Title: Lessons
Pairing: GEN fic; F!Dragonborn (Dunmer) and Mercer Frey
Spoilers: None in particular.

A/N: This is a companion piece to one of my other Thieves Guild stories, The Dovahkiin Always Rings Twice. I intended this to stand on its own, however- so if you haven't read the aforementioned, and are just here for snark (and people beating the crap out of each other), 's'aaaaaaalll good.

Once again, I own nothing. All your Skyrim are belong to Bethesda. Do not sue me; all I have is some pocket lint. ;3;

Lessons

It's past midnight in Riften, and Nalvyna can't sleep.

When the Greybeards circled her on the stone floor of High Hrothgar and welcomed her as Dovahkiin, infusing bone and breath with a power she hadn't asked for, nor dreamed of possessing, they didn't tell her how that power would leave her changed- omitted minor details, such as what it would mean for her to rip away another being's spirit, and forge it into her own. Dragon magic writhes along her muscles; it sings in her nerves, filling her with restless energy and whipping her blood to icefire and music. With each kill she's made, stolen out of a chaos of blood, flame, and thunder, the feeling increases, chasing her even into her sleep.

The Dunmer has learned to deal with the problem by figuratively (and sometimes literally) drowning herself in work. More and more often these days she's found herself drawn toward Riften- its delicate, golden-leafed aspens and rolling hillsides; the smell of green water, pine wood, and black rot has been ground so deeply into her hair, clothing, and even her skin that she doubts she'll ever get all of it out. The Thieves' Guild has by necessity shaped itself into a second home- she's been passing through the Ragged Flagon so often, lately, that Brynjolf teasingly threatens to send out a search party if she's gone for more than a week or two.

The alien singing in her blood, however, is never permanently gone: even when slipping through some hapless merchant's window or liberating the Blue Palace of its valuables, she can feel it pressing close behind her eyes, dragging her attention constantly to the far mountains, and the wide empty sky beyond. It is a feeling not unlike the wanderlust that brought her to Skyrim... and at present, it's keeping her from simply flopping over into one of the Cistern's beds and surrendering to sleep.

Growling under her breath in frustration, Nalvyna throws down the book she's been thumbing through and hauls herself up out of her chair. Her lower back twinges in protest, and a glance at the hour candle to her left tells her it's even closer to morning than she suspected.

Reaching for the glass-inlaid bow propped against the wall, she pads in the direction of the practice room. Tired though she is, she can't resist the sudden urge to move; if nothing else, perhaps she'll get lucky and exhaust herself to the point of unconsciousness. It wouldn't be the first time.

She doesn't see the dark shape loitering against the far wall; doesn't notice it step away, once it is certain it hasn't been detected, to silently follow in her footsteps.

Nal places her foot on the inside of the bow, its curves as familiar to her as her own body, and bends it, looping the oiled sinew over the adjacent point in a single practiced motion. Her quiver of steel-tipped practice arrows are stacked on the pallet behind her; as each shaft leaves her fingers, the next is already close to hand. The shots, as a result, fire off with such rapidity that the bowstring seems to almost hum, like a chord drawn from a plucked lute.

In the Cistern, she feels secure. There are no bandits here -none, at least, who would want to harm her-; no dragons, no perilous pitfalls or snags in the terrain for her to stumble over. She can lose herself in the meditative symbiosis of weapon and master, joined together in the deadly mechanical conspiracy of breath, focus, and killing intent. In such a state, her focus narrows, and the roil of her blood gradually fades into background noise: still present, but muted; the dragon, for the moment, caged.

The target is shortly a pincushion of neatly-ranked quarrels, their painted shafts feathering the braided-straw arms, legs, and torso. Surprisingly few of them have hit the red-and-white rings of the bullseye: not, in fact, an accident. The arrows are specifically concentrated in areas meant to wound, not to kill. A practical defense, for a thief: a guard with an arrow through the knee, for example, is much less likely to chase you. A dead guard, on the other hand, means trouble, of the type a repeat visitor doesn't want.

"I think it's dead, Sondryn," a low voice remarks from a point just a few feet behind where she is standing. The voice startles her from her trance state and she jerks in surprise, arrow rebounding harmlessly off the wall above her target. Rhythm broken, the bowstring snaps painfully against her wrist, and she nearly drops the bow with a pained oath. The grey-skinned mer shakes her free hand violently, an angry red welt rising on the flesh of her inner arm. It stings like mad, but the impending rebuke dies on her lips as she spins on her heel, and nearly runs headlong into Mercer Frey.

