen a man lose both legs before dying.
It had lent a jittery, nervous atmosphere to the group, and surprisingly enough Aldric had been tolerant. It took only one look at Patric's pale face, or the way Lyssa's eyelid was twitching, and he allowed a rest.
Raj and Khal were sitting in front of the fire, cross-legged on the ground. They were talking in Ta'agra, their mother tongue, and their low and excited voices carried quietly through the large chamber. Twigs figured they were rehashing the fight, if their hand gestures indicated anything.
Both of them were busily eating the meat the bandits had been roasting, and Patric was sitting in a chair near them, his plate of untouched food resting on his lap. Lyssa was pacing around the room, her braid pulled over her shoulder so that her fingers could absently stroke at it.
Twigs walked through the gate to the other side of the tall barred wall, looking for Tinúviel. He hadn't seen her in a while, and wanted to make sure that she hadn't been disturbed by what she'd seen.
She was standing in front of an open gate up a few steps, and Brynjolf was with her. Her arms were folded over her chest, and she looked rather proud. A new necklace, a silver pendant boasting a precious gem, rested around her neck. Something the older thief said made her grin widely.
"Ah, Twigs," Brynjolf greeted him as he walked up. "Doing all right?"
He nodded. "Did you unlock the gate?"
"Actually, Tinúviel did."
Twigs' brows shot up as he looked at the elf. "Really? Wasn't that lock supposed to be fairly difficult?"
Her pleased expression dissolved. "Yes, it was," she said coldly. "Impressive for a stupid Dunmer, is it?"
His ears burned. "Oh, no, that's not what I—"
Tinúviel pushed past him, rolling her eyes, and strode back the way he'd come.
"—meant," he finished lamely.
Brynjolf snickered, looking down at the floor. "You bungled that one, didn't you, lad?"
He rubbed at the back of his head unhappily. "I was trying to compliment her. Aldric said the lock was one of the hardest ones made, and it's pretty extraordinary that she cracked it. I mean," he added quickly, "considering that she's not part of your Guild."
"I know what you meant," the man assured him. "And yes, it is rather impressive. I told her that. The Guild isn't the only way for a thief to be considered a professional, but without the guidance and mentoring of more experienced rogues like myself, most of the lone wolves like Tinúviel aren't very skilled."
He looked over his shoulder, through the bars, where the elf was sniffing curiously at a cut of meat Khal handed her. "I don't think she likes me very much."
Brynjolf shrugged. "Eh, you'd be surprised."
"About what? I didn't start out well with her after what happened at Breezehome, and now she thinks that I think she's not talented," Twigs pointed out forlornly.
"Twigs, I will give you a valuable piece of information that I wish I had been given when I was around your age." Brynjolf placed a hand on his shoulder. "When women truly do not like you, they don't pay any attention at all to you."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes." Then he frowned a little. "Well, actually, sometimes they ignore you even if they do like you."
"Well, then, how do you know if they don't like you?"
"Being rude is usually a rather concise indicator."
Twigs sulked. "Like Tinúviel."
Again, Brynjolf seemed to think twice. "Then again, some of them are a bit mean at first…" He stroked his chin thoughtfully, his eyes slightly narrowed as he looked off into the middle distance.
"You're making this much worse."
"Best to end this conversation right here, lad," Brynjolf told him seriously. "You're making me second-guess everything I thought I knew. Just keep doing what you're doing, and it will all work out. Or not." He patted Twigs' arm and then walked off.
Twigs turned around to glare after him.
"…what?"
Aldric and Kaspar were perched on the rickety wooden structure that served as a staircase to the second level of the space they were in. Twigs had only spent a few moments around Kaspar, but it was easy to see that he was a cheerful person, and that his attitude rubbed off on Aldric.
The man in question was cleaning the blood from his greatsword while listening to the scout tell a story. They chuckled at some joke, and then looked up as Twigs approached. Aldric instantly lost the friendly look in his eyes, but Kaspar's still held a smile as he regarded Twigs.
"Everyone done crying yet?" Aldric asked, dropping the bloodied cloth in his hand.
"No one is crying," Twigs defended.
"If that mage still has clean breeches, then you owe me a septim."
"Patric isn't a warrior," he objected. "He's a healer."
Aldric rose to his feet, hefting the greatsword in the air to sheathe it on his back. Once the blade had slid securely into place, he looked down at Twigs. "And you? I saw the way you flinched. Did I frighten you?"
He looked away, biting the inside of his lip so that he wouldn't snap at him. "No."
In truth, he wanted to berate Aldric for the way he'd fought. It hadn't seemed necessary to hack anyone into pieces, or to laugh when the youngest of the bandits tried to hide in a corner. However, it wasn't his place to criticize Aldric or give him orders.
"We will sleep here tonight," Aldric stated. "It's past sundown, and it ought to give everyone enough time to adjust to the first kills. I want everyone well-rested inside this place, and Blackreach. If that means we go more slowly than is necessary, then so be it."
