Author's Note:
I had. So much fun writing this chapter.
Middas, 2nd of Sun's Dusk, 4E 202
He stole an apple off a grocer's cart when the woman was distracted, and bit into it as he walked away. It was a perfect apple, ripe and crisp, and surely one of the last good fruits of the season. By next week they'd be an exorbitant price. Not that price much mattered to a thief.
In his other hand he carried a polished wooden case full of jewelry. All fakes, but they sparkled well enough, and with his silver tongue thrown into the bargain, they sold easily. And when they didn't, well. That's what picking pockets was for.
He'd made a relaxing day of it, there in the marketplace. As of late, the jobs had been pouring in nonstop and Maven Black-Briar had been breathing down his neck just as often, so he'd decided to take the day off and enjoy some swindling and petty larceny. It took him back to the good old days, of being a hungry whelp with quick hands and even quicker lies, before he'd stumbled upon the Guild and made the best career decision of his life.
He had just tossed the apple core over his shoulder when he spotted her.
She was an exquisite little creature, with dewy blue eyes made all the bluer by recent tears, long, wet eyelashes, and lips swollen and rosy from crying. Nord in coloring, but petite in stature, with a luxurious head of golden hair that fell down into her cloak in a thick braid (and damned if he didn't have a weakness for blondes). Graceful of step, distant of expression, caught in some whirl of pensive thoughts that rendered her irresistibly vulnerable.
The perfect prey. Perfect, not for the amount of money she would be carrying, but for the sheer ease with which he would take it from her. She may as well have had the words "please pick my pocket" tattooed on her forehead, while the air of innocence about her promised, "And if you stole a kiss in the process, it would just give me something to sigh wistfully about later."
He practically watered at the mouth.
Deirdre managed to stop crying by the time she reached the market. She ignored the beggars and vendors this time around, lacking the energy to pay attention to them. She was too preoccupied with crunching numbers in her head. Was there some miraculous way to build up her savings more quickly? Perhaps she could go back to foraging for mushrooms for alchemists.
The thought almost made her laugh. It sounded pathetic.
"ONLY GOOD SALMON IN THE RIFT!" cried a rough voice.
An open-mouthed fish was thrust under Deirdre's nose. She started, lurching into a side-step—straight into a man.
"Whoa there!" exclaimed the man, as a sturdy arm caught her around the waist.
Deirdre stumbled against his chest, and just as quickly tried to recoil.
"Oh, I'm—"
She stopped dead. The man peered down with concern.
"Careful there, lass," he said, in a rich voice. The warm hand at the small of her back drew her marginally closer, pressing her to him. "You could knock someone over."
Deirdre gaped. Like the fish. Spots of heat prickled in her cheeks.
Before her stood the single most handsome man she had ever seen.
He had shoulder-length red hair, darker and straighter than Leif's, lighter and thicker than Aela's—a true red. His skin was healthy, sunkissed, and suprisingly unfreckled. His nose was straight, his lips full. His lower face was covered in a short beard, extremely well-trimmed, and just as red as his hair. It complemented his strong chin. The masculine symmetry of his features was flawless, and would have been intimidating, if not for the disarming warmth in his brilliant green eyes.
"Lass?" he queried.
His arm retracted, fingers ghosting over the dip in her waist.
She jerked back. "Excuse me," she gasped.
Gasped?
The man gave a crooked grin—the easy, self-assured kind, that turned a handsome face into something incandescent. Her stomach swooped.
"No harm done. Though, if you don't mind me saying …"
He brushed a callused thumb under her eye. "You look as though you've been crying. You running away from something?"
She was tongue-tied. Her shoulders rose toward her ears. Hot blood diffused through her face.
"IF YOU'RE NOT GOING TO BUY ANYTHING, MOVE ALONG!" interrupted the fish-seller.
Deirdre jumped. The fish-seller made a shooing motion with his salmon.
"Pardon us," said the red-haired man.
And then he'd taken her hand, easy as could be, and was walking away with her. She gawked at his long, solid fingers, mystified to see them wrapped around hers. Her skin tingled where it met his. His grip was nothing if not relaxed; she could have broken it effortlessly. She did not understand why she didn't.
