Summary: Dyce and Brynjolf have a long overdue conversation about life, Mercer, and just why they haven’t fucked each other’s brains out.
Brynjolf bent over the ledger, his hands flat on the table as he stared at the inked numbers intently. He didn’t look up as Dyce strolled over, the Breton carrying a bottle of mead in each hand.
“Not now, lad. I’m busy.”
Dyce was silent for a few moments and he took a swig from one of the bottles.
“No you’re not,” he said. “Those numbers aren’t going to get any bigger just because you’re staring at them. Have a drink.” He placed the other bottle down on the ledger in front of Brynjolf’s face.
Brynjolf picked up the bottle, partly in case it spilled and made the ink run. “I’m not interested in becoming one of your conquests, lad.”
Dyce narrowed his eyes, distinctly unimpressed by that remark, but he guessed the Nord was just trying to get him to leave. Brynjolf wielded words like a blade sometimes. “That’s both cheap and beneath you, Bryn. You know it’s not like that.” He waited a few more moments. “We think you’re working too hard. Vex suggested I try and loosen you up.”
Brynjolf finally looked up at that remark, one eyebrow raised. Dyce merely shrugged and smirked. “That’s what she said.”
“Right,” Brynjolf said, straightening up from the ledger and taking a drink. “Where have you been anyway? Ever since the key business you’ve made yourself scarce.” He flicked his gaze towards the shrine to Nocturnal. “She scare you off?”
“Yeah,” Dyce said quietly and without hesitation. “It’s been a bit of a crisis of faith, if I’m honest.”
Brynjolf looked around the Cistern, but early evening was the quiet time; everyone was out drinking or working. Nevertheless he kept his voice down, moving around the table to stand next to Dyce, who was leaning on it like it was a bar.
“Really, lad? And how did you resolve it?”
Dyce fished around down the high collar of his Nightingale Armour and pulled on a chain, revealing the Amulet of Dibella that hung around his neck. “As it turned out, another lady had a prior claim.”
“As easy as that, huh?”
“To be honest it wasn’t that easy. At all.” He smiled, “I had some help.”
“What you went and saw a priest?” Brynjolf snorted.
“Yes,” Dyce said, and gave him a broad smile. “I highly recommend it.”
“That’s the trouble, isn’t it?” Brynjolf didn’t return the smile. “I never considered myself religious.”
“That’s the beauty of it though,” Dyce said. “You can’t serve against your will. Even Mercer managed to get out of it.”
Brynjolf exhaled, “Mercer. If we’re going to talk about him, I need another drink.”
“I can understand that.” Dyce took his weight off the table and carried the empty bottles back to the Flagon. When he returned he had two in each hand, to save him another trip later. Brynjolf at least hadn’t gone back to his ledgering, instead leaning he was against the table his arms folded across his chest as he stared moodily at the statue of Nocturnal.
Dyce placed two of the bottles on the table and handed one to Brynjolf.
“What a mess,” the Nord muttered. “He really dropped us in it. You did a good thing by getting rid of him.”
Dyce wandered over to the edge of the water and shook his head, “It didn’t feel good. Don’t get me wrong, it had to be done, and if I’d hesitated he’d have gutted me. Again.”
“I’d have thought after all he did you’d have hated him,” Byrnjolf commented, watching the back of Dyce’s head.
“I’m not very good at hating people,” Dyce said, glancing over his shoulder with a smile. It faded. “That wasn’t it, though.” He looked back at the water. “I liked him. Divines help me, I liked him.”
Brynjolf coughed around a mouthful of mead. “Don’t tell me you and he...”
“Yeah, but it wasn’t about that,” Dyce waved a hand dismissively. “Ah.” He shrugged. What had Erandur said? Be more honest. He turned and walked back to where Brynjolf was leaning against the table. “I didn’t know my parents. I don’t miss them or anything, but Mercer was the kind of bastard I imagine my father would have been.”
Mead and Sympathy M!DB/Brynjolf 1/6
Brynjolf bent over the ledger, his hands flat on the table as he stared at the inked numbers intently. He didn’t look up as Dyce strolled over, the Breton carrying a bottle of mead in each hand.
“Not now, lad. I’m busy.”
Dyce was silent for a few moments and he took a swig from one of the bottles.
“No you’re not,” he said. “Those numbers aren’t going to get any bigger just because you’re staring at them. Have a drink.” He placed the other bottle down on the ledger in front of Brynjolf’s face.
Brynjolf picked up the bottle, partly in case it spilled and made the ink run. “I’m not interested in becoming one of your conquests, lad.”
Dyce narrowed his eyes, distinctly unimpressed by that remark, but he guessed the Nord was just trying to get him to leave. Brynjolf wielded words like a blade sometimes. “That’s both cheap and beneath you, Bryn. You know it’s not like that.” He waited a few more moments. “We think you’re working too hard. Vex suggested I try and loosen you up.”
Brynjolf finally looked up at that remark, one eyebrow raised. Dyce merely shrugged and smirked. “That’s what she said.”
“Right,” Brynjolf said, straightening up from the ledger and taking a drink. “Where have you been anyway? Ever since the key business you’ve made yourself scarce.” He flicked his gaze towards the shrine to Nocturnal. “She scare you off?”
“Yeah,” Dyce said quietly and without hesitation. “It’s been a bit of a crisis of faith, if I’m honest.”
Brynjolf looked around the Cistern, but early evening was the quiet time; everyone was out drinking or working. Nevertheless he kept his voice down, moving around the table to stand next to Dyce, who was leaning on it like it was a bar.
“Really, lad? And how did you resolve it?”
Dyce fished around down the high collar of his Nightingale Armour and pulled on a chain, revealing the Amulet of Dibella that hung around his neck. “As it turned out, another lady had a prior claim.”
“As easy as that, huh?”
“To be honest it wasn’t that easy. At all.” He smiled, “I had some help.”
“What you went and saw a priest?” Brynjolf snorted.
“Yes,” Dyce said, and gave him a broad smile. “I highly recommend it.”
“That’s the trouble, isn’t it?” Brynjolf didn’t return the smile. “I never considered myself religious.”
“That’s the beauty of it though,” Dyce said. “You can’t serve against your will. Even Mercer managed to get out of it.”
Brynjolf exhaled, “Mercer. If we’re going to talk about him, I need another drink.”
“I can understand that.” Dyce took his weight off the table and carried the empty bottles back to the Flagon. When he returned he had two in each hand, to save him another trip later. Brynjolf at least hadn’t gone back to his ledgering, instead leaning he was against the table his arms folded across his chest as he stared moodily at the statue of Nocturnal.
Dyce placed two of the bottles on the table and handed one to Brynjolf.
“What a mess,” the Nord muttered. “He really dropped us in it. You did a good thing by getting rid of him.”
Dyce wandered over to the edge of the water and shook his head, “It didn’t feel good. Don’t get me wrong, it had to be done, and if I’d hesitated he’d have gutted me. Again.”
“I’d have thought after all he did you’d have hated him,” Byrnjolf commented, watching the back of Dyce’s head.
“I’m not very good at hating people,” Dyce said, glancing over his shoulder with a smile. It faded. “That wasn’t it, though.” He looked back at the water. “I liked him. Divines help me, I liked him.”
Brynjolf coughed around a mouthful of mead. “Don’t tell me you and he...”
“Yeah, but it wasn’t about that,” Dyce waved a hand dismissively. “Ah.” He shrugged. What had Erandur said? Be more honest. He turned and walked back to where Brynjolf was leaning against the table. “I didn’t know my parents. I don’t miss them or anything, but Mercer was the kind of bastard I imagine my father would have been.”