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It is unseemly, whilst wearing the robes of a Justicar, to roll one’s eyes or to murmur under one’s breath phrases such as “for fuck’s sake” or “shut your face, you choosing beggar.” Instead, I chose to pull my hood down further to shelter my face and wait for my insalubrious colleague to finish his business, such as it was. I couldn’t discern what Gilgondoron was trying to accomplish, beyond drumming up reasons to berate this poor young Bosmer.
He gave a scornful little sniff, pushed a few grudging septims across the counter and was done. Gods, I hate him. Finally, he was out of my way.
I stepped up.
I saw the proprietress take a breath, dark eyes luminous with unshed tears; I noted the white-knuckled hands-- the fingernails of her left hand digging into the countertop and her right maintaining its tight grip on her little pen-knife-- and adjudged her close to murder. I took care to moderate my tone:
“What is the most expensive item for sale in this shop?” I paused. “I don’t care what it is; I wish to buy it.”
She blinked at me, her sun-brown cheeks still ruddied with throttled fury.
I repeated myself in such a manner as to make it plain that I wasn’t setting her up for more mockery.
After another wary moment, she detached herself from the counter to go and pull a rolled bundle from under a number of other items in the very back of the space. The thick braids of her rich blonde hair swayed well below her waist.
Beside me, Gilgondoron made a noise.
I silently promised to change my allegiance to Talos should this pestilent mer be struck dead on the spot. Alas for Ulfric’s Stormcloaks, no such luck.
Carefully, she laid it on the counter and unwrapped the waxed hide.
For just a moment, all other thoughts fled. I whistled, softly.
“Just how old is this? May I?” I extended a tiny amount of magicka-sense towards the ancient vellum pages. The script was evidently Aldmeris, but some variant I was not familiar with. I was only able to discern a few words. I frowned. “I don’t think this is a religious text. And it looks like it’s from Summerset, and yet--” I wiped my fingers clean on my robes and touched the very corner of the vellum with my fingertips.
“My aunt thinks it has something to do with Veloth. You’d want a scholar to go through it, of course.”
I nodded. “How much?”
The amount made me inhale, sharply, but…
It had been at least three years since I’d given Trustee Fandelmo that heart seizure, and just now my household properties were actually making a profit for me instead of representing a drain on my income. I could afford it. Just.
“Would you take an East Empire remittance?” I inquired, politely. “Otherwise I’d have to send a runner up to the Imperial Mail office.” No one carries around that much gold; it’s heavy.
“What are you doing?” hissed Gilgondoron. “You’re supposed to haggle!” With these backwards natives, he meant.
I turned back to the counter; not-coincidentally turning my back towards him. “Add thirty percent.”
“Wha-what? That’s way too much!”
It wasn’t just Gilgondoron who thought my behavior ludicrous by now; this girl was now staring at me as if I were a mental defective. Her hair, I thought, was just the color of mountain-flower honey, striking against that brown skin. Were those freckles? Or just shade-dappling? Either way, I wanted to--
“Please,” I said. “I couldn’t live with my conscience if I bought this work off you for such an amount. It’s woefully underpriced. If it proves I’m in error…” I shrugged. “Donate the excess to the temple’s relief efforts, if it chafes you.”
Someone’s long nose was still in my business.
Suppressing a snarl, I whipped around. “Has someone given you leave to hang about the docks all day, Agent?” I glanced up at the sun. “It’s nearly noon. Go up to Headquarters and advise the Ambassador that I’ve become delayed. I’ll meet with him tomorrow right after morning review.”
It took Gilgondoron a few long moments to process that I had just told him that I was going to make a full Ambassador of the Aldmeri Dominion wait an entire day, just because I had met a likely girl. Now he was wondering what blackmail material I was holding over poor Orondil.
“Go,” I directed.
He went, though not without a disbelieving glance backwards.
“Shall we start again?” I said, with a smile. “That was Agent Gilgondoron, you need not deal with him in future. If he tries, have the guard make him go away. If the Thalmor come round to ask why, you can tell them that Justiciar Cyrelian told you that you were not to serve him.” I let my expression shade to less pleasant: “I shall tell the supervising officer that I caught him attempting to purchase unauthorized personal items, and making a pest of himself with the locals.”
Her hands moved to tear the page she’d just scribed out of the logbook. It was freckles! Not just on her chest, but just there, on the bridge of her nose. Adorable, even if she were now looking at me slantwise.
“Oh, no,” I said. “Let the purchase stand. I do wish for the reviewing authorities to see that, when they stop by.” I laughed, trying to make it sound self-deprecating; because really, in my efforts to squash Gilgondoron, I had made myself look like an ass. “I haven’t got much to spend money on,” I confessed. “Most of my time is in the field, so I make what I need or go without.”
“Do you really want the book?”
