Middas, 2nd of Sun's Dusk, 4E 202
Brynjolf finished his mug of mead and set it on the bar, relaxing into the pleasant buzz thrumming through him. Vekel walked over and nodded down at the mug, to which Brynjolf shook his head. Vekel shrugged and moved down the counter.
On his left, Brynjolf heard a derisive snort.
"Why is it you seem to drink more on the days you don't have off?"
Brynjolf propped his head on his fist, looking at the woman beside him with half-lidded eyes. "You know, Vex," he said affably, "it wouldn't kill you to unclench once in a while. Just saying."
She delivered an even louder snort, lifting her own mug. "And it wouldn't kill you to take your position seriously once in a while. Just saying."
Brynjolf rolled his eyes as she took a swig.
"If you really didn't like the way I was running things, you would be long gone. Admit it."
Vex clicked her tongue, turning her face from him.
From the table behind them, Delvin chortled. "She ain't admittin' nuffin. Stubborn old bird."
Vex swiveled on her stool. "Old? And what does that make you? A draugr?"
"Children, please," Brynjolf interrupted. He waved a hand in mock weariness. "Father is trying to relax."
Delvin guffawed. With a scowl like she'd just bitten a lemon, Vex got up from her stool, taking her mug with her. She stalked to the side of the bar overlooking the cistern of lake water and sat next to Tonilia.
Delvin watched her go with a longing look in his eyes. "Gods, I want a piece o' that. If only she'd stop playin' hard to get."
Brynjolf's lip twitched in amusement. Turning around, he leaned his elbows back on the bar. "I don't know that she's playing."
"I been around women a lot longer than you, Bryn. She wants me. 'S only a matter of time." He stretched his arms before threading his fingers together and resting them behind his neck, the picture of confidence.
"I admire your optimism."
Delvin opened his mouth, but was distracted by a commotion coming from the bridge over the cistern. Dirge, guarding the bridge, was growling a warning, and a much higher voice was arguing back. Other tavern patrons began turning toward the noise. As the voices came closer, Brynjolf heard the higher one clearly.
"… pry it from my cold, dead hands!"
Dirge's burly frame was backing into the tavern, hands held up as if to ward someone away. A much slighter figure dodged around him.
Brynjolf went still.
Her eyes were wild as they darted about the Flagon, strands of hair falling from her braid into her face. And her face—someone had scratched her good; she was bleeding quite a bit. Her cloak was missing. There was a big, dark stain in her dress just above one hip. And were those bruises on her neck?
She had a dagger in her hand, held out defensively. The blade was red. Her fingers were redder.
Her gaze met Brynjolf's.
"You!"
As if the rest of the tavern were invisible to her, the girl called Deirdre strode straight to him.
Brynjolf leaned back into the bar as her dagger came up to point at his chest, giving him a good view of the generous amount of blood on it. Delvin leapt to his feet—as did half the others in the Flagon.
"Hold it, hold it!" Brynjolf yelled, putting up both hands, palms forward. "Everyone just calm d—"
"Give me back my rings!" Deirdre cried, stepping forward so the tip of her dagger pressed against his coat. "Now!"
Brynjolf was speechless.
Her whole body was taut, her breath ragged as if she'd run all the way there. Only then did Brynjolf notice she was trembling. It could have been from anger—or it could have been from something else. Her eyes were glistening with unshed tears, even shinier and redder than when she'd been in the market. The liquid had pooled in them almost to a breaking point, sure to spill over if she blinked.
She did not blink. Instead her eyes were fierce. Unflinching.
And incredibly blue.
Where was the stammering little thing from the market?
At his silence, Deirdre gritted her teeth. The tip of her dagger applied more pressure to his coat, no doubt piercing the sturdy leather.
Delvin took a step toward him, hand flying to the knife on his belt. Brynjolf, not breaking eye contact with the girl, put a hand out to stop him. The rest of the tavern was silent.
"All right, lass. Take it easy. You don't want to do anything rash."
"Yes I do!" she snapped. Her voice was hoarse. He seemed to recall it had been smooth and lilting in the market. He glanced down at her neck, confirming the bruises he'd noticed from across the room. Strangle marks?
How was she still in one piece?
"Give me back my rings!"
"All right, I said. All right."
Slowly, so as not to startle her, Brynjolf reached into the pocket of his coat, avoiding the slimmer chain of the necklace Deirdre had tried on, finding the thicker one with the rings he'd yet to pawn off on Tonilia. They wouldn't have even been worth much.
Drawing out the chain, he raised it, letting the two wedding bands dangle. Deirdre's gaze left his to examine them. Visible relief swept over her.
She reached with her right hand, the one not holding the dagger—and stopped short with a wince.
Brynjolf identified the problem. Her right hand was badly burned, raw flesh exposed, blisters along the soft side of her fingers and palm.
He whistled low. "By Kyne, lass. What happened?"
