Frozen Hearts: Skyrim Oneshots

Honest Thievery

           Water dripped down the dirty stone walls, the musty scent heavy in the air. Elvaril pushed aside the wisps of raven black hair that had fallen in his face, soft brown eyes staring at the muddled reflection in the murky water beneath him. The copper and ruby circlet that graced his forehead, the fine detail along the blade of his sword, the elegance and purity of his face... to him, it could not have been more clear that he did not belong hidden in the Ratway among lowlifes and skeevers. Nobility did not belong among those who lurked in the shadows. Nobility did not associate with thieves and ruffians. Yet, the stinking underground tavern was more a home to him than the large manor his family had raised him to believe was the only proper kind of home. He was uninterested in silk sheets, velvet cushions, and feasts served upon silver platters. He enjoyed the thrill of the steal, the risk involved in pilfering items from people like himself, each coin earned contributing to the formation of something great. He clenched his fist, the crinkling of the parchment held in his hand drawing attention from the man passing by. A hand was gently placed upon Elvaril's shoulder, the elf flinching as he nervously glanced behind him. He was greeted by the green eyes and russet hair of his favorite Nord. Brynjolf. Glancing at the paper Elvaril seemed determined to squeeze every ounce of life from, he removed his hand from the elf's shoulder and took the paper. Smoothing it out, his eyes scanned the paper. The elegant script, written in the most eloquent prose, gave an ultimatum. Elvaril could return home and forsake the guild or remain loyal yet lose his claim to the wealth of his family. Brynjolf's warm eyes were now colder than ice as he dropped the paper, watching it fall, delicately landing upon the water's surface. The contact sent ripples along the water, erasing Elvaril's reflection. The two watched the parchment sink, knowing within moments the beautifully written script would be no more than a blot of ink upon the page. Brynjolf took Elvaril by the hand, leading him to the cistern. They walked by many of the other guild members on their way, each one greeting them in their own unique way. Sitting down upon one of the beds, he waited for the elf to join him. Hesitantly, Elvaril sat beside Brynjolf. As the Nord put his arm around him, he locked his eyes on the floor. The was no sound aside from their breathing and the sound of the water dripping. Placing his hand under Elvaril's chin, Brynjolf turned the elf's head, forcing him to look him in the eyes. Elvaril valiantly tried to avoid making eye contact but submitted after his attempts were proven to be in vain. His lips parted as if he was going to speak, but no words formed. Elvaril closed his eyes, desiring to forget the decision he had been presented with, only for them to snap open as Brynjolf's lips met his own. He was bewildered by the fact he had failed to see if before. Accepting him regardless of his race or status, regardless of his history, asking nothing but loyalty in exchange for loyalty, the Thieves Guild was his family... and Brynjolf? He had stolen his heart.