Ephemera:
The Stirrings of the Envious
“'Unexpected' is the word of the thoughtless. To walk, without knowing where, and assume what one will find – what else is there to be, but something unexpected! Those who are wise should never set expectations; for, if one anticipates only that one does not know, one shall never be surprised.”
It was hard to decide if it were triumph of alcohol, or adaptability, that Azrael thought of the trip as almost pleasant.
There was no good reason for it. His companion was irritating and overeager, complaining often of boredom, and forever trying to divert them off the road to investigate odd curiosities. By the third time she'd went about convincing him that they should explore she thought she saw off the road, “just 'cause”, he'd learned to shake his head and keep walking.
But Azrael found that when he didn't try taking Bailey seriously, she was much less annoying. He quickly learned to be evasive about discussing his own life. Overall, he was able to avoid her uncomfortable inquisitions; however, there were moments where he had no choice.
It was lunchtime on the second day of travel. At Azrael's insistence, they'd taken their meal while walking. The casual meal irked Bailey, who punished him by demanding his participation in the running narration of her life. At some point after he'd turned her from an inquest about his upbringing, she exclaimed, “D'ya know, I don't even know what'cha do for a livin'!”
Azrael kept his expression stonily relaxed, and replied flatly, “That would be because I've never told you.”
Bailey put on a strange, alien pout. Her wild interpretation required her to screw up her eyes and stick out her lips, then slowly lean in with this odd, squished expression. “You don't wanna tell me?” she simpered.
“... Is that face supposed to make me take you seriously?” Azrael questioned, knowing even as he spoke that he'd regret saying anything. Her face went blank, then lit up bright red. Laughing weakly, he distracted her from any plans for revenge by rushing ahead with an answer, “If you have to know, I work in alchemy.”
He had succeeded in pulling her thoughts away from payback, but only to get an astonished exclamation - “Like what th' sorcerers do?!”
Azrael winced in sympathetic shame. Bailey's ignorance had never been cute, and somehow, she seemed to instinctively leap in ways to seem even duller. She was so earnest, awestruck even - watching him as if she expected his reply to be to wave his hand and summon a hailstorm.
“No,” Azrael shook his head. “Sorcerers don't exist. Alchemy is a science and a philosophy.” Bailey seemed uncertain, so he amended, “That is to say, a way of thinking. An alchemist's job is to produce change, and to change minds.”
“Sounds... not so great,” Bailey answered, pursing her lips. “That's the sorta stuff that the Good Father says turns people from the Heralds. Yer not a heathen, are ya?”
Hesitating, Azrael wasn't sure how he could explain any difference to the ignorant girl; particularly, he wasn't sure what the consequences would be if he failed. He decided to answer only simply, and carefully: “Each find the Kingdom in their own way. Differing philosophies can lead to the same place.”
“An' that place is with th' Heralds, right?” Bailey pressed him.
“The Heralds, the Magnium, and the blessings of the First Kingdom,” Azrael agreed dutifully. This answer reassured the girl, nodding her firm approval. He sighed in turn, relieved. “You're devout, are you?”
“A'course I am!” Taking affront that Azrael might have suggested she was the smallest bit faithless, Bailey jutted out her lips and glared. “I read all the stories an' everythin', just like all good folk ought!”
“I mean to say, you're exceptionally devout,” he clarified. This seemed to please Bailey better, blushing rosily. Azrael paused, wondering if he should distance himself from the compliment in case she should think he was flirting. But she didn't chase the conversation further, so no harm done.
They continued on. Bailey hummed a happy, wandering tune that didn't seem to know where it was headed. Azrael thought little of it, other than that it was less distracting than her chatter; his attention was focused ahead, catching glimpse of an upcoming cross-road. He anticipated it would be a day or so more to reach the city, but a signpost might give them the precise distance remaining. He craned his neck, trying to catch a look into the intersection--
Men standing guard at the crossings? Azrael stopped in his tracks. There wasn't much time to act; let alone for explanation. He and Bailey both had to be off the road before they were spotted; else, there would be no escaping without pursuit, and no reaching Deleain without suspicion.
