Chapter 8: 9-10. Stars // The Half-Demon Child

Rorri

 

The next morning, the three men met at the Bloodkith Brewery, a small, homey pub, dimly lit and mostly empty except for a handful of human patrons playing cards.

“She’s asking why it’s wet,” Adar whispered.

The elves sat at a plain booth, and Bilge leaned over the bar, quietly bickering with the woman called Balifra. She stood easily a head over him, stern-faced and imposing, her sleeveless cloth tunic showcasing her strong, girthy arms.

“’Azahd of the job,” Adar mumbled with his jaw slacked, mimicking their housemate’s accent. Rorri stifled a snicker and stole a glance at the humans. As much as Bilge tried to inflate himself, he looked tiny at Balifra’s side.

Adar hummed, brow furrowed.

“What is it?” Rorri asked.

“She’s saying it’s going to knock off some of the reward.”

“Seriously? Because it’s wet?”

“And salty, I guess.” Adar shrugged, leaning back into the booth.

Rorri sighed, dropping his arms into his seat. “How much, then?”

“They’re still working it out.” Adar turned towards the humans – then, as if remembering something important, flicked his eyes back to Rorri. “What do you know about currency, anyway?”

Rorri folded his hands behind his head and glanced up at the ceiling. “Well,” he said with a sigh, “not much, except that, from what I’ve gathered, more of it is better, and you’ll die without it.”

Adar crossed his arms, face screwed into an inscrutable frown. “That’s about the long and short of it, yes,” he said.

A bar stool dragged against the wooden floor, halting the elves’ conversation. Bilge approached with a modest jingle in his pocket, and deep, dejected scowl.

“Let’s go,” he grumbled, passing them without slowing.

As they made their way out, Rorri felt the uncomfortable tug of eyes on him. He turned, scattering the human patrons’ stares, but the pressure they imparted still squeezed his neck. He hurried out into the sunny street and sidled up to Adar like a duckling seeking its mother.

“What was that all about?” he asked, tossing a glance back to the tavern.

Adar followed Rorri’s gaze. “Hm?”

“The people in there were staring at us,” he half-whispered. “Should we be worried?”

“Oh, I see,” Adar said, setting a steady pace. “I suppose there aren’t many humans in Belethlian, then.”

“Well, no, there aren’t any, as far as I know,” Rorri said, keeping at Adar’s side.

“Humans and elves have a… complicated relationship,” Adar explained. “I mean, besides all the political nonsense, wouldn’t it be weird to have a friend who stays young forever, while you get all wrinkly and weak?”

“It does sound a bit weird.”

“It’s just strange to see humans and elves together,” Adar said. “It works both ways, though. Feels weird having a friend who you’re pretty much guaranteed to outlive. I try not to think about it with him.” He nodded ahead at Bilge’s stocky silhouette. Rorri stayed quiet, his eyes skipping across the beggars in the street.

“At his age, you and I would still be toddling,” Adar mused.

“What?” Rorri said, squinting in disbelief. “Are you serious?”

Adar nodded. “They’ve got a hundred years, maximum,” he said. “That’s why they’re always having babies, I think.”

“I had no idea.”

“To them, spending thirty years as a toddler is unimaginable,” Adar continued. “A thirty-year-old human is like a three-hundred-year-old elf. Their hair grows really fast, too, so you can’t tell their age from it. They cut it all the time. Best way to guess is by how wrinkly they are. Just don’t ask them directly. They get really defensive. I figured that out the hard way.”

Rorri snorted. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, digging his hands deep into his pockets.

“Hurry up, ay!” Bilge spun and shouted from nearly a block ahead, but he stumbled into another pedestrian, who promptly smacked him with their purse.

 

*******

 

Rorri and Adar found Bilge at their shoddy kitchen table, shuffling coins into piles of matching size and counting under his breath.

“How’s it look?” Rorri asked, eyeing Bilge’s pocket.

“Thir’y pennies, thir’y dimes,” Bilge mumbled, scratching his neck.

“Ten each, then?”

“Ten, yeah,” Bilge said, his voice trailing off, gaze drifting to the table’s center. A moment passed – then, eyes suddenly clearing, he shot a glare at Rorri. “Coulda been double,” he growled as he separated the coins into three smaller stacks.

“Could’ve been nothing,” Rorri retorted.

“Put wot’s fer Trisman in the thing, here,” Bilge grunted, gesturing at a jar wedged into the corner. Rorri glanced between his housemates, unsure whether he should know what a ‘Trisman’ was.

“He’s the tax collector,” Adar clarified. “It’s a dime each for the month. He’ll probably be stopping by tomorrow.”

“I use’ta live in this district, ‘fore you go askin’ how I know ‘im,” Bilge said, bristling.

“What? Why would I—”

“Stop bickering,” Adar said, looking pointedly at Bilge. “Rorri’s new here. He has a right to ask questions about the place.”

Bilge rolled his eyes. “I gots work t’do…” he said, gathering up his coins. He brushed past Rorri with an annoyed grunt, then disappeared wordlessly around the corner.

“What an ass,” Rorri muttered, scooting into the still-warm seat. “Is he always like this?”

