Chapter Text
The night was late and the tavern was crowded when I saw him again—the sound of a wooden door being swung open pulled me away from my thoughts, and there he was… the thief.
At least the healing went smoothly, from the looks of it.
I was sitting on a chair in the upstairs balcony, providing me a vantage point of the commotion below. The bar was full, the fire was roaring, and people were busy being drunk to notice a hooded man entering the building. Not that I blame them. If I were slightly less sober myself, I would have screamed “thief!” or some other term that would’ve caught their attention.
(Divines, I hate this place.)
Seeking a job in Skyrim wasn’t my soundest choice, to be honest. Too much Nords, which means too much distaste in magic; and the precious few who appreciate my services always mistook me for a student from the College of Winterhold, of all places. Akatosh’ blood, do I still look like a student? Have they never heard of Arcane University, in Cyrodiil?
Well, the joke’s on me. I’ve trapped myself here.
Not that this has been a rough experience. The precious few employers I’ve met, they were a joy to work with. I got to hone my skills, pick up some new ones along the way, and got paid in the process. Not a bad way to spend your summer holiday. Not a bad way to avoid Cyrodiil, either.
…
Living the dream… or so they said.
“You’re still here.”
A man’s voice startled me and I looked up to find my ex-employer already sitting on the chair next to me, popping open a bottle of cold mead. How long has he been there, for gods’ sake? It wouldn’t surprise me if he’d used Invisibility to sneak up here.
I opened my mouth, intending to reply or strike up a conversation—but what ended up out of my mouth was only a “huh”. Good enough, I suppose.
Seven days traveling from Riften to Whiterun together and neither my opinion nor my knowledge of him had changed. A thief with a mask over his mouth and a hood over his eyes. At least that repugnant smell of his had disappeared somewhat.
“Thought you’ve gone out of town by now,” the thief spoke, glancing up from his mead bottle. “Whiterun’s a nice city, isn’t it?”
“Sure.”
“… when there isn’t a bunch of Thalmor patrolling the streets,” he added. Still hadn’t touched the mead bottle—no doubt waiting for me to look away so he could pull down his mask and drink. “Good thing there wasn’t any Thalmor this morning.”
I know what he was referring to. Ever since the news of the Dragonborn’s disappearance was publicized, there had been a scuffle between the locals and the Thalmor representatives in Skyrim. Apparently, the Dragonborn wasn’t an honest man in life. Something about him being involved in a rebellion against them a long time ago. The Thalmor accused the Nords of hiding him, and the Nords accused the Thalmor of kidnapping—or murdering—their hero. It’s all messy. And admittedly stupid.
Regardless of who was telling the truth, thanks to this dragon man’s disappearance, you could find Thalmor patrols in every Imperial and neutral-aligned cities in Skyrim ever since. Hell, you’d even find their spies in Stormcloak holds if you were lucky enough. Or unlucky. It depends.
Might as well relax, make small talks and get better acquainted with this man before you ditch him for good, my brain told me.
“Not a fan of the Thalmor, I take it? Judging from the shitty routes you picked to get us here?”
He chuckled upon hearing that. Maybe my voice sounded funny to him or something. “Not a fan of anything that could kill me, more like. And they…. well, they definitely would.”
“You’re hunted by the Thalmor?”
“Can you say that louder so everyone in this tavern can hear you?”
I scoffed.
Damn.
So this thief is on a Thalmor hit list. That explains several things.
Downing another gulp of my alto wine, I grimaced, trying to stomach the musty taste mixed with the tankard’s metallic scent it gave me. Disgusting. Probably should have ordered food and water, instead.
“Hey,” the thief spoke up—muttered, more like. I could see him staring at me from this angle, as if wanting to say something, but hesitated. “Just… wanted to say, uh… thanks. For, uh, for keeping me alive out there. You’ve helped a lot. Thank you.”
“Shut it.”
“What?”
“Don’t thank me, thief. You already paid me, so we’re even.”
He laughed again. It sounded nice, if not a bit… grating. “No need to get your knickers in a twist, mage. Just tryin’ to be friendly.“
“Well, I’d rather you waste your ‘friendliness’ on someone else.”
Beggars. Whores. Priests. Charity workers…. Not mercenaries. Or a failed student from the prestigious Arcane University.
The thief didn’t say anything. He pulled his gaze away from my direction, stared at the bottle of cold mead in his hand, and—with a swift tug—pulled down the half-mask until it was hanging freely under his chin. He began untying the strings around his neck after that, and the tattered gray hoodie came loose, revealing a short messy dark hair and a face riddled with greenish Bosmeri paint.
…
By the Divines.
“Try not to gag too much,” the thief said to me, before swigging down the contents of his drink. “Now you know why I don’t fancy showing my face to people. Burn scars, you know? Fucking your lives up twenty times over.”
