Chapter 23: 26-27. Enabler // So Pretty

Bilge & Adar

 

Shortly after Rorri departed from the alley, Adar leveled Bilge with a glare.

“Why are you like this?” he hissed.

Bilge scoffed. “I don’t know what yer talkin’ abou—”

“Yes you do.” Adar shook his head, the silver wig tickling his cheeks. “After everything you’ve made him do, you can’t even tell him you’ll stick up for him if it goes to shit?”

“I haven’t made him do a damn thing,” Bilge grumbled, crossing his arms. “He’s grown, he makes his own decisions. Yer both naive if ya think any one of us wouldn’t save our own arse if it came down to it.”

“Oh, please, don’t pretend as if you haven’t been manipulating him, dangling your ‘Snow’ in front of his face.”

“I’m not danglin’ nuffin’ in front of him, I’m payin’ him an advance fer his services. Git off yer goddamned high horse, mate. S’not like I don’t partake.”

“You know it’s not the same,” Adar said through gritted teeth. “If he doesn’t have a problem yet, he’s well on his way, and if you don’t think it’s at least partially your fault, you’re delusional.”

“Look here,” Bilge whipped around and poked Adar’s chest, his face growing hot. “You’re not his mum, I’m not his pop, an’ the only one who’s responsible fer his actions is his own damn self. That goes fer anyone, mate, and you’re delusional if ya think he wouldn’ta got it wifout me, anyway. I ain’t forced a goddamned thing down his throat, you hear?”

He straightened up and turned to the road, blowing a stray lock from his eyes. “Besides, he’s, wot, six, seven times my age, yeah? Can’t tell me he ain’t should know betta.”

“How?” Adar threw his hands out. “Two-hundred and some-odd years prancing about in the forest can’t prepare anyone for… this!” He gestured around at the buildings and stonework that made up the city, the chatter of the early morning commute finally bubbling up in the distance.

“He’s barely an adult by elf standards, and even if you never forced anything down his throat, you’re still the one who’s been enabling him since the day he got here! If you care about him at all, you’ll stop romancing him with your Snow and start being his friend!”

“He’s a bloody elf, ain’t he?” Bilge spit. “Gots plenty a’ time to figur’ himself out.”

“Not if his heart gives out first!”

Bilge huffed and opened his mouth as if to argue again, but stopped short, his jaw pulsing.

“We’re wastin’ time,” he grunted. “Let’s just git it done.”

“…Alright,” Adar conceded with a sigh. He rotated his shoulders and stretched his arms, then his back, then his sides and his chest, bones popping and crunching into place. A pallor overcame Bilge’s face as he watched the silver elf warm up.

“Don’t hit me too hard, mate,” he said with a slight quiver in his voice.

“I know,” Adar said, cracking his knuckles, then his neck.

Bilge chuckled nervously. “Seriously, though, this—” he made a circular gesture towards his face—“This is the money-maker, ay? Cripple the money-maker an’ we’re outta business.”

“You say that like you’re a sex worker,” Adar observed as he bent down to stretch his thigh, his skirt tightening around his knee.

“...’At’s not wot I meant,” Bilge grumbled. “Not like there’s anyfin’ wrong wit – Look, I’m a dazzler, ay? How else d’ya think I got so many ‘friends’?”

Adar stood upright and looked off pensively into the distance. “I honestly never put much thought into it,” he replied, then bent to stretch his other leg. “I figured it had something to do with how you used to be—”

“Shhh!”

“Right, right, sorry.” Adar rolled his neck and shook out his arms, then hopped in place, switching his feet. Bilge rubbed his forehead, muttering an incoherent string of obscenities.

“Jus’ – goddammit, let’s jus’ do the thing.”

Adar raised his fists, elbows tucked, and shifted one foot forward, bending slightly at the knee. “Ready when you are,” he said, ducking his head like a boxer.

Bilge loudly cleared his throat, tensing his abdomen, and inhaled deeply. With the full strength of his diaphragm, he projected a shout that would have impressed the most critical opera-goer:

“STOP! THIEF!”

