Chapter 34: 40. Catseye

Rorri

 

In between steps of his beauty routine, Rorri napped, barely scraping the edge of his dreams. The slightest disturbances woke him, from the wind’s hollow screech, to his straw mattress’s scratch, to say nothing of his anticipation. But he didn’t need much sleep, anyway. He still had plenty of Snow.

Afternoon came, and, knowing that soap would only get him so far, Rorri went out to search for a scent. Though he couldn’t afford any actual perfumes or colognes, he did stumble upon a stall full of pungent pressed oils, and he purchased a tiny bottle with a fresh, grassy aroma. The merchant called it an aphrodisiac, but that wasn’t why he bought it, of course. It matched his woodsy aesthetic, and the price was very reasonable.

He went on to peruse the market for a suitable gift. What jewelry the Wall had to offer shined only from cheap golden paint, and what scarves and bonnets he found were itchy, or ugly, or both. Knowing what perfection existed on the Plateau, Rorri couldn’t bear to present Shacia with something so tatty. He buzzed from shop to shop, each more disappointing than the last, but just as he was about to give up, something glinted in the corner of his eye.

Across the busy road, a tattered awning cast its shade over a simple wooden stand. Not a single patron loitered nearby, and even passing pedestrians seemed to give it a wide berth, though Rorri couldn’t see why. Behind the stand sat a pale young human, with copper-red hair matching Rorri’s in length and color. As their eyes met, she smiled and gently waved, neither begging nor beckoning, just acknowledging. Warm air rolled over his skin, evoking a peculiar shiver.

“Afternoon, ser,” the woman said in flawless Elvish.

“Hello,” Rorri chirped.

“Can I help you with anything?” she asked.

Polished stones and gems filled each of the stand’s compartments, sorted by colors, their Human names etched in the wood beneath. Rorri’s eyes skipped across the array. Some were marbled, others flecked, and still others were nearly transparent, each one as gorgeous as the next.

“Well, I’m trying to find a present for, erm…” He scrunched up his face, hesitating. The woman tilted her head.

“For your lady?” she suggested. Rorri looked up, unsettled, before he realized what she meant.

“S-something like that,” he said, “but we’re just f-friends, really – actually, she’s my tutor, I guess, b-but we’ve gotten pretty close over the past few months, and she bought me some nice clothes, so – sorry, I don’t know why I’m t-telling you all of this.”

“It’s alright,” the merchant said. “I’m not judging.”

“Th-that’s good…” He chewed on his lip, bouncing on his heels. “So w-what would you suggest?”

“Hm… I suppose it depends on what you’re aiming for,” she said, surveying the stones.

“What if I d-don’t really know what I’m aiming for?”

“Then just pick something you like.”

He hesitated. “But what if sh-she doesn’t like it?”

The woman shrugged. “Then maybe that’s the sign you need.”

Rorri nodded passively, still sweeping back and forth over the collection. “What’s this one called?” he finally asked, pointing at a smooth, round, periwinkle-colored stone.

“Moonstone,” she said with a sunny smile.

Rorri snorted. “Of course it is.”

“Matches your eyes,” she offered.

“It’s a bit o-obvious, though…”

He tapped his chin, considering the other stones. An oval-shaped, yellowish-green gem about the size of a Star consistently pulled his attention. It was shiny and opaque, nearly black where it was shadowed, but still gleaming as if it generated its own light.

“W-what about that one?” he pointed.

“Catseye,” she said. “In the right light, it looks like it’s got a slit down the center.”

She plucked one out of the pile and passed it to him, breaking through the awning’s shadow into the early-setting sun. It deflected the light into his eyes, forcing him to squint and look away, and when he blinked, it left an afterimage shaped like the slit she’d described, hovering everywhere he looked.

“Weird,” he mumbled, admiring the gem’s smoothness, and – once his vision cleared – its color, even more vivid in the light.

“You like that one, then?” she asked.

“I think so,” he said. “How m-much?”

“I can part with it for a penny,” she said, folding her hands neatly in her lap.

“That’s all?” He narrowed his eyes. “It’s got to be worth m-more than that.”