Azrael grabbed Bailey's wrist forcefully, and startled, she turned to question him – then, with a surge of strength he was surprised to find he still had, Azrael pulled her straight off the road with him. Bailey made little noise, too stunned to squawk the way he'd feared she would.
Skirting around a bush, the pair took cover among the trees. Azrael ducked. Bailey was slow to follow, but a tug on her arm brought her crouching beside him. “What's goin' on?” she squeaked, eyes round and alarmed.
“They might not like to see me,” Azrael answered – then, seeing the way Bailey's eyes grew even wider, impossibly huge on her narrow face, he added, “or at least, if they knew I was here.”
“What did you do?” Bailey gasped, reclaiming her wrist from him with a frightened yank.
“Tax evasion,” he invented, trying to peek out and see if they'd been spotted – then, realizing that Bailey was staring dumbly at him, he forced a small, embarrassed smile. “Not really evasion, just misunderstanding. They think I owe them money, but I don't. It's all silly, they wanted to charge me twice for import taxes. Everyone tells me that I should just pay what they say I owe them, but they wouldn't be so eager if it were their money, would they?”
Bailey was dubious. It was hard to tell if her reluctance was based on the crime he'd created for himself, or disbelief of his story. One was innocent, but the other....
“... I s'pose so,” she answered at last, buying into his fabrication.
“But try talking that sort of sense into them!” Azrael stole another look out toward the road. They'd gone unnoticed. Lucky; now he had to sneak the both of them past....
“I thought changin' minds was what alchemists did?” Bailey's bland stupidity forced a scornful stare form him. But the village girl had a saccharine smile, and she giggled at his cross face. “I'm kiddin' with ya, geez!”
Azrael was not amused. “We'll have to get around them,” he grumbled flatly.
“Y'mean, you'll have to get 'round 'em,” Bailey pointed out. “I can just walk on through, can't I?”
Azrael instantly disliked the notion. The men were sure to ask questions if Bailey met them: Where did you come from? Are you traveling alone? Have you seen a man with white hair, who killed the Baron Lucas of Riviem? Such an exchange would not end well.
“... You could, but I think that it would be...” he stalled, grasping for a viable excuse to keep her with him. The girl had a look of impatience that balked him; there was no way that he could persuade an obstinate Bailey with flimsy logic, so how was he supposed to keep her from leaving? Damn it, the one time he didn't want to be rid of her...!
An idea struck, glorious in its perfection. “Hm. Well, on second thought, never mind. It would be easier, wouldn't it? In fact, you should!”
“Oh, really?” Bailey asked, eying him uncertainly.
“Absolutely,” he assured her. “You can go that way, and I'll just... catch up?”
“... You're actin' pretty funny 'bout it. Y'aren't tryin' to split ways with me, are ya?” Measuredly, Azrael didn't answer, but just looked away. Bailey gasped. “You damned cad! You were, weren't ya?!” Furious, she gave him a solid thwack on the arm – the right-sided one this time, thankfully.
“No, no – but I can't go that way, you see?” Azrael winced, rubbing at his new bruise. “So we have to split up, just for a bit--”
“My ass we will!” She snapped, huffing. “I'm stickin' to ya like sap, y'got that?”
“F... fine, just keep quiet!” Azrael responded, honestly alarmed by the girl's volume. Grimacing as he caught a sentry glancing their way, he pulled back around the trunk. “Come on, we'd better get moving. Quietly, all right?”
Rising from his crouch, he began leading through the underbrush, stepping softly. Bailey followed blithely, doing her poor best not to make noise. Azrael endeavored to lead them far, far away from where the guards were before continuing in the direction of Deleain.
The detour took hours out of their day. Lost time was troubling enough, but it was made worse when Bailey began complaining about the uneven ground they forged over. Quickly, the journey became just as annoying as Azrael had envisioned. A few swallows of brandy took the edge off his irritation; a few swallows more, and he could almost imagine that Bailey wasn't walking with him, just near him. The delusion lasted him until they found a road again, and could continue on comfortably.
They were forced to set camp one more time, passing the night a safe distance inside the forest and polishing off their meager food supplies. Starting back on the road early, they reached the city in the afternoon. The gates of the city were observed only by a single gatekeeper, who seemed inattentive to his duties. The guard stared off, daydreaming, as Azrael and Bailey passed into Deleain.