“….”
Turns out, he was right.
His face was burnt on both sides; the flayed skin stretching from under his ears to his scarf-covered neck, and possibly beyond that. The greenish Bosmeri markings layered the healthy skin under, partially smudged away by the burn scars. His eyes were yellow (green?), glinting subtly in the shadows, not unfamiliar among the Bosmer—but the round facial structure and the deep-set dimples reminded me of a Breton. He looked… odd, for want of a better word.
But it wasn’t just that.
“Oh. Sorry.” There was another chuckle. “You, uh… I bet you didn’t wanna see that, huh?”
I found myself staring at him, out of curiosity more than disgust. He was undoubtedly a Bosmer, with a pair of pointed ears and gleaming eyes to show for it, but at the same time… not. Probably a weird case of mixed heritage—or maybe I was just that drunk.
Alright. Time to change the subject.
“So, you’re hunted by the big T?“
“… What’s the big tea?”
Oh, c’mon now.
“Ooh! Oh, you mean…. Uh-huh. Another reason I don’t show my face around people anymore.” He replied, before chugging down the rest of his drink. “Ahhh. Fresh mead…. I’ve missed this.”
Judging by the way his eyes beamed like a weirdly adorable puppy when he took a swig of that probably-not-so-fresh mead, I’d say he hasn’t had a drink in years. Kind of sad, really.
“You’re terrified of them?”
“… Perhaps.” He shrugged. The smile on his face disappeared again. “Replace… ‘terrified’ with ‘extremely wary’, and you’ll gain a better picture. Not exactly best friends, them and I.” There was a brief pause as his fingers tapped against the mead bottle, which he found out was already empty, and he sighed. “Everyone thinks I’m dead, but they know better. Now, it’s just a matter of time until they haul my arse back to Valenwood. Or Alinor. Or… or whichever works, really.”
Thank the Divines I didn’t spit out my wine this time.
“Wait…. Are you—the Dragonborn?“
There was no response, but the man’s tired glance answered it for me. Is this the Dragonborn everyone in Skyrim have been raving about? An unassuming, tiny Bosmer thief with a scarred face and weird accent? The one whose death have been printed in the Black Horse Courier’s front page ten editions over?
(I was expecting a seven-foot tall warrior with dragon wings behind their back and eyes that shoot fireballs. A shame.)
“Wish I wasn’t.” I heard him muttering again; his voice barely a whisper amidst the noisy tavern. “Now that you know, it’s probably not a good idea for you to remain here.” There was another pause again as he heaved a long sigh. He’s really a fan of dramatic pauses, it seems. “I’m a death trap. The longer people are near me, the more likely they’re gonna be dead. Can’t even meet my daughter—“
“You have a daughter?”
“That’s not my point, mage.”
Well, doesn’t that sound pretty. Not only had I endured the weirdest one-week arrangement I’ve ever had in the entirety of my mercenary career with the shadiest thief from Riften, but also unexpectedly made an acquaintance with the most popular dead man in Skyrim—and escorted him from Riften to Whiterun in one week, all without encountering a single Thalmor patrol or being robbed blind in the middle of the night to boot. And the dead man turned out to be a Thalmor war criminal! Who would have thought?
Belmont would’ve been very proud of me.
(Not that he was proud of me being a lowly mercenary in the first place, that asshole.)
“… Yeah. Well, that makes sense.”
The Dragonborn simply smiled at me as if we had been talking about the current climate, or the regular price of a Black-Briar Mead—and not a potential future death of mine at the hands of a Thalmor agent after they caught me talking to him in a tavern for five minutes. Maybe I really should’ve ditched Whiterun for good earlier. Pull my ass back to the Bee and Barb and find myself a beautiful adventurer to work with, or better yet—go back to the Arcane University and forget this ever happened. I could’ve done the whole “forget my shitty mistake” thing another way.
Still, it was nice talking to him. He wasn’t so bad, it turns out, but that smile… creeped me out a little. Something about it looked too genuine. It made my chest flinch.
“Can I still have your name, at least?” I found myself asking. The Dragonborn frowned in response; his smile disappearing once again (thankfully).
“For what?”
“… In case your obituary comes up next week—I need to know which grave I should send my flowers to.”
He didn’t even bother to appear insulted. Sarcasm wouldn’t work on him, it seemed. “Yours first.”
“Marcurio del Bosque,” I answered quickly. “And you are…?”
“In the Thieves Guild, my name is Fen. Might want to call me that.” There was another pause again. “Though, if you’re asking my real name…, it’s Fanris. Fanris Raelannar. Or… just Fanris, if it’s all the same to you.”
…
“Hey. Hey—you still with me?”
“Uh… yeah.”
“Are you okay?”
“I, uh… Yes. I’m, uh, just a bit tipsy.”
...
It can’t be, anyway.