She shrugged. “If you want to pay more, I won’t argue.”

Rorri watched the woman warily, but nothing about her demeanor suggested ill intent. She exuded more goodwill than any merchant he’d ever met, which somehow made her all the more suspicious. Still, the gem captivated him. He dug around in his pocket for a penny, and ended up pulling out two – but he hesitated, his mind turning, as if searching for the missing piece to some inscrutable puzzle.

“Is it s-supposed to have… I don’t know, mystical p-properties, or something?” he asked.

“Well, some people think it wards off evil,” the woman mused, gazing out to where the Plateau met the sky. “Some people think it helps cure disorders of the eye. If you ask me, though…” She leaned in close, shrinking her voice to a whisper. “I just think it looks pretty.”

She winked and sat back upright. Another warm gust tickled him, drawing goosebumps from his flesh…

“A-alright, then,” he said. “I’ll take it.” He dropped the two pennies into her palm. She bowed thankfully.

“Pleasure doing business, ser,” she said, tucking the pennies away. Rorri gave an appreciative nod and started to make his way, but he stopped, tugged by one last question.

“W-where do you get all these?” he asked, turning just his ear towards her.

“I have a cousin who works in a mining company,” she answered. “They’ve been digging for Obsidian tungsten up north. Long haul, but it’s good money.”

The warm gust turned cold, like a breeze over sopping-wet skin.

“The colorful rocks weren’t part of the contract, so he brings me what he can to cut and polish. It’s amazing how many pretty things you’ll find down there.”

“I’m sure,”Rorri said, his voice wavering. Then, muttering another thank-you, he hastened his step, still clutching the Catseye in his clammy palm.

 

*******

 

Finally, Rorri arrived at the inn. His skin was bristling and hot, his lungs clear and cool, and icy bliss rippled through his limbs. His ears collected every sound, like gutters in the rain: laughter in the distance, the waterfall’s rush, a dog’s rhythmic, terrified barking…

I am not a pet dog. I am not…

…the whispers of passersby.

The moon was not quite at its apex, but it was enormous, like a giant clock imposing its time upon the world. It illuminated every crevice of every brick and the mortar between cobbled stones. It reflected in the glass windows and silvered storefront signs, bright and powerful, yet cool and tranquil… just like the Snow in Rorri’s belly.

He had just eaten his fourth flower, probably the most he’d ever taken in a day, though it wasn’t his fatigue which reminded him to eat another – his stomach’s rumbling sounded that alarm. But as long as the ‘Weather’ was right, he didn’t need to eat, and it had never been more perfect than it was that night in the Inner Ring, by the plunge pool, where the water was always clean.

The inn’s front featured double-wide, silver-trimmed doors made of ash-colored wood, a lion’s head carved into the center, bisected where the doors separated. After minutes or hours of pacing and repeating his mantra – I am not a pet dog, I am not a pet dog – Rorri decided, though it wasn’t quite midnight, it might be best if he went in a bit early, knowing how Shacia detested tardiness. He bounded to the entrance and flung the doors open.

“Oh, fuck!”

He managed to grab one’s handle to slow its momentum, but the other could not be saved. The impact shook the wall, and a chorus of gasps greeted his entry. Rorri looked up, mortified, to find a handful of human patrons gaping in stunned silence. Behind the front desk, the receptionist’s eyes simmered on him.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m s-so sorry!” Rorri tiptoed in and shut the doors behind him as delicately as possible. “They’re m-much lighter than they look – and, these hinges must be v-very well-oiled—”

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“Can I help you?” the receptionist hissed. He was an elf, lavender-skinned, with dark hair, dark eyes, and joyless, thin lips. His slate-colored vest matched the decorative pillars pretending to hold up the ceiling. A blood-red handkerchief peeked from his breast pocket, echoing the maroon paisley carpeting. Even his wire-framed spectacles reminisced of the lobby’s silver accents and glass chandelier. All told, the elf seemed to be another fixture of the building, and hardly a person at all. Rorri cleared his throat, eyes shifting about the room, and took a few hesitant steps forward.

“Y-yes, I’m – I’m s-supposed to meet someone—”

“Are you sure you’re in the right place?”