He's standing in an ironic echo of a teaching pose -arms folded behind his back, shoulders rigid as he follows the archer's line of sight- and the thought of how he could have crept up on her, when she has a perfectly good view of the only way into the room, baffles her utterly.

The hairs on the back of her neck prickle as she wonders how long he's been standing there.

The leader of the Thieves' Guild doesn't go out of his way to interact with other members; never really has, if Brynjolf is to be believed. He and his motivations are an unknown quantity, and that makes her nervous.

One corner of his mouth curves up in the thin, crooked approximation of a smile. It doesn't even come close to reaching his eyes. "You know," he drawls, "most people with sense are asleep right now." One hand gestures obliquely back in the direction she'd come from; the rough semicircle of beds set up for wayward Guild members. The framework is shoddy, and the blankets somewhat threadbare, but they suffice for the members who can't or won't take advantage of lodgings above ground.

It's the most words he's spoken to her in a fortnight- usually Mercer just waves her irritably away and tells her to go pester her mentor, or levies curt instructions in regards to her next assignment. The change throws her, and for a moment, the elf isn't certain how to respond.

How can she respond? 'I need to keep busy, or I think I might explode, or slam my head into a wall, or tear a new emergency exit into the Cistern- take your pick'?

Right. She can already guess how well that would go over.

Swallowing her surprise and apprehension, she falls back into her armor of impenetrable geniality: relying on wit and charm to deflect an opponent's ire, in the same way a well-made shield deflects arrows. Nalvyna's lips curve up, forming the wide, even-tempered smile she's designed for use against irate guards and suspicious merchants. "You know me," she says, far too cheerfully for that hour; "aim for the stars, and all that. Figured I might as well get some practice in as long as I had the room to myself."

His dour expression doesn't shift, but he does take a slow, deliberate step toward her. Perhaps she's imagining it, but it seems to Nalvyna that there's a subtle air of menace to the action. She finds herself backing away, step for step, until her shoulders meet the wall behind her. His palm hits the slick granite to the right of her shoulders a second later, and although he's not exactly trapping her, she finds herself pinned like a butterfly in an alchemist's collection.

Mercer hunches his shoulders, looking at her eye to eye, and tilts his chin slightly to one side as he curls his fingers above her head, resting most of his weight on his forearm.

"You can drop it," he says; "the 'harmless idiot' routine." His voice is pitched so low that she has to strain to hear it, in spite of how close he's standing. "We're the only people in here."

The smile falls off her face, and crashes into a million tiny pieces on the floor. He isn't fooled. He is not even remotely fooled; damn it, she really ought to have guessed. Her mind scrambles to come up with a response; something flippant and wry. It's just that at this range, her higher faculties are more concerned with 'there is a very intimidating man invading my personal space' than they are with wit.

"I... couldn't sleep," she admits at length, and defiantly glares right back at the Breton, silently daring him to act. I don't know what you're up to, and I don't care, the look says; I'm going to bust you one if you don't get out of my face. Granted, it's mostly bravado, but she'll be damned if she's going to let him see that he's shaken her.

He inclines his jaw slightly, one corner of his mouth twitching in a way that makes her wonder if he's trying to smile, but has somehow forgotten how to do it. A thought suddenly pops into her head: the reason for the Guildmaster's perpetual scowl is that his face is quite literally stuck like that, and she clamps down savagely at the laugh bubbling up inside her chest. He either doesn't notice, or chooses to let the gaffe slide; either way, Mercer turns his back on her and releases her from his pinioning scrutiny.

"I can fix that," he says.

Crossing over to the far side of the room, he lifts down one of the blunted steel swords that the Guild uses for practice down from its rack, and tosses it to her underhand. Although Nalvyna catches it easily enough, she holds the blade as if he's just thrown her the fanged end of a snake. There's a rasp of metal on leather that makes her stomach plummet into her shoes, and she reluctantly tears her eyes away from the weapon, searching for the sound's origin.