Azrael had come through Deleain once before, a great many years ago when he'd first been recruited into the Couriers. He knew it to be a sizable city; not so large as Riviem, but nonetheless significant. Its walls were built high, visible above the treetops for miles. It sat on a major eastern highway, the infamous 'Gravewalk' that had been embattled during the war. After Vellais' expulsion from the kingdom, the battlegrounds had been lined with grave markers, most of which still stood. In peaceful times, the road was an expedient trade route; also, a bandit haven, upholding the thoroughfare's bloody history in exciting new ways.
The city hadn't much changed from his memory. It took them half an hour to locate a traveler's inn. The building of the Three Goodfellow's Inn was a remarkably large one, run by the families of two of its founders. As the shopkeep's son had told Bailey while they'd chatted incessantly at the front desk, business was slow; Deleain was in an economic slump. Which was likely the reason why when asked the price of a private room, he gave the exorbitant price of two heads a night. Bailey gasped and fretted over the price, but Azrael assured her that it was a necessary cost. Begrudgingly, she'd forked over the payment for their first night, and the innkeeper's son had lead them eagerly up the staircase in the commons room, and showed them into the fourth room along the wall.
“Thank you,” Azrael said, his curt nod suggesting that the boy could leave. Once the innkeeper's son had left, he took a gander at their accommodations, and was pleasantly surprised by the quality of their room. It was well-heated by a small fireplace, and a curtained window provided daytime light. A large wooden-framed bed with a stuffed-straw mattress dominated the floorspace, but the room also boasted a chair, table, and a dresser to store their things.
Seeing the dresser as well, Bailey made a beeline to unload her baggage. “Hold on,” Azrael stopped her as she was opening the drawer, “that's not the best of ideas.”
“'Scuse me?” she frowned.
“I mean, it's not safe,” Azrael explained, setting his blanket and bottle onto the table. “The door doesn't have a lock; ergo, you don't store your things here. Not unless you're comfortable with someone else coming into ownership of them, anyway.”
“Aren't y'bein' a bit mistrustful?” Bailey asked him, closing the drawer.
“Experienced,” Azrael deferred, gesturing with one hand. “Keep your things on you if you want to keep them. Traveler's rule.” He heard the girl scoff, but she slung her bag back over her shoulder.
There was a certain authority in his words that gave her pause. “What d'you mean, traveler's rule?”
Azrael dusted off his hands. “Rules to walk by. In a new city, you stick to the main streets; you follow the crowds. You don't walk at night, you don't pull out your money in public, and you don't go anywhere you can't see from the street.” He pulled back the table, inspecting the wall behind it. “There's a lot more, of course, but those are a few.”
“Yeah? Interestin', I guess,” Bailey said, growing quickly bored. “All right, then, I gotta get goin'.”
“Hold on, Bailey--” It was too late already; she'd left the room before Azrael could ask where she was headed, and Azrael couldn't help but think she'd intended it that way. Bemused, he rubbed the back of his neck. Would it be too much to suspect Bailey of anything underhanded? No, that wouldn't make sense. Bailey was hiding something, but it wasn't anything he needed to know; that was enough for his curiosity.
He completed his evaluation of the room. None of the furniture seemed damaged, and nothing was obviously breakable – the last thing that he needed was to walk into a “you break, you buy” scam, but this place seemed on the level.
Deciding that he wasn't so bothered by the idea that someone could break in and steal his blanket and drink, Azrael left them on the table and struck out onto the streets. The early afternoon crowds were thick, packed tightly onto the too-small road. It was hard to imagine what sort of town could be in recession and still be overflowing with grasping consumers – but he had bigger concerns.
The term for his situation was 'blind, deaf, and dumb' – he'd walked into a city without knowing its layout, having any contacts, or gathering any intelligence, and that was dangerous. Even if he didn't intend to be in Deleain long, he couldn't afford not to give the city a walk-through.
Azrael allotted himself two hours; enough to familiarize himself with the immediate area around the inn, trace a few routes from the main streets to the city gates, and identify the richer districts from the poorer ones. When he ended his chore, he felt uncomfortable by knowing how little of the city he'd learned about. In the small area surrounding the inn, he could navigate; not well, but it was something.
