Chapter 38: 44-45. The Morning After // Unraveling

Rorri

 

“Shit!”

The bed jostled violently, startling Rorri awake.

“Shit shit shit shit shit!”

The curtain parted, revealing the sun’s harsh, judgmental light. Its fire seared into his skull. He lifted his arm to block it out and forced his eyelids open.

Shacia zipped across the room and back, frantic, cursing, searching. She hastily pulled on her shirt, her pants, stepped into her shoes and stumbled.

“What—?”

“I’m late – goddammit!”

Rorri propped himself up on his elbows. The world still spun. His heart still raced. He was barely a vapor of consciousness, a ghost occupying a skeleton. She flew out the door, slamming it shut behind her. He knew she didn’t mean to slam it – there was no force behind her movement, only speed – but the sound still speared his ears, sending a shock through his head, ringing and buzzing for seconds after, though it felt like minutes, then hours, then eons.

The door swung back open, mercifully caught before meeting the wall.

“Sorry! I’m sorry!”

He could only see half of her poking in from the hallway, reaching for something on the floor.

“I forgot my umbrella—”

“Wait – can we just—?”

She stopped and craned her neck, facing him for the first time that morning. Her disheveled mess of hair reached out, as if she’d been struck by lightning, and tears mottled her ringed, red eyes. She looked sick, cold, clammy, hungover…

“I just…”

Rorri faltered and choked. He parted his lips, desperate to speak, but… what could he say?

“I’m so sorry,” she squeaked, putting on a small smile, like paint on a porcelain doll. “I have to go… We’ll talk later, okay?”

Then, she fled from the room, umbrella in hand, and gently shut the door, as Rorri spun – naked, shivering, and alone – in the comfortable bed.

 

*******

 

“Your husband already paid, ser.”

The same receptionist from the previous night eyed Rorri as he descended the stairs. He paused, blinked, and stared at the lavender elf, puzzled, and somewhat annoyed. The receptionist looked away, a glimmer of fear flickering across his face.

“I didn’t mean to assume,” he mumbled.

Rorri stood still for a few seconds as the space between his ears churned and groaned, sputtered and stopped. Eventually, he grumbled a thank you and shuffled out the ornate double doors, his old clothes slung limply over his arm, his fine pants tucked into his dirty boots, his ragged coat covering the periwinkle shirt.

As he emerged from the inn’s shade, the sun’s onslaught once again cut him down. A sludgy pool frothed in his stomach. He grunted, shielded his eyes, and lurched away as quickly as he could, resolved that, if he were to vomit, he would at least have the decency to do so in an alley.

Halfway home, his body sputtered. What was left of the Snow had melted, a heavy puddle in his feet. The street’s noisy slurry stuck to his ears, like flies to a filthy cow. If there was only one thing to be counted as a blessing, it was that he did not see the others stare as he passed – his eyes would not budge from the dirt – and their cruel whispers blended into the slurry, sparing him the details of their pity and disgust.

 

Pak

(The City)

 

Kano blossoms into his body. His human blood hastens the process. I’ll always look too young, even when I finally bud into mine. Grandmother cut my hair as a child. She never gave me a choice.

The ones that snickered and jeered before now giggle and blush as he passes. The ones that used to pin him to the ground now sidle up to him and smile. He’s never been a fighter, but he’s not dumb enough to forget. He’s scared that they’re trying to trick him. He doesn’t see how beautiful he’s become.

 

*******

You are reading story The Thief’s Folly (Book One of the Bloodlines Duet) at novel35.com

 

One day, we slip through the crack in the wall and never return. It’s that simple.