Mercer has drawn the Dwarven blade free from its straps at his side. It rests point down on the floor, rotating idly from side to side as he clasps his hands over the pommel, then props his chin on them. His head, as a result, is tilted slightly downward, and the angle of the light casts his uncompromising facial structure deep into shadow. He's tall for a Breton; taller, in fact, than she is by a good three or four inches, and she can see the bunch and pull of lean swordsman's muscle beneath the shrouded layers of Guild armor.

"Master Frey?" Nalvyna prods: she's aware that he doesn't like it when she asks questions, but is unable to restrain herself. She tempers the breach in protocol with deference and formality, unable to look away from the naked, golden-hued sword as it spins on its narrow axis.

"You've been taking two, maybe three jobs a day," he remarks, twisting it another quarter-turn. "The only people who take that much on at once are either incredibly ambitious, or running from something." The blade pauses, and he glances up at her, torchlight reflected in eyes the same color and warmth as hoarfrost. "Which are you?"

Nalvyna doesn't answer. Somewhere, in the rational part of the Dunmer's mind, alarm bells are going off. It's the same part that dredges up a memory from when she first set foot in the Guild; something Brynjolf mentioned to her as he led Nal away from the Ragged Flagon. Just three things you need to remember, lass, the echo of his smoothly-accented voice whispers. Do as you're told, don't get caught, and...

...and whatever you do, don't get into a fight with the Guildmaster.

The trouble is, the Dragonborn has never in her life, not once, backed down from a challenge. Not even when it would have been easier, more conductive to her health, or -if she's being completely honest- sane. It's what makes her slide her feet to either side, bending her knees as she slowly raises the weapon she's been given into a guard position.

The master thief straightens, flipping the Dwarven spatha** completely over in midair.

"I order," he growls (and gods, has his voice always been that dark?); "you obey. No hesitations. Got it?"

Nalvyna dips her head in a barely-perceptible nod, causing his lips to curve up into an expression of grim satisfaction.

"Tell you what," he says. "If by some miracle you manage to touch me, I'll let you ask a question. Any question." The humorless smirk makes a resurgence, harsher than usual, and he adds: "I might even tell you the truth."

I don't even know how to use a sword! the rational part of her mind shrieks, reeling in something very akin to panic.

Something deep inside her, something quiet and calculating and fierce, responds: Learn.

"I'll warn you right now," Mercer says, pointing at her with his sword hand for emphasis; "I'm not gentle."

I can take it, the fierce part of her responds, and it takes Nal a few seconds to realize she's spoken the words aloud.

Her opponent's smirk warps, transforming itself into a predatory grin that exposes far too many teeth for comfort.

His fingers tighten on the hilt of his sword, and she can see the slight change in his stance as he rocks back on his heels, then forward.

"We'll see."

She has less than a second's warning before he attacks.

Nalvyna has never seen Mercer fight before; has never, in fact, seen him outside of the Cistern. He has become as much a permanent fixture to her mind as the wall sconces are, and while she's never considered the master of the Thieves Guild to be anything less than formidable, she also hasn't connected the man with anything other than his usual administrative tasks.

Any doubts Nal might have had about Mercer's capabilities are completely obliterated in the moments after the point of his sword leaves the ground. In two strides, he's halved the distance between them, bent almost parallel to the ground and moving so quickly her eyes can barely follow him. If she had time to process the spectacle, she'd find it breathtaking.

He disarms her in three moves. She barely has time to raise her arms before the vicious downswing of his sword meets her guard, the impact racing all the way up into her scalp. It's as if he's struck a gong, and her blade snaps down toward the floor with a painful jerk even as he's reversing his stroke, batting her attempt at a parry aside before the flat of his weapon connects with her wrist, a stinging slap that makes her hand instantly go numb, and which reverberates through the room like a cracked whip.

The dark elf stumbles backwards with an astonished cry, sword falling from her nerveless fingers and clattering onto the stone, as she tries to piece together what just happened. Mercer, still advancing, hooks the toe of his boot under the practice sword and flips it at her without any change whatsoever in expression. The hilt strikes her collarbone and she fumbles it, but rights her balance and somehow manages to re-set her guard stance in time for his next attack.

A golden streak whips toward her as the Breton feints at her eye and then drives low, a move Nalvyna recognizes, and she twists to the side to avoid the thrust angling toward her knees. Goosebumps erupt along her arms at the rasp of metal-on-metal as she parries his attack- or tries to. She's so focused on deflecting his lunge that she fails to notice the elbow coming at her until it's rammed straight into her chest.