With his meager knowledge of the city, Azrael made his way to a less savory district nearby to a tavern called the Rat's Swig. From the moment he walked into it, Azrael felt the eyes of the room on him. On entering a crook's haven, it was normal to be sized up, but his treatment was more; he was being noticed, memorized, and pointedly avoided. Chatter disappeared where he passed, eyes failed to meet his as he made his way to an unoccupied table. Even the bartender seemed wary, offering no service once he'd seated himself.
Azrael needed coin, and the best venue he had was to sell off the remainder of the poison he'd used for the assassination. Without the proper contacts in Deleain for black market sales, he knew he would have to find a buyer quickly, and by any means. This required him to be exposed, but still, he couldn't escape the sense that he was getting too much exposure. Five, ten minutes elapsed, and he hadn't even been asked to order a drink.
It had to be the Couriers; they must've put out word on him. Grimacing, Azrael leaned his elbows on the table. How was he to conduct business with their shadow hovering over him? If the local crooks wouldn't risk earning their ire, he wouldn't even be able to get his foot in the door. Bad luck, Azrael grumbled, then sighed and corrected himself. No, just bad planning. He hadn't counted on being an instant pariah; if he wanted to make progress, he'd need a new approach.
Sidling away from the table, he relocated himself to the bar. Several spots opened up at his approach. Settling on a stool, Azrael tried catching the attention of the barkeeper, who was occupied in wiping a grimy mug.
Azrael gave the man a few seconds to take notice of him, but he was impossibly absorbed in the cleanliness of his serving-ware. “Good afternoon,” he attempted, but his greeting got no reply. Frowning, he tried again, louder, “Hey – you hear me?”
The barkeeper glanced at him once, displeased. “Look, I can tell everybody's avoidin' ya like you've got the fury of the Heralds on ya. Maybe you ought to clear out, huh?”
“I will,” Azrael promised, “once I've gotten what I need.”
This man didn't find this particularly impressive, and suggested,“Yeah? Might be better if you just go anyway.”
Inhaling deeply, Azrael surrendered, raising his hands and walking from the bar. The man wasn't going to be any help to him. He'd spent more time out in the open than he wanted already. He either had to satisfy himself with empty pockets, or something more drastic was in order.
Azrael went to the exit, then stopped and turned. The eyes of the collected patrons were on him; but of course, they had been from the start, so it hardly hurt that they were still. “I'm selling addlernip venom,” he informed the room loudly, “and I'm selling fast.” Selling fast among this crowd meant selling cheap- he saw some heads snap up, attentive now that there was profit to be had.
“I'll be behind the Rat's Swig in fifteen minutes, and I will deal with whoever is there. One vial,” he produced the glass tube, “means one customer.” He held up the clear liquid and dangled it pointedly. His message was heard. The vial disappeared back into his sleeve, and Azrael exited quickly from the bar.
Fifteen minutes didn't seem like much, but it was plenty of time for his paranoia to run wild. His worst-case scenario: The Couriers had a power base in Deleain, and would lay a trap. Or, just as bad: An informer fetched the city guard, who would be waiting. These, in addition to the usual concerns of risky trade – a gang would show up to steal his goods, or there would be a dealer in the area that disliked competition, or someone that plain didn't fancy him would get him from behind. There were a million opportunities for tragedy, and he didn't have anyone to watch his back. He'd known from the start that this hadn't precisely been a brilliant plan, but the more he thougth about it....
Breaking out of his jittery wait, Azrael judged the time for the deal had come. He took the street winding around the Rat's Swig to see if he'd drawn any takers.
Arriving, Azrael caught sight of two men conferring. Dressed in untattered and unstained clothing, they seemed to be men of some meager means. Neither was armed, but they were confident. The pair drew up at his approach – one moreso than the other, standing at just over six feet of bulk. They'd been expecting him; that was good, he hoped.
“Takers?” he asked, stationing himself in the alley.
The pair exchanged a glance; the smaller man crossed his arms. The bigger grinned ferociously. “Yeah, I'm thinkin' we'll take it,” the thug grunted, stalking forward.