"S-sir," she stuttered.
Captain Kensley! cried a panicked little girl in the back of her mind. Sven! What are you doing?
But then they came to a stop in front of a small cart selling flowers, and the red-haired man turned his handsome face in her direction. He was all aglow in the orange hues of sunset, everything about him softened and inviting—from his striking red hair to his gentle hand to his pretty, pretty eyes. And the panicked little girl in her head stopped short.
We're in public, said the part of her brain trying to be a reasoning adult woman. He can't do anything in public. You met Leif in public too.
How on Nirn was she standing there, bathed in the sunset, holding hands with the most beautiful man in the world, in the ugliest city in the world? Had she slipped and hit her head? Was this a dream?
"There we are," the man said. "A much better place for an introduction."
He dipped into a genteel bow, raised her hand, and pressed her fingers to his warm lips. His spring-green eyes smiled up at her.
"The name's Brynjolf."
Deirdre's brain stalled. The swoop returned to her stomach, more intense than butterflies. She snatched her hand from him as if burned, averting her eyes. Only then did she notice the little old man standing behind the cart, slowly arranging flowers as if trying not to eavesdrop.
Brynjolf straightened, undeterred. "I didn't catch your name, lass," he encouraged.
The way his tongue curled around the word "lass" made her feel hot all over. It was honeyed. Deliberate. Utterly the opposite of the familial endearment or patronizing dismissal she was used to. Her gaze slid back toward him, and her heart squeezed.
"Deirdre," she heard herself say.
Brynjolf's perfect, crooked smile slowly curled his lips. "Deirdre," he repeated. Like he was tasting it. Savoring it. "What a happy turn of fate, that you should run into me."
Her pulse was too fast. She did not understand what was happening. It seemed impossible that this gorgeous person, this stranger, was suddenly flirting with her. But why else was she feverish and nervous and stupid? Did he realize he was flirting? He had to. Right?
Brynjolf switched a wooden case to the hand previously holding hers, adjusting his grip on the handle. With his newly freed hand, he reached into the breast pocket of his coat and drew out a folded white handkerchief. He extended it with such surety, Deirdre took it without thinking.
"Thank you," she said automatically. She blinked down at the handkerchief. There were no fresh tears on her face and she did not need to blow her nose. What was she supposed to do with this?
Brynjolf's voice lowered. "I meant it when I said it looked like you'd been crying, Deirdre. My ma always said not to turn a blind eye to a girl in need."
"Oh," she said witlessly. She held the handkerchief to her heart, covering Gerdur and Hod's rings. "I'm fine. You don't need to … I'm fine."
His tall, broad frame drew close enough to loom, his voice dropping to a timbre that could only be called velvety. "You sure about that?"
She dropped her gaze, flustered, sure she was visibly blushing. She watched him again switch his wooden case from one hand to the other.
"Are you doing business in the market?" she all but squeaked.
Brynjolf glanced down at his case, as if just remembering it. "Oh, this?" He sounded embarrassed. "Just a temporary job, I'm afraid. A friend of mine makes jewelry for an affordable price, and he's letting me sell it for a share of the profits. Just temporarily, until I can find something more stable."
"I see," she replied, glad to have changed the subject. "And I'm keeping you from your work."
His expression turned rueful. "Not much to keep me from, to be honest. I haven't had much luck today."
His face lit up, suddenly, as if an idea had just occurred to him. He lifted the case and laid it flat on his palm, displaying it.
"You wouldn't happen to be one of those lasses who likes pretty things, would you?"
His tone was tinged with humor, the crinkle around his eyes boyish and mischievous. Deirdre couldn't help a tentative smile.
"Don't all lasses like pretty things?" she ventured.
He laughed. The sound was deep and pleasant.
"Not all, Deirdre. But maybe this will brighten your day."
He unfastened the latch on the case and pulled the lid up. Deirdre's eyes widened, taking in the array of gold and silver pieces neatly laid out in a bed of satin. Earrings, bracelets, necklaces, brooches. Their rainbow of gemstones twinkled in the evening sun.
"Wow," was all she could say.
"See anything you like?"
She looked up from the gleaming contents of the case into his peridot eyes. It seemed to her he might not have just been talking about the jewelry.
