Author's Note:
A quick note I almost forgot, but this is actually the second-to-last chapter of Part Two. Chapter 38 will be the last chapter of Part Two before we move on to Part Three!
Thanks to everyone sticking with me for this journey!
Middas, 2nd of Sun's Dusk, 4E 202
One of Brynjolf's associates brought him a dark, wine-red cloak. Brynjolf accepted it with a word of thanks, turned to Deirdre on the barstool next to him, and chivalrously draped it around her as if she hadn't just threatened him with a knife a few minutes prior.
The cloak fell heavily upon her shoulders. It was thick and sturdy and—was that velvet lining?
She fingered the lining incredulously as Brynjolf fastened the solid metal clasp and adjusted the cloak so it hung properly. She was immediately warmer, and the worst of her tremors were eased. Taking the coin purse and the sheathed dagger from the counter, she slipped them into the pockets of her skirt before closing the cloak over her lap. Then she just sat there.
Her brain was a muddled mess. Brynjolf was supposed to have been surprised to see her, but then he was supposed to have resisted her. She had been fully prepared to turn into a madwoman, threaten all kinds of physical violence, and not take no for an answer. She had been prepared to have to fight for the rings and run again. But this? Whatever it was? She hadn't been prepared for it.
Brynjolf's knuckles brushed her cheek.
"You look pale. You want to tell me what happened in the Ratway?"
Deirdre pictured the unmoving woman lying in her own blood, the howling orc clutching his scorched face. Gian, moaning like a dying animal when she'd passed him again, when she'd deliberately tried to avoid seeing him but caught a glimpse anyway and he'd been so charred—
Brynjolf tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, bizarrely gentle.
It grounded her. It disoriented her.
She shook her head in answer to his question.
Brynjolf's hand slipped from her cheek. He signaled for the brown-haired Nord behind the bar, who came up to them while none-too-subtly appraising her.
"Two shots," Brynjolf said.
Deirdre threw him a questioning glower, which he pretended not to notice. The bartender left and came back with two tiny glasses and a bottle. He poured something clear from the bottle into each glass, up to their brims.
After he'd walked away, Deirdre muttered, "I'm not drinking that."
"You sure?" Brynjolf asked, taking one of the little glasses and sliding it toward her. He drew the second toward himself.
She stared at the glass. The liquid gleamed in the yellow light of the tavern's lanterns, the same color as Tonilia's healing spell.
Deirdre had yet to have a single drop of alcohol since the day she'd woken in the prison wagon. Gerdur, overprotective as she could be, had said she'd be a lightweight and advised against it—reminding her she did not actually know her real age, and could not be completely certain she was sixteen.
But Gerdur had also imbibed on a regular basis. So had Hod. So too did all of the Companions. Deirdre had even seen Aela and Njada and Torvar do shots before; she had seen how Aela laughed and Njada became pleasant and Torvar went utterly placid.
"I think you could use a little liquid fortitude," Brynjolf said. He tapped the side of her glass with the back of his fingernail. "Put some color in your face."
Deirdre pursed her lips. "You're trying to get me drunk?"
"You won't get drunk from one shot. You'll just feel better. Steadier."
Was that true? Gerdur had made it sound like the opposite. And how, even now, after everything, did Brynjolf manage to turn his voice into audible honey?
At her silence, Brynjolf coaxed, "Indulge me, and I'll get you something to wash it down with."
She frowned at the gleaming glass. "More alcohol?"
"How about some hot apple cider? Barely alcoholic at all; can't even taste it."
That didn't sound bad. But she shouldn't have been listening to him. He was all honey and apples now, but what about later? What did he gain from any of this? Most suspicious of all—why did it feel like that tiny glass of liquor was calling her name?
Deirdre whooshed out a breath. She snatched the shot glass, spilling a few drops.
"Am I going to choke on this?"
"It's disgusting," he confirmed.
She dared to meet his gaze. His pretty green eyes were sparkling, as if pleased to see her conceding. He lifted his own glass, extending it toward her in a toast, before swiftly downing its contents. At least she knew it wasn't poisoned.
Deirdre put her glass to her lips, screwed her eyes shut, and tipped the liquid into her mouth.
It burned. Especially as it seared down her throat and hit her stomach like hot coals. Said stomach rolled in on itself as she slapped her other hand over her mouth. She slammed the glass onto the counter, eyes watering, and pounded the counter with her fist.
"Ugh," she gasped, rubbing at her tingling mouth with the back of her hand. "That does—not—taste like food!"
She coughed into her fist and fanned herself. Her cheeks were blazing.
"You kept it down," Brynjolf complimented.