She jerkily put down the hand again. She flexed the fingers holding her dagger, eyes clouded with pain.
"Put the chain around my neck," she said stiffly.
He stared. She made an aggravated noise.
"You took it off, you can put it back on!"
Brynjolf undid the clasp of the chain. Touching her as little as possible, he leaned forward and put the chain around her neck. He fastened the clasp again and pulled back, holding up both hands to show he had nothing in them.
Haltingly, as if afraid to take her eyes off him, she dropped her chin to get a view of the rings against her chest. She exhaled shakily. Her arm sagged.
The edge in her demeanor had already dulled when she focused on him again, though she was desperately trying to hold onto it. She straightened her arm to remind him of the dagger at his heart.
"Give me back my coin purse too."
He raised a brow. When she did not budge, he gave a slight tilt of the head.
"Did you really come all the way down here just for a few coins and a couple of old rings?"
She glared. Her lips pressed together, tiny changes in her brow and jaw making clear she was trying to keep her pain in check.
Brynjolf leaned forward infinitesimally, weaving some silk into his tone. "You're hurt, lass. You must've run into some trouble in the Ratway."
Her glare wavered. Her arm was losing its strength; he could feel it shaking.
"Give me my coin purse," she said again, with a hint of a tremor.
Brynjolf placed a careful hand in his other pocket. He looked her up and down.
This was not how he normally did business. Normally, he wouldn't have given away rightfully stolen goods without getting something in return. Normally, he wouldn't have let someone else dictate the terms of an exchange. And normally, if some victim had been foolish enough to seek reparations from him, he would have directed her to Dirge, and sent her on her merry way with a beating she wouldn't soon forget.
But normally, that victim wouldn't be a beautiful blonde who could blush for him one minute, and threaten him at knifepoint the next. And it was still his day off.
He said, "You know you're not in any real position to be making demands, right? Let's make a deal."
Attempting to disguise her dismay, she drew her chin up, as if ignorant of the blood smeared down her bruised neck. Her dark lashes half-lowered and fluttered back up, refusing to blink and break her film of tears.
It was strangely—titillating? Such a show of backbone from such an unexpected source.
And yet the fun was in making her crack. Surely it woudln't take much more; she was barely maintaining as it was.
"Tonilia, you want to come over here?" Brynjolf called, speaking past Deirdre.
Tonilia approached, seeming wary, but curious. Deirdre narrowed her eyes at her. She applied a little more pressure to the point of her dagger.
Brynjolf pulled her coin purse out of his pocket, held it up to display it, and set it on the bar.
"Tonilia here knows a little restoration magic," he said conversationally. He placed a cautious hand on Deirdre's wrist. Not gripping, just touching.
"How about you let her patch you up a bit, and then I give you the coin purse?"
Deirdre stared. Gradually, bewilderment overshadowed any other emotion on her face. Her gaze swept from Brynjolf to Tonilia and back.
"Why?"
"Well, look at you. Not to put too fine a point on it, but you're a wreck."
He watched her rack her brain. Her shoulders curled inward, her posture withdrawing defensively. He was losing her.
"Tonilia, could you check out her hand?"
Tonilia took Deirdre's elbow. The girl flinched, but didn't resist. Tonilia examined her burns with an impressed hum. "Ouch. You grab a lit torch or something? It'll take me a minute."
Tonilia held up her other hand as a soft yellow glow emanated from her palm, placing it close to Deirdre's injury. After a few seconds, the blisters began to shrink away. After several more seconds, the holes in her flesh closed up. The glow around Tonilia's hand faded once Deirdre's skin had gone back to its former unblemished state. Tonilia took a steadying breath and released her.
Deirdre observed her hand. She curled her fingers experimentally. Most of the tension in her body eased.
And there—she bit her lip to stifle a wave of emotion.
Her head whipped back toward Brynjolf.
"What are you playing at?"
Finally she blinked, spilling her tears. Enthralled, Brynjolf took in every microexpression as she struggled to maintain the composure he'd just kicked out from under her.
"Nothing. You came for your things, and I'm giving them to you. From the looks of it, you've earned them."
"I don't believe you!" she cried. "You're just pretending to be 'nice!' You're despicable! Don't pretend—just to turn around and—and—"
The tears were now pouring down her cheeks, streaking through the blood on one side.
Brynjolf put a finger against the flat of the dagger, slowly pushing it down, so it was angled more toward his stomach. In spite of the way she shook and glared like she wanted to boil him alive, she let him.
"You've got me all wrong, lass." He pointed a finger upward. "Up there? I pretend. Down here, I'm the most trustworthy man around."
"I don't believe you!"
Brynjolf placed a hand against his heart and leaned in over the dagger. Deirdre stiffened, but stayed put.
"How about this. As a reward for making my day interesting, and making it here alive, I'll give you back your coin purse. I'll have my associate heal your wounds, and I'll treat you to anything you want from the bar. I swear it on Our Lady of Shadows herself."