Adar reared his elbow back, twisted his wrist, and launched his fist into the human’s face. A loud CRACK followed as Bilge’s nose gave way to the silver elf’s knuckles. He stumbled backwards, clutching his face, doubled over in pain, blood gushing from between his fingers, staining the ground and his fine gray peacoat. Adar covered his mouth, eyes wide and round.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry—”

“Go!” Bilge gurgled. Adar hesitated, then dashed out into the main road, holding his bonnet tightly to his head so as not to lose it or the wig to the wind. Bilge staggered out after him, cursing with what breath he had.

“Help! Guards, help!” he yelled, feebly spinning about. Footsteps and jingling chain fast approached. As the Guardsmen slowed to a stop around, Bilge dropped to one knee, overcome by dizziness. One of the guards knelt beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Which way’d he go, ser?”

Bilge shrugged her hand away and grunted, but his words caught in his throat, choked up by a blood clot. He spit it up and pointed a shaky finger down Barker Street, away from the warehouse.

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“Figgs, Hedge, catch up to the thief,” the guard ordered. “Fisher, go notify the sergeant, and find a medic for this one, in that order.”

“Yesser!” the three said in unison, then dispersed.

The guard gave Bilge a handkerchief. He pressed it to his nose, its color quickly turning from off-white to bright-red.

“Right then,” she said, procuring a small pad and a pen from her belt. “Tell me what the thief looked like.”

“Ugh…” Bilge winced through the ringing in his ears, his head throbbing with every syllable. “Wh… white bonnet… flowery… smock…”

The guard glanced up from the pad, tension reaching her eyes.

“Tan skin, human…?” she prompted. Bilge nodded, checking over her shoulder to see if there was anyone else coming through the complex gate.

“Oh my god…” Bilge widened his eyes and parted his quivering lips, feigning a look of revelation. He took in a deep breath, reared his head back, and with all the same fervor as before, released a mighty shout:

“IT’S THE WIDOW!”

The guard jumped at the outburst, dropping her pen.

“O-or a copycat,” she stammered. “I don’t want you getting too worked up, ser—”

“Oh, piss off, tellin’ me not t’get worked up!” Bilge barked. “The bitch stole my keys, decked me in the face, and now she’s gettin’ away ‘cause you useless pricks couldn’t protect a fish from a bloody pelican! It’s no wonder the city’s goin’ to shit!”

“Ser, I want to help you, but you’ll have to stay calm—”

“I said piss off!” Bilge spat, hobbling to his feet. “I’ll – I’ll jus’ get’r myself!”

“Ser, please—”

Bilge went to shove her away, but his knees buckled, and he fell to the ground, unleashing a slew of curses that reddened the guard’s face. Eventually, he quieted, too exhausted to continue. The guard knelt down, careful not to touch him.

“Alright, then…” She cleared her throat and picked up the pen, hand trembling. “What’s your name, ser?”

“…Reginald,” Bilge groaned, closing his eyes.

“Okay, Reginald. Do you own a unit out here?”

Bilge did not respond.

“…Ser?” The guard nudged him, but he stayed quiet and motionless. It seemed about the right time to pretend to lose consciousness, though he wished through the pain that he might be so lucky as to actually lose consciousness, at least until the bleeding stopped.

 

Pak

(Grandmother’s House)

 

I know I shouldn’t, but I reach inside the box.

I find a strip of sage-green linen, finely stitched all around its edges. The ends are crinkled, like they were tied in a knot. Underneath it, my hand meets something small and smooth – a red disc, covered in a fine film of dust, with a tiny bird carved in its center. I blow the dust away. Ancient fingerprints stain its edge.

A high-pitched whine penetrates my thoughts, like a threaded needle. I drop the red bird and cover my ears. The noise dims, but remains as an echo, deep in the folds of my mind. I want to leave, but I can’t. The heartbeat thunders in my head.

 

BA-DUM BA-DUM BA-DUM BA-DUM

 

I blink. I don’t remember moving, but the fluffy white carpet is sprawled beneath me now. In my lap rests something heavy, loosely swaddled in black satin. How did I get here?

The fabric slips to the side. My stomach churns.

A thin, greenish-silver stripe spirals the length of the smooth, dark wooden handle. It snakes around the hole in its center and feeds into the blade like the veins in my arm. Its gently curved, razor-thin edge is nearly flawless, but for its lightly blackened tip, as if barely kissed by fire. My tingling, trembling hands can hardly hold it up. It quivers and rings in my ears.

It’s beautiful…

Why do I feel so sick…?

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