She wiped at the water in her eyes, rasping, "What about my cider?"
He set his empty shot glass next to hers and waved for the bartender's attention.
"Vekel, some apple cider for the lady? And another shot for me."
Vekel provided both, Deirdre's presented to her in a wooden mug. As Brynjolf took his second shot, Deirdre settled her hands around the mug to soak the warmth of it into her skin. Blinking away the water in her eyes, she lifted the drink and breathed in its spicy apple scent, letting it fill her lungs. The steam wafted over her face as she took a careful sip.
Whether it was that initial soothing sip, or whether the shot worked miraculously quickly, she felt her muscles loosening up. She released a measured exhale and closed her eyes. Keeping them closed, she took a long, slow drink. Brynjolf was right; she couldn't even taste the alcohol. The unpleasant feeling created by the liquor in her stomach eased away.
When she came back up again, she found Brynjolf's empty shot glass placed next to the first two. She blinked sluggishly at them.
"Feel better?" Brynjolf asked.
She shrugged.
"Thought so."
He put his elbow on the bar and his head on his fist, regarding her in silence. Deirdre … found she didn't care. She took another sip of cider and concentrated on the way it slid down her chest to her stomach, heating her from the inside out. The residual trembling in her core finally disappeared. Gods—she was exhausted.
"I'm trying to figure you out," Brynjolf said suddenly. "You're two different people."
She side-eyed him. "Look who's talking."
He grinned. It was as crooked and attractive an expression as it had been in the market—or possibly moreso, because there was a wolfish edge to it that hadn't been present before. He'd been wearing sheep's clothing in the market. He wasn't anymore.
Something in her chest lurched.
She was jarred back to alertness by the appearance of the big, dour man who'd been standing guard at the bridge to the tavern. She sat up straight as she suddenly noticed him on Brynjolf's other side.
The man bent down and grumbled quietly in Brynjolf's ear. As he spoke, Brynjolf's jaw went slack. His gaze snapped to Deirdre.
"You're kidding," he said once the man had finished.
The man shook his head.
Brynjolf, staring at Deirdre, dismissed the man with an absent gesture.
Deirdre clutched her cider mug. The dour man must have discovered her three victims. He would have confirmed their deaths.
Brynjolf leaned on the counter with both arms, examining her intently. She hunched over her steaming mug.
"I don't want to know," she said, not looking at him. "Don't tell me what he found."
He considered a moment. "Suffice to say, you did some damage. More damage than I expected."
"I didn't mean to. I just had to get here."
He made an amused sound, deep in the back of his throat. "Didn't mean to? I'd hate to see what you were capable of if you meant it."
His voice was low and sultry, and it made the words sound like a compliment. Like he was discussing a particularly delicious meal, and relishing in the description.
He asked, "What was so important about those rings, anyway?"
Deirdre pondered how to respond. If she even wanted to respond. She didn't owe him an explanation, and for some reason, it felt like her answer would be insufficient. Would sound silly if verbalized. The rings weren't enchanted, weren't ancient treasures, and weren't even gold. Would he think her reasons were childish?
"Don't keep me in suspense," Brynjolf prodded.
She took a breath. "They belong to the couple who took me in after Helgen was destroyed. They're all I have left of them, and I promised to keep them safe for their children."
"You're from Helgen?"
She lifted her head. That was the part he'd focused on?
"Yes," she lied.
The sultry quality to his voice was gone. "Were you there? That day?"
She nodded. She studied her cider, running a thumb across the lip of the mug.
"You saw the dragon?"
She nodded again. She swirled the mug and watched the liquid spin within it. Strangely, the indeterminate dread she normally felt when recalling the black dragon did not come to her. Maybe it was the way Brynjolf asked about it. Not hushed and somber, but fascinated. Impressed.
"He was like nothing in this world," she heard herself volunteer. "Like something out of a nightmare. You can't understand without seeing him."
They sat in silence for a moment. Deirdre sipped her drink, putting her elbow onto the counter as Brynjolf had done, resting her head on her hand. She felt herself take a step away from her body to analyze it, and found she was remarkably calm. Sitting next to the man who'd stolen her most valuable keepsakes, she was oddly not on guard.
"So today wasn't the most dangerous situation you've ever found yourself in," Brynjolf mused, almost as if to himself. "I didn't expect that. Again."
Deirdre turned her head toward him, mulling over the statement. She held up three fingers. "I think this only ranks at number three for me."
He blinked.
"You're pulling my leg. What's number two?"
"The time I stumbled into a nest of frostbite spiders, and got bitten."
His eyes widened. He pulled away slightly, to get a fuller view of her. "That venom is used as poison. Lethal poison. I've seen it work."