Rorri froze, shocked by the man’s derisive tenor, but he quickly melted by the blood heating his face.

“Is this the M-mouse and Lion Inn?” he asked.

“It is,” the receptionist said, raising his nose to look down on the forest elf. “We operate by reservation only—”

“And I h-have one.”

The patrons exchanged whispers as they watched the scandal unfold. The receptionist scoffed, his cold gaze lingering, as he bent to retrieve a ledger.

“Okay, then,” he said. “Your name?”

“Tipón,” Rorri declared, puffing out his chest. “It should be f-for Room 104.”

His heart pounded hard enough to rattle his slight frame, but he maintained his posture, struggling against his own urge to fidget and chew and scratch and pace. As the man’s bespectacled eyes found the line bearing Rorri’s name, his lip curled.

“Right,” he said. “Do you have identification?”

“Of course.” Rorri patted down his pockets until he found his folded-up, tattered papers from the DRP. He slid them face-up across the desk. The man’s eyes flicked between Rorri and the document, comparing the description, the fine tremor in his brow betraying his disbelief, but the document was officially stamped. He had no cause to turn Rorri away. His lavender neck flushed to deep magenta as he retrieved the key to his room.

“Enjoy your stay,” he grumbled.

“I will,” Rorri said with a smirk. He strode past the desk and plucked up his prize, ignoring the other patrons’ lingering eyes. Halfway up the only visible staircase, he realized that he had no idea where Room 104 actually was. Far too prideful to turn around and ask, he continued on as if he knew exactly what he was doing.

 

*******

 

At the end of a beige-and-white hall, Rorri stood face-to-face with a black-painted door…

 

Might be a setup…

 

A flash-flood of adrenaline shocked his chest as Bilge’s warning warbled in his mind. He closed his eyes and shook out his head—

 

…the bright, bright whites of the young guard’s eyes…

 

—but that memory taunted the space behind his eyelids. He blinked, forcefully, rapidly, to clear the image from his mind, so he could focus on the black-painted door at the end of the beige-and-white hall.

With bated breath, he checked both sides of the hall. Nobody was coming or going. Nobody could see him. He crouched down and placed his ear to the door, hearing only the violent rattling of his own heart. He rose, legs tingling, forgetting to breathe, but he stood too fast, teetered, and gripped the doorknob to steady himself.

He was being ridiculous. Of course it wasn’t a setup. Why would anyone go through all that trouble for one petty criminal? It wasn’t like he’d stolen the King’s scepter, or some ancient magical artifact – it was just drugs, and those only circulated around the Wall, anyway. If the Guard had caught him in the act, then, sure, they would have arrested him, but it had been well over a month since the warehouse heist. If they really wanted to find him, certainly, by now, they would have. He wasn’t a master thief, like the Widow. He didn’t have a nickname, or Wanted flyers posted for his capture… He obviously had nothing to worry about.

Finally, Rorri released his held breath, inserted the key, and unlocked the door to Room 104.

A faint sliver of the blue moon’s light trickled in through the part in the curtain. Rorri found the entryway candle, and, ignoring its tinderbox, snapped his fingers, lighting the wick with his thumb’s flame. The carpet sank beneath him. With a grin, he shook off his dirt-worn boots and took a few slow steps, humming gently as the floor tickled his toes.

Ornately carved wooden shelves decorated the walls, each bearing its own freshly poured, untouched candle. Rorri circled the perimeter, lighting them in sequence, until the flames’ soft glow joined together to fill the space, and a warm, floral aroma lifted from the melting wax. Wine and grapes tempted him on the table by the window, the luxurious bed in the corner patiently awaited his company, a delicate standing partition obscured the room’s darkest corner, and a small powder room hid in the wall’s barest space, its entryway covered by a curtain of sparkling beads. Rorri parted the beads and poked his head in.

A large ceramic bowl filled the tiny room, attached to a cylinder with a mysterious lever. Rorri had heard rumors of the technology before, but he’d never thought he’d be so lucky to see one – a real flushable toilet, a rare and expensive commodity, seldom accessible even to the upper class. He cocked his head to the side and backed away, as if the thing might flush itself at any moment, and turned to seek comfort in the bed.