"They're—beautiful," she fumbled. "But I can't possibly afford any of them. I'm just a kitchen maid."
He hummed thoughtfully. Balancing the case on one hand, he reached into a nearly invisible pocket in the lining of the lid. He drew out a simple, narrow chain, with a tiny crystalline teardrop hanging from it. He closed the lid and snapped the latch back in place, setting the case on the ground.
He held up the chain with both hands, so the teardrop was on display between them.
"An alternative," he said. "Not a real gemstone, but made of glass. But," he added, tone lilting with intrigue, "Not just glass. It's got a small enchantment."
He waited eagerly for her to ask, so she did.
"What sort of enchantment?"
"The gem changes color in reaction to the wearer's mood. White, if you're frightened. Blue, if you're sad. Yellow, if you're happy."
Curious, Deirdre observed the teardrop. It was perfectly clear.
"Is it showing your mood right now?"
"Not at all. I'm not actually wearing it. But if you'd like a demonstration, would you care to try it on?"
He looked directly into her eyes. It felt impossible to say no, so earnest, so hopeful, was his expression.
"I suppose it wouldn't hurt."
She went to reach for the chain, and stopped when she remembered she was already holding his handkerchief. She could not put on a necklace with just one hand.
Brynjolf drew the chain toward himself. "Allow me," he said.
Then he was standing at her shoulder, so close the air beside her felt warmer. He lifted the necklace, raising a brow in question. She gave a jerky, mute nod.
His fingers first brushed aside the braid at the nape of her neck. Goosebumps rose all down her arms. Brynjolf draped the chain around her, sure fingers quickly fastening it, and then Deirdre felt a thumb slide briefly down the first ridge of her spine. Her breath caught.
Brynjolf's large hands settled on her shoulders, and he peered around her to look at where the glass teardrop had come to rest, above Gerdur and Hod's rings, against the strip of skin between her cloak and the neckline of her green dress. As they watched, the gem darkened to a deep, blood red.
Deirdre scrambled for her wits. "What does red mean?"
Next to her ear, Brynjolf chuckled. "It might not be gentlemanly to say, lass. But I'm flattered."
It took a full second for his meaning to sink in.
Mortification hit with a thousand hot sparks in her face. The rush of heat burned all the way down her neck, flushing that visible strip of skin against which the teardrop sat.
Brynjolf's hands were heavy on her shoulders. "So long as it's not blue, I think I can say I've accomplished my mission," he said affably. "But what do you think of the necklace? Taken a liking to it?"
"No! I mean—I shouldn't—"
She turned her head when he tried to meet her eyes, wishing the street would open up and drop her into the canal. That would shock some sense back into her.
"It's nice, but I shouldn't. I shouldn't have tried it on."
"Are you sure, Deirdre? I really think it suits you."
And there was his warm thumb stroking down the side of her neck, and it couldn't be anything but deliberate. He couldn't have done it without realizing what he was doing, and she could not think straight, could not think of anything but the fact that she had to get away and cool down, immediately, before this impossibly attractive man reduced her to a blubbering idiot.
More of a blubbering idiot.
"Yes I'm sure!" she blurted. "A-and I ought to go. I have to—Someone is waiting for me."
She felt the warm ghost of his breath on her ear. "If you say so, lass."
His fingers undid the clasp of the necklace and he pulled the chain from her neck. He'd already put the chain into his pocket by the time he'd come back around in front of her. He picked up his wooden case, took her hand once again, and placed another kiss on the back of it.
"It was a pleasure to meet you," he said.
"And you?" she said dazedly.
With the smoldering rays of the setting sun behind him (as if the smolder of his eyes weren't enough), Brynjolf looked down at her with his heartstopping crooked smile. He released her hand and walked away.
Deirdre stared at the spot he'd just been standing. She was too afraid to watch him leave, in case, for some reason, he looked back and met her gaze. Or in case it turned out he'd disappeared like a mirage, and she'd imagined the whole thing.
She looked down at the folded handkerchief clutched in her now-sweaty palm. She definitely hadn't imagined it.
Closing her eyes, she pressed her hands to her flaming cheeks.
What had just happened?