Air rushes out of her lungs in a harsh cough as the blow connects; beneath the protective layers of leather and padding, she feels her sternum creak. Her knees hit the ground hard enough to make her teeth rattle, and she desperately tries to drag oxygen into lungs that don't want to expand. She can feel a deep, spreading pain blossoming in her ribs, and knows that she'll have a spectacular-looking bruise there come morning. Damn him, Mercer isn't even attempting to pull his blows.

Nal suspects she may have made a terrible mistake in agreeing to this.

He isn't, however, pressing the attack; when Nalvyna glances up, he's standing just out of striking distance, waiting patiently for her to get up. Half of her isn't sure she wants to, right at that moment- not if her reward is going to be more of this brutality.

One look at the expression of bored disdain painted across her opponent's face, however, and the sentiment is overruled by sheer mulish determination. She lets her hands drift to her trembling shins, bracing them. The Dunmer slowly heaves herself first into a crouch, then to her feet, using the practice sword as leverage. Nal shakes her sword hand violently, flexes her fingers, and tightens her grip on the hilt.

Oblivion take him with teeth bared, she absolutely refuses to be deterred by a few minor aches and pains.

If she didn't know any better, Nalvyna could almost swear there's a glint of approval in the Guildmaster's eyes, though his lip curls in disgust as he surveys her.

The look of surprise that replaces it when she whips her free arm forward, launching the slender little throwing knife she's pulled from her boot straight at his face, almost makes everything worthwhile.

Mercer jerks to the side and the dirk sails past his cheek by a good three or four inches, but Nalvyna isn't waiting for him to recover. She launches herself at the Breton with a savage grin, slashing the blunted sword straight at his inner thighs. His focus is still shifting back from the projectile, leaving him wide open-

-There's a sharp, flame-bright flash of pain as Mercer smoothly sidesteps her attack -exactly as he did the throwing knife- and smashes the flat of his sword into the hollow of her knees. As her legs buckle, calloused fingers clamp down on her already throbbing sword hand, and Mercer grabs and rolls with her leading arm. One hand on her wrist, the other on her bicep as she passes him by, Nal finds herself being dragged as he uses her own momentum to swing the younger thief in a wide hyperbolic curve. It's all she can do just to keep her feet on the ground (particularly when he releases her, and she nearly faceplants into the floor, which to say the very least, would have been humiliating).

To make matters worse, her freedom is only momentary- even as she regains her footing, his hand winds around her long, trailing, copper braid, wrenching her head back. His other hand curves around over her exposed neck, and something bitingly cold presses against her carotid artery, so sharp that even so light a touch makes her skin prickle and itch. Even without looking, she knows it's his sword.

Nalvyna goes utterly still, a dread thicker than ice water creeping down the length of her spine.

His sword. Which, unlike hers, isn't blunted, isn't meant for practice, and will most certainly kill her if he applies just a little more pressure.

Even in the relative safety of the practice room, against an opponent she's certain (well, moderately certain) isn't actually trying to kill her, it's a hideously vulnerable feeling. She doesn't resist as he shifts his grip, reeling her in so that they're standing back to front.

"That wasn't a fight," he says, equal portions contempt and smug satisfaction; "it was an execution. You wouldn't last five minutes in a street brawl."

Nalvyna can hardly disagree: her usual tactic, when someone gets the drop on her, is to throw a distraction at them and run. Having invested so much time and effort into stealth and hit-and-run tactics, she's never built up the strength or endurance necessary for open combat.

The silence stretches between them until it threatens to become uncomfortable. Nal can't respond with her head bent back at such an extreme angle (not that she expects anything she says will move him), and only allows herself to breathe when Mercer finally -finally!- lowers the sword from her throat, a faint metallic clack suggesting he's set it to one side. To add insult to injury, he's not even out of breath, whereas she's surprised her lungs haven't exploded out of her chest yet.

His hand glides along the curve of her sword arm, so lightly he's barely touching her. She has to bite back a gasp when his fingers press down on her wrist- the flesh there is sensitive enough, now that sensation is coming back into it, that even a light touch sends a shock of pain racing up her arm and into her shoulder.