The girl's brow scrunched. "Is that supposed to mean anything to me?"
"It is when I've just sworn an oath on a Daedric Prince," Brynjolf said. "Besides, what else are you going to do? Walk out of here now, alone? You really want to go through that again, without my help?"
She lifted her newly-healed hand to swipe at her tears, sucking in a harsh breath.
"I don't believe you," she quavered. She seemed to be trying to convince herself more than him. "I can't trust you. You stole from me. You tricked me."
"I'm not tricking you now," he murmured. "Why don't you sit down with me, and I'll fix everything?"
She shook her head, but the hand with the dagger threw itself down by her side. Her lips pulled down severely at the corners.
"You can't. I—I think I killed someone. I think I—they—"
Her chin wobbled. Brynjolf reached deftly for the dagger, removing it from her unresisting hand. He set the dagger on the bar and took her bloody fingers in his, resisting the unbidden urge to hug her. Funny; where did that come from? She was good at this.
"Dirge," he commanded.
The man in question, like virtually everyone else in the Flagon, had already given him his attention. Brynjolf gestured toward the bridge.
"Go and check the Ratway."
Dirge nodded and trudged off. It was not his first time assessing damage and getting a body count.
"Vekel, some water and a clean rag," Brynjolf added, turning back to Deirdre.
She was staring at their joined hands, pitiably confused. She looked up at him with those big, watery eyes, under those long, wet lashes, and tried very hard to pretend she wasn't crying.
Brynjolf couldn't help it. He smiled a little. He reached out and brushed a thumb under her eye, just as he had in the market.
"Oh, lass. I don't usually fall for the puppy-dog look. But you're a master."
As if to prove him right, her expression crumpled perfectly. He again had to refrain from hugging her. Godsdammit, that was impressive. They could use someone with this ability in the Guild.
He directed Tonilia to the girl's scratches and bruises, and she quietly mentioned the back of her head. Brynjolf did not let go of her hand until Vekel had placed the requested water and clean rag within arm's reach on the bar.
As he began scrubbing the sticky blood off of Deirdre's fingers, he glanced up at their riveted audience.
"You can all go back to your own business," he threatened smoothly. "Show's over."
Heads turned away from them. Those standing sat down. Conversation broke out. They were still watching in their peripheral vision, but at least it wasn't so obvious.
Delvin came up to Tonilia's side, surveying the progress of her healing hands as they worked their magic, while Brynjolf cleaned her up. To Brynjolf's intense amusement, the girl shied away from him—closer to Brynjolf.
Delvin looked wounded. Brynjolf smirked. He finished cleaning her last digit, mindful of getting the blood around her littlest fingernail.
"So, girlie, Bryn stole your prized possession or summin'?"
Hesitating, Deirdre nodded.
"And you chased 'im down here. Don't you know the Ratway ain't no place for a little picture like you?"
Brynjolf brought her clean hand to his lips and dropped a kiss on her knuckles. She looked sharply at him, eyes wide. She didn't retract her hand.
"She made it, didn't she?" he answered for her. "She's tougher than she looks."
He released her to dip the rag in the bowl of water, rinsing it out and giving it a wring. He took hold of Deirdre's chin and began wiping her cheek clean.
"I-I can do that," she said.
"You can't see. I don't have a mirror. I can do it."
Tonilia stepped back, the glow fading from her hands. She brushed away a strand of black hair from her forehead, where she'd broken into a light sweat.
Winded, she said, "I think that's everything. I need a minute."
"Thanks, Lia."
Tonilia waved him away, heading back to her seat by Vex. She dropped into it heavily, and was immediately bombarded by a flurry of whispers from the other woman.
"You're not—actually helping me, are you?" Deirdre asked. "You're going to turn around and—and sell me, or something."
Brynjolf scoffed. "I may be a thief, but there are a few businesses I keep my nose out of. Human trafficking is one of them. Murder is another, if you were wondering. The Guild has standards."
"So you are in the Guild."
Delvin cleared his throat. He pointed a thumb at Brynjolf. "He ain't just in the Guild, girlie. Or 'aven't you figured that out yet?"
Brynjolf turned her head to one side as he wiped the rag down her neck. Goosebumps broke out over her skin. She swallowed.
"I'm getting an idea," she murmured.
"Cold, lass?" Brynjolf said. "I see you lost your cloak."
"It's Deirdre," she blurted. "I hate that. The way you say it. All … smarmy."
He paused. "The way I say what? 'Lass?'"
"Yes. You're not that much older than I am. To be calling me that."
Brynjolf ran the damp rag unhurriedly across her collarbone, and saw the involuntary shiver run through her. She crossed her arms, studiously avoiding eye contact.
"Cold, Deirdre?" he purred, fighting a grin.
Author's Note:
Brynjolf: Speech 200