I shrugged. “Sure, why not. If I don’t love it enough to provide it the care it deserves, I’ll sell it on. Someone else will. And I am headed back up to Winterhold after this, so I can have the archivist look it over to see if it’s something that should be added to his collection.”
I don’t think she fully believed I was serious about buying the thing, till the courier from the Imperial Mail came back down and I handed the draft over.
“Why are you doing this?” she wanted to know, as she finished tying the final knot and handed it over.
“Because I’m a vengeful bastard who lives to give that waste-of-rations demerits,” I said, tucking the bundle in carefully with the rest of my belongings. I smiled. “Also because I wanted to learn your name.”
“Arabella.”
“Pleasure to meet you; I am Justiciar Cyrelian, but only whilst I am wearing these robes; otherwise, Cyr. Does this shop close at the dinner hour or at dusk?”
“Dusk.” She seemed a bit wary. Understandable.
I looked around dockside; at the many people coming and going. A public place, then. “My plan was to come back down this evening and have a late dinner at Cecile’s at first watch. Ah, eight bells. And you would be most welcome to join me, if you care to. My treat.” I picked up my valise. “I’ll be there regardless, so don’t feel like you would discommodate me should that not be possible.” Another smile. “Good day.”
--
While it is generally not good practice for those of us who are better situated in the Dominion to conceptualize the other races as lesser, it is a fact that there are indeed cultural differences that we Altmer find less easy to accept. Annoying, but I maintained demeanor, keeping a pleasant expression on my face. I glanced at Cecile’s prized clock. Eight bells was twenty minutes past, and I was hungry; if I drank wine for much longer on an empty stomach, I was going to have a headache.
When you are in the Thalmor, early is on time; on time is unacceptable--verging on demerits!; and late is… well. You might as well go send yourself on frolic until you acquire a new set of superiors. Ten agonizing minutes later, I beckoned the server to come and clear the other place setting. Three minutes after that, I beckoned her to come and put it back, because I saw my guest approaching.
“I almost didn’t recognize you in those robes. You’re with the College, as well as being a Justiciar? I heard they had an Advisor...” She brushed the bulk of that dark-gold fall of hair out of her way and sat.
“Oh, no, that’s not me. I’m just a student. On detached duty to further my education-- so I’m not supposed to be in uniform unless for an assembly-to-orders or something.” I gestured at the docks. “Yesterday’s quarterly meeting happened to be in Wrothgar, so that’s where I came from. I’m headed back to Winterhold the morning after next, so I’m mostly at loose ends till then.”
When Arabella started to apologize about her lateness, I enthused about the soup, and called the waitress over so that we could debate the merits of the Potage versus the inestimable lobster bisque. We had the bisque, and an enormous platter of grilled seafood, plus a savory of oysters wrapped with crisped bacon… Cecile’s is very good about not even putting parsley on the platters, for those with dietary restrictions. I hadn’t asked, but it was no problem to forego the greenstuff for once. Although I noted that Arabella was perfectly willing to drink the wine, a buttery little white from someplace on the coast near Farrun.
“So then,” I said. “I decided to take what Master Colette said at face value. Even the Arch-Mage thought that she was exaggerating or perhaps a bit delusional over what was happening to her working notes… but it really was causing her great distress. So I suggested a couple of… hmm… tests. In the spirit of scientific endeavor.”
I offered, and Arabella declined the dregs of the bottle, so I tipped it into my own goblet.
“A couple of days later, there was a commotion in the hallway, and I left the close-room to see the College’s Illusion Master retreating down the hallway, with ink all over his face and hands.”
“No!” Arabella’s braid swung forward as she leaned closer. “He’d do that? What happened then?”
“Oh, nothing,” I said. “Needless to say, he vanished himself again as soon as he’d managed to recover his composure, and without a doubt went up to his rooms to scrub away the evidence. But--” I drank off the rest of the wine, and sighed at its loss. “After that there was no more fooling about with Colette’s books and papers.” I looked at her. “I’m sorry. This is all rather more in the vein of gossip, isn’t it? We were talking about rifts in the scholarly community.”
“It’s not what I would’ve imagined,” she agreed.
Overall Arabella seemed happy and relaxed but I could see her fingers toying restlessly with the stem of her empty goblet. I looked over our denuded plates. Realistically, I could eat no more and still hope to get up from this table, and I had no real wish to sully the fine taste of Cecile’s wine in my mouth with outright intoxication, so--
So I had no idea on Nirn what to say next. Oh, I had reserved a room here, and made the other appropriate preparations, but-- Truthfully, I have been in previous… situations… but I more or less fell into those, and--
Arabella was watching me right back, and grinning slyly, dammit.
“What?” I demanded, in mock outrage.
“I was just waiting to see how long it would take you,” she said, just as the damned clock chimed. Eight bells again? We’d been sitting here this long? It felt like no time at all.