Mercer is not being light, and she grits her teeth in response as he bends her fingers into a different grip, guiding them with his own. She didn't even realize she was still holding a weapon.

"You're holding this too tightly," his ragged voice grumbles in her ear. "It's not going to bite you, Sondryn."

Easy for you to tell me to relax, you overconfident self-important fetcher; you weren't just threatened by a lethal weapon.

Ah, good, Nal realizes: the suicidally smart mouth is back. She was just starting to miss it.

Nal feels Mercer shift his position- hooking his legs in next to hers, keeping her hand pinned to the sword with his own,a s if she is an overgrown, fleshy marionette. His free hand drops from the back of her armor to the juncture between waist and hip, both a warning not to move and a brace to help her keep her balance. Heat pricks at her cheeks and spreads in a traitorous wash to her ear tips; she tamps it ruthlessly down and hopes to every Divine and most of the Daedra that he can't see the reaction. It's the adrenaline, she tells herself. Just a combination of nerves and exhaustion and the fact that you haven't even looked at a man in nine months, much less allowed one to touch you. He's just making sure you don't trip over your own feet.

"Keep your arms loose," Mercer says. With the slight discrepancy in their height, his breath buzzes against the shell of her ear when he speaks, and she bites down hard on her lip. Maybe he doesn't realize how sensitive merish ears are, but when she attempts to incline her head downward, the fingers on her wrist tighten and force her to stop. "Move as I do."

It's easier said than done, but it allows her to ignore the intimacy of their respective positions, or the sheer insanity of allowing someone as dangerous as Mercer Frey to get this close. She doesn't doubt there's some kind of agenda behind his actions, but her body is far more concerned with proclaiming that she is essentially locked into an embrace with a member of the opposite sex. It doesn't hesitate to cheerfully add that, bruises aside, it does in fact feel pretty good.

She really wishes her body would kindly shut up, because it's not helping her nerves at all.

Concentrating on where to put her feet, and how the grey-haired Breton moves her arms, she allows herself to be drawn into the rhythm of attack and counterattack, the practice sword slicing through the air in simple but devastatingly effective arcs. All the while, the thief behind her is speaking in a low voice that, if not for the iron in it, could almost be called a purr.

"There's no such thing as 'fair' in a swordfight," Mercer instructs. "Don't bother with the horseshit the Brotherhood spews about beautiful techniques or perfect strikes. It isn't about art. If someone comes at you with a blade, they're trying to kill you. Cut them a dozen times, and let them die of blood loss." The hand at Nal's waist slaps hard against her thigh, a reminder that the Dunmer's attention is wandering, and she adjusts her weight accordingly. "Understand?"

One nod, two, hair rasping against the perpetual stubble lining his jaw, and he releases her. "You'd better."

Nal's hormones voice their displeasure from somewhere in the back of her mind, and she wordlessly tells them to go to the Void. Twisting around, she witnesses Mercer back away, retrieve his sword, and tap it lightly against the flagstones. It's the only warning she has before he launches himself at her. She has an inkling of what to expect this time, and brings her defense up to knock his sword away as it darts in at her ribs. Nalvyna finds the edges of her mouth curve up in an involuntary grin: for once, her plan has actually worked, and now she has an opening. Nal steps inside the thief's guard before he can reverse his strike, and ripostes at his abdomen.

She abruptly falters, a ribbon of fire lancing across her left cheek. Backpedaling, she raises a hand to the afflicted area. Her fingertips come away warm and wet, lurid red layered against slate grey, and she stares openmouthed at her opponent.

There's a dagger in Mercer's left hand.

Oh, that's not fair! she thinks, but of course, that's the point. This isn't about fairness; it's about survival. Mercer is much, much better than she is at close combat, and she'd be an idiot to try and go toe-to-toe with him. She might be learning from watching his attacks, but if she gets within range of that unholy blur of sword-dagger-sword, she knows she'll be obliterated. She isn't fast enough to block both of his hands in time to avoid being cut, and from the arrogant swagger in his approach, Mercer's aware of it.

She realizes that for all his talk of disabling an opponent as quickly as possible, the Guildmaster is a hypocrite. The glint in his eyes says that he likes toying with her; likes showing the uppity newcomer that she doesn't have a snowball's chance of competing with him. The taunt slams her nervousness straight on into rage, and an idea blossoms in her mind like a flower. Nal has an advantage the Breton doesn't, and she's done holding it back.