She shrugged. "It wasn't pleasant."
He blinked again. A hint of a smile curved his lips. He gave a small, slow shake of the head, and drew closer, leaning on the counter to do so. "You're sure you're not the one pretending here?"
Deirdre scoffed. "Why would I lie about any of this?"
He stared into her eyes. "I'll be damned. You're tough as nails, lass."
Looking back at him, seeing that he meant it, Deirdre felt a gradual warmth fill her chest. No one had ever told her she was tough before. There was a faint thrumming under her skin, and it rippled pleasantly at his smile, at his tone, at the appreciative glint in his eyes. Green was such a nice color.
Don't start thinking like that, she warned herself.
"It's Deirdre," she corrected.
Brynjolf reached out to run the back of his finger along the lock of hair he'd tucked away earlier, circling around her ear, brushing a thumb over her earlobe. Was he even closer now?
"Deirdre," he indulged. "How was it that I came to meet you in the market? You don't live in Riften."
His fingers remained in her hair.
"No. I was visiting the orphanage."
"Children of the couple?"
"Mm-hm."
"And you came to Riften alone?"
"No, I came with a friend. He's out doing a job right now."
"He is?" Brynjolf repeated, emphasizing the first word. He must have slid his stool closer without her noticing, because he was invading her personal space. His palm was warm against the side of her neck. "What kind of job is he doing?"
"He's a Companion," she answered, preoccupied by the rich color of his beard. His facial hair was so well-trimmed. Most of the Companions kept themselves clean-shaven, except for Kodlak, since he didn't see much fighting these days. Something to do with it getting in the way?
"A Companion? As in, the heroic, honorable dogs of Whiterun?"
Deirdre stopped ogling his face to narrow her eyes. She removed his hand from her neck and set it on the counter. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
He clicked his tongue. "It's all relative. If you had a warrior on hand, why didn't you get him to escort you down here after his job was done? Probably would've spared you some pain."
A trace of guilt pricked her.
"He said he wouldn't help me if I got my pocket picked. And I didn't listen, and I broke all his rules, and you stole from me. And I didn't want to wait for him and lose track of you."
Brynjolf frowned. He ran a finger over one of her knuckles, along a tendon in the back of her hand. "Some friend. And so much for honor."
"It's not like that," she protested, watching as his larger hand covered her wrist and his thumb traced an arc into her skin. "He just … wanted me to take responsibility for myself."
Brynjolf gave a humorless chuckle. "Well. I guess he got what he wanted. Risked your life in the process, but he got it."
She knew there was something wrong with what he was saying, and she should argue. And she knew she shouldn't just be sitting there and letting him play with her like he had any right to do so. But she couldn't articulate, in her head, why. She was so warm, and he was so warm, and close, and he must have used some sort of oil for his beard, because he smelled like leather and musk and faintly of pine, and he was sitting there like he had nothing better to do in the world than pay attention to her.
"How's your cider?" Brynjolf asked.
"Fine," she said distractedly.
He released her to pick up her mug. Without hesitation, he drank a few gulps. He set the mug down with a satisfied sigh and retook her hand.
"It's got a nice spice," he agreed.
Deirdre glanced from him to the cider to their hands. "What if I were sick?"
He lifted her hand so her forearm came up off the counter, and brought the backs of her fingers to his lips. Her pulse was buzzing.
"You don't look sick."
"I-I'm not. But."
He tilted her hand so he could kiss her inner wrist. The touch sparked through the veins at her wrist into her bloodstream, shooting up to her heart, spiking her heart rate.
"What are you doing?" she tried to demand. It came out breathy.
He gave a little laugh. "I'm beguiling you, lass. Deirdre. Can't you tell?"
She gawked at him. This was all wrong. Right? But she had yet to tell him to stop. Great Aedra, he smelled nice. His eyes were so green. He was so much bigger than her, looming so close.
"You think you're so handsome," she blurted.
He laughed again. He placed another peck on the heel of her palm. "My mother was an ardent worshiper of Dibella. Turns out there are some benefits when your birth is blessed by the Goddess of Beauty."
She scoffed. What a tall tale. Or not? She couldn't think straight.
"You're full of it."
"It's true. I suspect Dibella had a say in your birth as well, though."
He drew her hand against the side of his face and leaned in so, so close, and his gaze was inviting and his voice was like hot sugar as he said, "Has anyone ever told you, you have a perfect mouth?"
She shook her head, transfixed by his mouth. Her heart gave a little leap.
Brynjolf's other hand touched under her chin, gently tilting her face up.
"Then let me be the first."