I steal to survive. Cabbage distracts for me, and always gets his pick of the harvest. I am small and light on my feet, short and faceless in a crowd, easy to miss, as long as I cover my skin. Kano doesn’t need to be missed. His red hair obscures his pointed ears, and his skin tans well, loses its yellowish hue, looks a little more human with every day he spends in the sun. People give him money just for sitting on the street. He talks, and everyone loves him. If he starts his morning with an empty can, it’s full by the end of the day. He always splits his coin with me. I share what I have to share, but it’s never enough. He never asks for more. He never asks for anything. We occupy the same alleys and hovels, taking turns sleeping, taking turns keeping watch. When it’s cold, he’ll rent a room in an inn, and he always makes sure there’s a window for me to crawl through. He wants me to be warm and safe. He never thinks twice about it.

Something about him constantly squeezes my heart. I wish I could tell him…

 

*******

 

He practices music on the little stringed instrument I stole for him so long ago. He sings beautifully, soothing or exciting at his discretion. I pretend it annoys me, and sometimes it really does, but he keeps practicing. After a while, I have trouble falling asleep to anything but his voice. I never tell him that.

He performs in taverns, earning his name, until everyone in the district knows him. I listen through floorboards when I stay in his rented rooms, but I never get to watch. He tells me to come anyway, just cover my skin and wear a hood, but a hooded figure in a bar is sure to attract attention. At best, my presence would spoil the atmosphere. At worst, it would get us both killed.

Eventually he rents a small house and turns it into his own. It’s not far from the school, in one of the neighborhoods where he used to know the Weathermen, where I used to hide in the shadows, his silent protector. In the back of the house, he blocks a closet door with a bookshelf and carves out a secret entrance just for me. He furnishes my space, and gives me comforts I couldn’t come by alone.

The feeling gets stronger every day. I should just tell him…

 

*******

 

I’m alone more often than not. Kano has other things to do.

I read, practice rituals, and strengthen my body, just in case. It’s been a long time since I’ve faced down an enemy. The closest thing to a threat here are the people he brings home, but they’re too busy moaning and shaking the walls to concern themselves over me.

We still eat together sometimes, and he regales me with tales of city life. He’s the chatty one, I’m the brooding one, as it has always been, but he doesn’t prod me with stupid questions anymore. Instead, he makes suggestions. He suggests I find myself a woman, or a man, or whatever I like. Maybe someday, I say. He suggests I put together a magic act, perform in the street with him. Illusions are simple, he says. Just takes a little practice. I’ll think about it…

Maybe I’ll be okay out there, he says. The city is a big place, with all sorts of people, every color under the sun. He gets by just fine, and people don’t like half-humans, either. When I ask if he’s ever seen someone like me, he doesn’t say anything. He just shakes his head and looks away. But a little bit later, his eyes light up, and he suggests I disguise myself with forbidden magic. I could make my skin look shimmery, silver, and it wouldn’t be that hard to maintain…

I’m a coward. I can’t bring myself to tell him. The feeling still clings to me. My heart still skips when I see him, no matter how badly I want it to stop. He sticks to my mind like sweat to my skin. He lingers like smoke on my breath.

Just tell him. Just tell him. Just tell him…

I never say a thing.

 

*******

 

When it’s dark and quiet, I sneak away. The city offers so many ways to pass the time. Cabbage helps me get into the library after hours. He disappears into his dimension, reappears inside, and nudges open a window. I always return the books. The parks in the inner ring sparkle, with flowers and fountains and trails to walk. I’m careful not to get too close to the residential areas, and Cabbage always scouts for the Guard, but it’s dangerous for me anyway. I don’t spend much time there. Even under the best conditions, it sets me on edge. Still, it’s nice to see pretty things, sometimes, and I would imagine it’s lovely to walk through with someone important at your side.

I often scale the fence where the dogs are housed in cages. I speak with them, without the ritual, and I name them all in my head. If one isn’t there when I come back, I tell myself that they must have found someone important, someone to walk with in the park.

Sometimes I go to our old iron bench, the one by the algae-filled pond. I rock back and forth and search for hidden pictures in the water, in the grass, in the dirt…

It passes the time.

 

*******

 

I don’t know how many years go by, how many years I ignore the stinging in my chest. The rope which binds me to my only friend is unraveling. It’s just a thread cutting into my skin.

 

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