Blood & Shadows

Twenty-Four

Am I really so transparent? I watch the barman carefully. I cross my legs as I perch on the stool and watch as he fills a much-worn goblet with wine. Spices waft off it, tickling my nose. I can already taste the cinnamon and clove dancing on my tongue. One thing I don't hate about snowtide is the wine.

"Fine, I want an elf." With a shrug I take the wine and nurse the goblet, the barman tilts his head in a little bow, his eyes sweep over the gathered crowd.

"There's Damthien," he nods in the direction of a handsome, brown-haired elf with a strong build and broad shoulders. He has the elven height but is built like a mountain of muscle, his arms nearly as thick around as my waist. "Or if you prefer the feminine, we have Saratha, they say to take her to bed is to lay with Inara made flesh."

Pretty though they may be, neither moves me particularly in any way. Perhaps Razeth did well and truly broke me, and now that I have my memories back, that sort of empty carnal recreation is dead to me. The thought of never again being able to feel bliss in a lover's arms draws a heavy sigh from my lips, long and loud. After I down my freshly refilled goblet, I crook a finger around a curl. I suppose it doesn't matter. Of every man and woman the whole of Nathlan over there is only one I want to occupy my bed and I doubt I'll ever see him again.

"Any others?" I look around the common room, and my eyes instantly settle on a red-haired man in a dark red robe. I can only see him from the back but one glance and my whole-body tenses. All sound turns muted and faint, like I'm underwater.

No comprehensible sound reaches me as the barman's lips move. There's no looking away from the red-haired man.

"This-was-a-mistake," it comes out as one blur of speech as I toss another gold coin on the bar and dash out the door into the freezing, snowy night.

Out of the brothel and on the street, away from that red-haired man, sound returns to me. The chill of the night air is welcome as I shut my eyes and let it bathe me. That faint murmur of the streets is near silent. It's so late, and mixed with the wealth, only a fool would be out walking through the snow.

As I wrap my arms around myself, I can't help but feel a little like Orys jumping at shadows as I see a tall man in a dark hood approaching me. They walk like Vrythien, each step a careful dance through the snow that piques ones interest.

My heart doesn't beat as I become close enough to see into the man's hood and I spy Vrythien's mouth. Both our feet stop, and as the wind swirls around we find ourselves the only two who dare walk the streets. He swallows and I take a half step forward before stopping.

Locked in hesitation we stand staring but unable to move. There's space between us now, so much unwanted space. Razeth and Ezrath have both unmade the halo of us. Though if I'm entirely truthful, my own hand also carries the stain of the guilt of ending us. Had I a different reaction to what he did to Orys and my father perhaps he never would have returned to Ezrath. It's my fault he suffers, and my penance is that there's more than a stride between us when there shouldn't be any space at all.

"Are you sleeping any better?" he breaks the silence, letting his hood fall back. Breathtakingly beautiful as always, there's a new pallor to him, and darkly, bruised circles sit under his eyes. He doesn't look well the last few weeks have been difficult.

"No, I'm afraid not. How are you fairing? Is your master treating you well?" It's empty and pointless I can see his face and know the answer.

"No, decidedly not, Darling," his tone is light and playful but hunger is plain in his eyes--and pain. His hands tremble at his sides, so very unlike him. There could be so many reasons for it, I can't even begin to speculate.