Her jaw sets in determination and she crouches, legs bent, as she waits for him to get close. Two more steps, and he'll be in striking range. Time enough for a single, deep breath. His sword arm snaps forward.

"FEIM ZII!"

Mercer's blade slices through empty air, rebounding hard enough to strike stone chips from the floor, as Nal bursts apart around him. She would laugh if she could, to see him stumble in bewilderment through where she ought to have been standing- by the gods, he actually stumbles! But she is vapor, is fog, and has no lips or breath to give voice to her triumph. Although success is fleeting -already she feels solidity reasserting itself- she will settle for smug vindication.

When Mercer turns around, she takes one look at his face, and has a sneaking suspicion she's going to need to Shout again, rather sooner than later. Eyes narrowed almost to slits, he pushes his unkempt grey-blonde hair away from his face, and smiles at her appreciatively. It isn't the usual faint, lopsided smirk, nor is it the baretoothed grin of superiority he flashed at her before they began this dance. This is dangerously close to a snarl, and it makes him look positively wild. Nalvyna finds herself taking an involuntary step away from him, focusing on slow, deep breaths.

"That," he says, dragging his sword across the ground as punctuation, "is more like it." The slow metallic rasp makes her breath catch in her throat, and she yanks her head backwards in time to avoid having her throat sliced by a backhanded swipe too fast to block. Azura, he's really not fooling around. Somewhere along the line, this stopped being a simple practice session. Perhaps, a dark little thought remarks from her hindbrain, it never was.

Regardless, if Mercer was playing with her before, he's taking her seriously now. She finds herself pushed into a continuous retreat beneath a blistering assault, sword-dagger-sword-dagger-sword, and realizes almost too late that he's trying to trap her with her back to the wall. She dives to the side in a roll, throwing the practice sword aside to avoid impaling herself. If she has time, she'll come back for it; at the moment, she's more concerned with not having her head separated from her shoulders.

Scrambling to her feet, she's nearly driven to her knees again as something slams into her shoulder blades, her ribs, her thighs, with a rhythmic series of hollow thwaps. There's no pain at first, but she can feel the breath being driven out of her with percussive force. "Eyes front!"

Boethiah's bounteous bosom, she wonders in mounting incredulity, surely he isn't laughing?

Scrambling backwards on all fours, she bends into a sprinter's pose, coughs hoarsely, and squares her shoulders. Shit, he's coming straight at her, not even bothering to kick her discarded sword out of the way, the Dwarven spatha striking sparks from the floor. Flashy, that, but she's come to expect intimidation tactics from him, and isn't impressed. More to the point, she's gotten her second wind, and she's going to wipe the smug look off his face if it's the last thing she does.

She's aching in every limb, there's a stitch building in her side, but she has one last trump card to play and at this range, she knows he won't be able to avoid it. She sincerely hopes the plan works- and tries not to consider the possibility, incomplete and untested as it is, it won't.

As Mercer's arm lashes down at her exposed face, she yanks her head to the side, rolls over onto her back, and Shouts directly at his exposed midsection. "ZUN HAAL!"

The words tear free of her throat like the claws of a dragon, sinking into the blade of his sword and wrenching it, high and clear, from the master thief's hand. Her legs scissor out and lock around his ankles, wrenching his feet out from under him as Nalvyna throws herself backwards. His back connects solidly with the ground as the spatha bounces resoundingly off the stone, missing her right hand by a hair's breadth.

She snatches it even as she snaps herself forward, reversing the throw before he can get up, bringing the weapon down in what should be a perfect stop thrust. Should be, except that just as she's bringing it to bear over his sword buckle, Mercer's fist connects solidly with her left temple. Her vision dissolves into white-and-black stars, and as she topples bonelessly sideways, all she can think is oh, gods curse me for a bloody idiot, why didn't I see that coming.

When her sight finally clears, the first thing she sees is the granite flooring. It's pressing into her cheek, the cold leaching into her face like a cancer, and if not for a considerable weight that seems to be pinning her there, she'd remedy the situation at once. Biting back a low groan, she clamps her eyes shut, keeps them that way for the count of three, and then looks up.