Adar sighed. “Some days are worse than others. He’s probably got a hangover.”

Rorri leaned forward and plucked up a copper-colored coin, peering closely at the tiny image embossed on one side of a proud human woman’s face. The other side bore a five-petaled flower. The silver-colored coin had the same woman’s face, its other side depicting a generic deciduous tree.

“Do you have a little satchel or something I could put this all in?” he asked.

Adar sat opposite Rorri with his chin in his palm, arranging his coins into a smiley face. “You lifted something off him, didn’t you?” he asked.

“What?” Rorri leaned back and crossed his arms. “I said I don’t know how to pick pockets. Why would you think—”

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“You’re a terrible liar,” Adar said. “But he always skims off the top, so I’m sure he won’t say anything. That’d be tantamount to admitting he’s a cheat.”

Rorri paused with a fleeting smirk. “You’ve worked together before, then?”

“Mhm. Hang on, I think I’ve got a pouch somewhere.”

Adar shuffled to his room. While he waited, Rorri pushed his own treasure into a sad face, but he scattered it as soon as he heard his housemate’s footsteps coming back up the hall.

“Thank you,” Rorri said as Adar dropped a plain drawstring sack into his palm. He scooped the coins into the bag, enjoying the gentle clinkalink they made as they fell over each other. From his pocket, he fished out the bounty he’d stolen from Bilge: a single coin, heavier and shinier than the rest. Its bright, silvery outer ring fused with its dark, slate-colored interior in sharp contrast, and its face was minted with the King’s visage, with Human runes beneath it that Rorri couldn’t read. A simple eight-pointed starburst on its opposite side glittered in the natural light. Though Rorri knew nothing about Iridan’s currency, this coin was clearly worth more than the rest.

“Oh!” Adar’s eyes widened. “Looks like he was holding out quite a bit, this time.”

Rorri turned the coin over. “How much is ‘quite a bit’?”

Adar puffed out his lips. “I… am… terrible at math,” he said.

“Well, what’s it called?”

“It’s a Star… You didn’t happen to grab another one of those off him, did you?”

Rorri flipped the coin off his thumb, caught it in the air, and slapped it onto the back of his hand, revealing the King’s face. “Nope,” he said, then dropped the Star into his pouch. “I’ve got some shopping to do.”

“Need a translator?” Adar offered.

“I think I’ll be alright. Anything you want me to pick up?”

Adar sat still, looking deeply contemplative. “Soap,” he said finally, locking eyes with Rorri.

Rorri laughed. “I think we could all use some of that after yesterday.”

“Yes,” Adar agreed. “You absolutely reek of fish.”

 

Pak

(Grandmother’s House)

 

Grandmother opens the door to my room. I shrink away from the light. She sets a candle on the small wooden table, sets a bowl of dirt-smelling soup in front of me, then takes her place in her chair, cradling her dinner. Steam snakes from her bowl, dancing in the light.

“I’m going to eat with you today.”

Her scratchy voice scrapes my ears, and her eyes stick to my skin.

“Eat,” she commands, pointing at my cold soup. I jolt to obedience and slurp it straight from the bowl. Its sour flavor clings to my tongue.

“Did you know that your father was a demon?” she says, idly stirring her stew. I look away. My eyes feel heavy.

“That’s right. Straight from the bowels of the Obsidian.” She brings a spoonful to her lips and takes a bite, then speaks with food in her mouth.

“Can you say that, Pak? Demon.”

A bit of meat lands on her skirt. She stops chewing and stares at me.

“Say it.”

“Demon…”

“Good boy!”

My heart quivers. She inhales another spoonful. A lengthy silence passes, broken only by Grandmother’s chewing. I gently sway in place.

“Do you want to know what he did?”

I say nothing. She looks away and makes a strange face: eyebrows pulled all the way up, lips pulled all the way in. I shut my eyes.

“Look at me.”

I obey with a twitch.

“He forced your mother to have a baby.”

I bite my lip, suppressing a whimper. My heart thumps in my ears.

“You’re the baby,” she whispers.

Her eyelids part slightly. In this light, and at this angle, it seems almost as though there is nothing behind them.

She shoots upright, the chair screeching against the splintered wood floor. I duck and cover my head. She crouches in front of me, hovering inches from my face.

“Look at me.”

Her icy fingers clutch my cheeks and force my head up. I peel my eyes open.

“You’re half-demon, child.”

Her breath heats my nose with the stink of pork stew.

“You’re an abomination.”

Dark wet streaks converge at the bottom of her chin. For a long time, she just watches me. My gaze seeks refuge in the groove beneath her nose. She presses her salty, wet lips on my forehead. My mind whines, like a dog in a corner, scolded by its master and smothered with guilt:

 

I’m sorry…

 

Finally, she releases me. I scramble away. She stands up, turns around and kicks the table, sending it crashing into the wall. The bowl shatters, soup and shrapnel slung in all directions, and the candle hisses, extinguished in the broth. She disappears through the door and slams it shut, submerging my room in darkness.

 

When it is safe, I wipe her wet kiss from my forehead.

When it is safe, I whimper.

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