He raised a hand. "I'm not arguing with you."
"Good." Aldric locked eyes with him, and Twigs couldn't tell what he was thinking. "Find a quiet spot and a clean bedroll, if you can."
He settled not far from the fire, on the other side of it so that his back was to the barred wall. A few of the others had grumbled about being made to sleep on the hard, dirty floor; Aldric had welcomed them to the beds that had been furnished in the northern part of the ruin near the entrance and the pile of bodies it sported. The mutterings ended after that.
The fire had died down, mostly, and the room they were in was quiet—as quiet as could be expected, anyway. The muffled thrumming and whooshing of Dwemer machinery sounded through the walls, and once in a while the floor beneath Twigs would vibrate.
He lay on his side, his arm stretched out under his head. He was contemplating the flickering logs when feet walked past his line of sight, startling him.
Twigs lifted his head to see Tinúviel spreading her hide bedroll over the stone floor. Then she pulled her boots and gloves off.
"What are you doing?" he asked her, and then cursed at himself. Stupid question.
She looked at him sidelong while she nudged her gear to the top of her bedroll. "Getting ready to sleep, you dolt."
He plopped his head back onto his arm in defeat. For some reason, he never came off stupider than when she was around him. It infuriated and confused him. The idea of how to get her to be interested in him the same way he was interested in her completely eluded him. It was like being sixteen all over again.
Jingling buckles and the sound of leather rasping drew his attention again, and he rolled his eyes upward just in time to see Tinúviel pull off her cuirass. Underneath, she wore a tunic made of cotton so thin that he could see her dark skin beneath it.
A small voice in his head was yelling in alarm that staring was dangerous, but it was too late. Most of his brain had already shut down. He'd caught a glimpse of her small, pert breasts underneath the tunic—her nipples were hard, straining at the fabric.
When he realized he was beginning to stiffen, Twigs dragged his gaze away from her and stared back into the fire, his heart beating faster. Ahead of him, he heard rustling and soft mutterings from her as she settled herself into her bedroll. Once a moment of quiet had passed, he craned his neck up again, daring another glance at her.
Tinúviel's head rested on her folded arm, like his. Her hair fell over her bare shoulder and collarbone prettily. Then suddenly he noticed that her ruby-red eyes, glittering in the firelight, were looking right at him.
Mortified, he immediately turned away and rolled to his other side without a word. He sank down, wanting to fade away into Oblivion at that moment. Twigs was fairly certain the expression in her eyes was knowing, as if she were totally aware that he'd been looking at her with less than respectful thoughts.
He almost thought he was safe, until her smooth voice rang out with, "See something you like?"
Twigs squeezed his eyes shut. Damn it. "I'm sorry," he said over his shoulder.
"What are you sorry for?" A hint of teasing colored her words. She was enjoying his embarrassment, he was certain of it.
"For looking at you."
She gave a quiet laugh. Despite his humiliation, he was aware that it was the first time he'd heard her laugh. He liked it. It was low and husky… and arousing.
"Well, you've had an eyeful," she murmured. "In the interest of being fair, I think it's my turn to get a peep."
"What are you talking about?" he grumbled, finally rolling to face her.
His frown disappeared when he saw her. She was still on her side, but her hand jauntily propped up her head. Her bedroll had been pulled down around the curve of her waist. No attempt was made at shielding her chest from his view again.
Tinúviel's eyes were heavy-lidded as she watched him watch her. "You heard me. It's my turn. Take off your tunic."
"Ah…" He looked around helplessly. On the other side of the fire, Patric and Lyssa were sleeping soundly, the mage softly snoring. Aldric, Kaspar, and Brynjolf had bedded down for the night on the platform above them all. Raj and Khal had taken the dead bandit's beds near the entrance. "Are you serious?"
She blinked at him calmly. "Do I look serious?"
Twigs swallowed. "Yes."
"Then do it."
Heart hammering, he sat up and cast another furtive look around. Then he reached up behind his neck, grabbing a fistful of his tunic, and yanked it over his head in one movement. He pushed to a kneeling position and faced her.
Tinúviel's eyes dropped to his torso, roving all over him. He tried not to self-consciously cave his shoulders inward, instead forcing his back to stay straight. He was a Nord, but didn't sport the thick muscle or body hair that most of his countrymen did. The surface of his chest, his stomach, and his arms were well-toned, but not beefy. He had no real chest hair to speak of, possessing only a thin trail of light-colored, downy hair trailing south from his navel.
He wondered if Tinúviel liked his body. She was certainly staring at him long enough. Just when he started to think she might hold a spark for him after all, she looked back up into his eyes and then tossed her head back with a cackle.
"Gods," she crowed, settling onto her back before she rolled over. "I cannot believe you actually did it." She laughed again to herself, pulling the cover up over her shoulders.
Twigs sat back on his haunches, angrily pulling his tunic back over his head. He shoved himself back into his bedroll and jerked the cover up to his ears, glowering ferociously at a pebble in front of him.
Women.