Arabella wiped her fingers clean and dropped the linen on the table. “The servers are just waiting on us to clear out. So…” her fingers pointed. “My house is four blocks that way. You can follow me, or not.”
I cleared my throat and tried not to sound like an idiot. “My room’s just up those stairs. Ah-- third from right.” She was already moving in that direction, so I settled up with the server and hastened to follow her.
I stuck my head in. “Privy’s at the far end of the hall and the bathing-rooms are--”
“I know where things are at Cecile’s.” Arabella fixed me with a stare. The lantern-light rendered her dark eyes unreadable, and I could see the glimmer of her teeth.
“Ah-- just a few moments then,” I apologized, and left for the necessary.
I took care to wash my hands and face perhaps more thoroughly than needful-- that garlic lingers, at Cecile’s-- taking measured breaths to calm myself.
“Sorry,” I said, coming back in. I took pains to latch the door. “I have to admit this is all a bit beyond my realm. What would you like to--”
Those teeth showed again: “Get on that bed.”
A couple of seconds later. “Why do you still have those robes on?” And, once I was fully engulfed in the damned encumbering garment, struggling to get loose: “Get those leg-wraps off!” She was laughing at me, dammit, but it was an easy laughter to join in, even if my elbow were now stuck.
“The College deliberately chose these outfits to be damnable to get out of,” I muttered. Arabella came forward to pop a stubborn button-loop free. Her fingernails deliberately grazed my skin. I shuddered like a fly-bit mule.
“Hold still!” she warned, pushing my head down a little further to get the next. I was already in an unbalanced crouch so she could reach me, so when those sharp little teeth began to worry at my throat…
My knees collapsed, sending us both sprawling on the bed. I continued to struggle and complain and yowl until finally all that encumbrance finally became a wadded mess on the floor. Up on the bed, the two of us weren’t doing much better, because Arabella’s hair had come loose and we were tangled up in that, too. She tugged her head free and grabbed my offending boot. It thumped against the wall.
“You’re still dressed,” I pointed out, to be helpful. My hand was at my neck. Was it actually bleeding?
“Hmm.” She straddled my chest.
I took a deep breath.
“Am I crushing you?” A small fist clenched in my hair, drawing my head to the side.
“Nooo,” I said. “You weigh about half of a standard field pack. Um. What are you dooo-- doing?” I gasped. “Oh, gods, not the ears!”
“What?” she murmured, voice too close. “You’re very…” she put more fingernail into the pinch on my nipple. “Sensitive. I was curious.”
I felt myself huff annoyance. “The answer to the question you’re asking is yes,” I said, my ear having folded itself away from those scissor-like nibbles. “But unless you fancy watching me fall asleep immediately, why don’t you get up here--” My arms were already in place; when I tugged at her hips she slid forward and…
“Skirts.” My voice was muffled in the cloth; she pulled them up out of the way. I could feel her shifting around atop me, tugging at brooches and lacings, but here under her clothing all was dark, quiet, warm. My breath rolled warm and humid against the pit of her thigh. Thankfully her smallclothes were gossamer linen. I began to nibble at her, ever so softly, through them, my lips sheltering her from my teeth.
Now it was her turn to shake, and I heard that low groan.
“Turnabout,” I said, with great satisfaction, though it probably went unheard. A few moments later: “Hmm, could you-- I don’t want to ruin these.”
“They’re ruined,” Arabella tossed a brooch aside and, with a great deal of effort, she got the wool kirtle up over her head and out of the way. She began to attend to her underthings, granting me mercy. Or perhaps herself, judging from that sigh of relief. I pulled her in a little closer, and the hand I still had on her hip brushed her fall of hair, still half in its braid. Oho. I took a grip on it.
“Nnngh,” she said. Her knee slipped a bit. She was panting, and I could see a droplet of perspiration roll down her side.
“All right?” I asked. When she hummed, I pulled it taut, enough to lift her chin, the line of her body making a long arc above me. “Harder?”
She purred.
“Lovely,” I murmured, drinking in my fill of the view; of the way the light shimmered bronze off her skin. Absently, I began to lave at her again, and when she crooned in response I tugged harder, and my fingertips tightened. Her calves flexed under me as she shifted back and forth, trying to maintain her balance while I had her hair and--
She hissed, her body spasming and clutching; and she muttered something unflattering in Bosmeris. Her thighs clamped down tight around me. I worked her through it, and stroked her legs, as her clench finally loosened. “Sit all the way down,” I urged. “Surprised we didn’t give you a wicked foot cramp.” I took a breath of cool air, then pulled her forward again. “This might be better. D’you like the bitey kisses?” I nipped at her thigh.
She hissed again, and nudged me. That was an order.
“We can do more of those,” I agreed.