An indigo comforter wrapped the bed like a gift, its powder-blue velvet pillows like little bows on top. Rorri spun and fell to let the bed catch him, startled and delighted as it sprang back against his weight. He bobbed gently in its warm embrace and breathed a blissful sigh… Then forced himself upright, before it was too late. Even with the Snow keeping him awake, he feared it wouldn’t be enough to fight the slumber already seducing his eyes.

As he sat up, something behind the partition tugged his attention, something he hadn’t noticed in his first cursory sweep of the room. He recognized the color and chortled to himself. Adar’s assessment of nudity and proximity might have been correct, after all. The periwinkle silk hung from a bar on the wall, waving a bashful hello.

Not a single thread deviated from its place, each stitch in perfect order. The pristine bone buttons held its front shut with dignity, and the airy, whimsical sleeves didn’t look silly at all, as he feared they might. A pair of white linen pants waited to its side, like a gentleman attendant. But as he looked over his garments, a foolish notion confronted him – a greasy, wordless voice, licking his neck and ears, whispering…

 

…you don’t deserve this…

 

…as if the fabric itself had sentience and a judgmental nature.

Rorri shivered and brushed the thought away, remembering that the clothes were tailored to his body. He ducked behind the partition to change… but the room still held one more surprise.

He stopped in his tracks and gave a double-take. The sight rattled him to his core, draining the blood from his face. His nerves hissed, and every hair stood on end, puffed out like a kitten facing a dog. There, poised against him without pity or remorse, Rorri saw an unblemished full-length mirror, reflecting his candlelit form.

“Dear god…”

Rorri had, of course, seen his reflection in ponds and glass windows, but he had never before encountered himself with such frightening clarity. It finally made sense, why so many people would stare relentlessly as he walked past, why the receptionist had accosted him as he did. His wrinkled, dull, stained, colorless, threadbare, ill-fitting clothes stuck to his body like a phantom to its killer. He didn’t belong there, surrounded by such excellence – his presence was clearly a mistake, a miscalculation – and it wasn’t just his clothes that gave him away. His bones protruded, as if seeking escape from his skin’s bondage, and he was so stiff he wondered if he might audibly creak. His ringed eyes flickered dimly, like a candle’s waning flame, despite the Snow chittering behind them, fooling them into wakefulness.

 

You look stupid!

Nobody will take you seriously, looking like that!

 

“Now is not the time,” Rorri chided himself, gritting his teeth, and the ancient memory halted in its place. He stood for a few deep breaths, turning away from the mirror. He needed to forget his own haunting image. Nothing had changed, after all. It’s how he always looked…

Wasting no more time, Rorri disrobed.

He poured himself into the pants, first; they hugged his hips without squeezing or sagging, comfortably loose in the thighs and pleasantly tight at the calves. Peeking behind into the mirror, he saw his rear in a brand new light. It looked as if it were lovingly, masterfully sculpted, created to be admired.

“Nice,” he said to his reflection.

The shirt slithered into Rorri’s hands like liquid smoke; the buttons slid through their notches easily, and as he slipped the silk over his arms, his skin fluttered deliriously, every fine hair rising. He adjusted the collar and fluffed out his hair before fastening the buttons all the way up, and when he faced the mirror, the sight drew a giggle of disbelief. The fabric laid against his body like a sheet, turning his image into one worth painting and putting on display, and his eyes really did pop, illuminating his face like stars in a late afternoon sky.

“Nice,” he repeated. He undid the top two buttons, puffed out his chest, shimmied his shoulders, flexed, spun, and preened, like some strange, colorful bird, dancing to win a mate. Shacia was right. He felt different now, as if something in his anatomy had fundamentally shifted for the better.

Rorri slung his old clothes over the bar, hung up his shoddy jacket, and moseyed towards the wine by the window. He sat and inspected each bottle, as if he knew what he was looking for, foot bouncing wildly, fingers idly tracing the labels’ edges, losing his gaze in green-skinned grapes’ shapes – but he never thought to eat one, as if they were only décor. He was too busy awaiting the arrival of the Lady.

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