Mercer's sitting on her abdomen, one leg crossed over the other in a pose of blithe nonchalance, and she realizes in annoyance that for the second time that night, she's got a dagger pressed to her throat. The Guildmaster leans over her, careful not to put any more pressure on the blade's edge, and smirks into her face. "Yield," he says, so close that the ends of his hair brush her forehead.

"Go kiss a guar," she says, ostensibly without really thinking about it.

The edges of Frey's mouth curve downward in the deep frown she's most accustomed to seeing him wear, and the top of his dagger presses a little more firmly into the soft tissue of her neck. "Yield," he grinds out through clenched teeth, irritation lining every letter.

Nalvyna considers. "A warty one," she amends. It's all she can manage to raise her wrists half an inch off the floor before she lets them drop- not quite the gesture she was looking for, but it will have to do.

The thief's face contorts, and for a tense moment, she thinks she might have pushed him too far. Sassing her Guildmaster when he has her more or less at his (very, very limited) mercy, in hindsight, is probably not conductive to one's continued survival, but she has discerned the politics of power at work in him. Whether by birth or by circumstance, he is a man who craves dominance; who demands that his skill and superiority be recognized. And while she might privately acknowledge it herself, it's one thing she'll never give. She is the Dovahkiin: unfettered wanderer, dragon-souled mortal, and she will allow no man to call himself master of her.

No matter how much he wants it.

Eventually, Mercer pulls back and sheathes the dagger with a muttered oath- though she notes he doesn't bother removing himself from her person. It wouldn't be a problem if not for the fact that he's bloody heavy, and she thinks the flow of blood to her legs may have shut off. "That mouth of yours is going to get you into trouble one of these days," he points out.

"It's got a mind of its own," Nal concedes, and almost smiles.

Mercer snorts in response and finally gets off her, much to the relief of the dark elf's internal organs. He crouches on his heels to one side as she rolls into a sitting position, gasping as the collective force of her injuries protest at even that slight movement. She's going to be lucky if she can walk in a few hours.

He rocks forward on the balls of his feet, leather boots creaking in protest, as she tries (only to fail, repeatedly; curse her stupid unresponsive legs) to pick herself up. He catches her by the front of her armor, either to steady the elf or hold her still, at the exact moment she leans forward. The end result is that only a quick save prevents her from clocking him in the face with her forehead, and in forestalling the event she finds herself almost nose to nose with him.

At this range, she can pick out the faint scars bisecting the right edge of his mouth, descending razor-fine from cheekbone to chin. She can see the dark shadows beneath his eyes, hallmarks of a man who's no stranger to insomnia himself, and the creases on his forehead that, given a few years, will undoubtedly become marks of worry and concentration. She sees that he must have been handsome once, in his youth; and moreover, in a sharp, unforgiving way -beneath the years of disappointment, cynicism, and having to juggle an entire guild of ne'er-do-wells- he still is.

She also sees that he's staring right back at her, with an utterly bewildering look on his face. It is, she realizes, almost as if he's seeing her for the first time, and for reasons she can't quite put her finger on, it frightens her. Or maybe that's a bit of a lie. She drops her eyes to the floor, and the action brings with it the strangest feeling of doors slamming shut.

Others, perhaps, crack open, though where they lead to, she can't say.

"I suppose I should be glad you didn't pound me into dust," she sighs instead.

An arm loops itself around her waist, fingers hooking into belt straps. Supporting most of the Dunmer's weight, he pulls her to her feet, and she has to grab for his chest when her legs almost go out from under her again. "Don't sell yourself short," he says, sucking noisily on his canine teeth for emphasis. "Fine sand."

Nalvyna gapes at him, as much in shock from his words as from his actions. "Did... did you just make a joke?"

Blasphemy, surely; she half-expects a thunderbolt to strike her dead for the thought alone.

"Mmmh," he responds with a mournful tsk, and smoothly hefts her across his shoulders in a fireman's carry. "What a waste of a question."

Before she can protest, he strolls off in the direction of the Cistern, as if the woman draped across his shoulders weighs nothing more than a sack of grain.

For a few precious moments, belatedly remembering the bet they agreed upon, the Dragonborn is struck utterly speechless.

**- A spatha is a type of edged weapon used primarily by the Romans, somewhere between a long- and short sword in structure. It's the closest approximation to a Dwarven sword I could make.