Taking a steadying breath, she let it out in a whoosh and opened her eyes. Night was well on its way, the darkening sky streaked with the last few fiery remnants of sunbeams. She located the inn, with some of its windows already filled with candlelight, and headed toward it.
When she entered the inn, she walked straight to the L-shaped bar and got the attention of the Argonian cleaning glasses behind it.
"Excuse me, ma'am, but has a Companion come back here tonight?"
The Argonian shook her head. In a scratchy voice, she said, "The one you came with, right? No, he's not come back yet."
Deirdre thanked her. She headed toward the stairs that led up to the rooms for rent. She wasn't sure what she would do for the rest of the evening before Vilkas returned—try to think up some way she could save more money?
Try not to think about Brynjolf? she admitted, embarrassed at herself.
Her hand drifted to the spot where the glass teardrop had turned red against her skin—
She froze mid-step. Her fingers ran over the front of her dress; she looked down.
Gerdur and Hod's rings were not there.
She felt frantically around her neck, to see if perhaps the chain had just gotten turned around. If it were caught in her cloak, or her hair.
It was not there. No chain. No rings.
She whirled, eyes scanning the floor along the path she'd walked. No chain. No rings.
Her hand flew to the base of her neck. The realization slapped her in the face.
Brynjolf, she thought in horror. The necklace. Gerdur and Hod's rings.
A new thought occurred to her. She stuck her hands into the inner pockets of her cloak. The storybook sat in one. The other was empty.
Her coin purse. Gerdur and Hod's rings.
"It's like you've got 'please pick my pocket' tattooed on your forehead," taunted Vilkas's voice in her head.
His other warnings echoed in rapid succession.
"You'd better wear them inside your clothes. Jewelry is the first thing to go missing, on the road and especially in Riften."
"Don't let anyone touch you, hand you anything, or take anything from your hand. Even if they look harmless."
And finally, Vilkas vowed, "If you choose not to listen to me, and someone picks your pocket, don't expect my help getting your money back."
Furious, devastated tears fogged Deirdre's vision. She was a moron. A sap. She'd known someone as handsome as Brynjolf shouldn't have been so flirtatious for no reason. It hadn't seemed real. But she'd been so easily taken in, distracted, by his attentions. Gods above, was she really so giddy and half-witted?
It was unforgivable. Those rings weren't just her personal keepsakes; they were Gerdur and Hod's only heirlooms. She owed them to Frodnar. She'd just promised him, that day, to give him the rings when he was old enough to take care of them. And now she'd let some two-faced pickpocket take them from her at the first opportunity.
No. She couldn't let him get away with it.
She threw down the stupid handkerchief still in her hand, as if it were diseased. She ground her boot into it before running back through the inn to the door.
Exiting onto the market plaza, she made a beeline for the flower cart. Naturally, Brynjolf was nowhere to be seen.
"You looking for that red-headed fella?" said the little old man behind the cart.
His tone was knowing. Deirdre approached him.
"Yes."
He shook his bald head. "To tell the truth, missy, I wondered if you might be back. He was too friendly with ya. Picked your pocket, did he?"
She swallowed her pride and bit out, "Yes."
"Bad luck. Bad, bad luck."
Anger surged through her. If he'd suspected Brynjolf was up to no good, why hadn't he said anything sooner?
"Did you see which way he went?" she asked, keeping her tone in check. "I have to find him."
The old man scratched at his thin beard. "Did he say his name was Brynjolf?"
Deirdre stepped closer. "Yes! You know him?"
"Know of him, missy. Rumor has it he runs with the Thieves Guild."
This gave her pause. She had heard of the Thieves Guild before; the Companions had mentioned it ages ago, when she'd been considering moving to Riften to be near the children.
But Thieves Guild or no, a thief was a thief. And thieves were cowards. All she had to do was corner him and demand the rings back. And she had to do it quickly, before he had time to go far.
"Do you know how I can find him?"
The old man assessed her with squinted eyes. "Thieves Guild operates out of the Ragged Flagon, way down in the Ratway. Everybody knows that, missy."
Deirdre suppressed her annoyance, hands balling into fists.
"How do I get there?"
Author's Note:
Brynjolf: Speech 100