Azrael knew already, he wouldn't get a lot out of fighting them – though if it came to that, he predicted, they'd go down fast and hard. If he wanted profit, he had to be ready to fast-talk his way into it. Inhaling, he forced his shoulders to relax, and made no outward sign of aggression toward the approaching hulk. “What say we just conduct our business like sensible men?”
The brute grabbed the front of his shirt, grinning viciously. “Yeah? What say if we don't?”
“I'd call it a mistake,” Azrael answered. The man's knuckles tightened, spurring Azrael to name his reasons more quickly. “I could destroy the goods; but what good would that do either of us?”
The ham-fisted muscle wasn't a fast-thinker, but he could follow the cash flow well enough. “Break it, and maybe I break your neck.”
“You still wouldn't come ahead in that,” Azrael pointed out. “Look, it's simple. I don't know the network here – you do. I'll take a loss to get this off my hands, but I won't take nothing. So let's work this so we all come out ahead. Or,” he added, seeing the man's frown deepen, “I'll work it out so that no one does. We all win, or we all lose. What's more important to you?”
The burly man's eyes nearly popped out of his skull with outrage, but a saner voice interjected - “Hold up, o muscle-headed friend!” the other man called out, approaching. “I think we can work something out, here. Let's let us all win, like the fella says.” He flashed Azrael a smile, the sort of sharp-toothed grin that the wolf must give to lure off a sheep.
Silently, Azrael looked to the fist grabbing the front of the shirt, affecting thin patience. The brawny face behind it twisted; the brute released Azrael, and grudgingly, he even smoothed out the creases. “No harm done.”
“None at all,” Azrael agreed. “Let's get on with this, shall we?”
Some rapid negotiations between Azrael and his business associates ensued, and they eventually agreed on the price of seven cuts and three heads. The moment of transaction was tense, but concluded safely – they got their venom, he got his coin, and both parties made awkward farewell. Azrael hurried away with his payment tucked on the inside of his belt.
Arriving at the Three Goodfellow's, Azrael found that Bailey had gotten back ahead of him. She was laying stomach-down on the bed, playing her eyes over a wrinkled flyer of First Kingdom prayers. His lips flattened as he realized she wearing only her underclothing; was she trying to be flirtatious, or did she just not find the gesture inappropriate?
If she was putting on airs though, she was uncharacteristically delicate with them. Bailey pretended not to see him enter the room, waiting until he'd seated himself on the chair before looking up. “Business go good fer ya?” she asked him, folding down the page.
“Well enough for a couple cuts,” he concurred.
His nonchalance was answered with an astonished bark. “Ha! Pittance, is't?” Bailey mocked, amazed. Laying the paper flat on the bed, she squiggled on her belly and propped herself on her palm. “Really - y'got cuts? Y'know how many times I even seen a cut? How many didja get?”
Azrael frowned. “I got enough.”
“What, y'don't talk money? Ah, tha's fine.” She sat up, pulling her legs over the side of the bed. “Y'can cover your share of the room then?”
“Yes,” Azrael agreed, “though I'll only be here a few days.”
“Yeah? Got big business somewhere else, huh?” Mutely, Azrael nodded agreement. Bailey watched him, then said “hm” and fell silent.
For a while, the room was quiet. No obnoxious one-sided conversations, or “charming” backwater anecdotes. With his current company, peace was rare enough to treasure, but it wasn't long before Bailey had to make the silence uncomfortable. It started with a tapping foot, hardly noticeable. Then she started with the glances, shooting him little impatient frowns – then she'd look away, pouting something under her breath. When he didn't acknowledge this, she took to sighing and huffing and crossing her arms, agitated.
Azrael knew he should leave it alone, whatever “it” was. What little curiosity he had was overwhelmed by the inescapable certainty that, to ask the girl what was on her mind would mean she wouldn't stop talking until she'd emptied out everything on it. But it seemed like he'd hear about it sooner or later anyway, with the way she was carrying on. Better to get it out of the way now, instead of when he was trying to sleep.
Grimacing, he asked at last - “You seem bothered.”
“Yeah? Well that's 'cause yer damn right!” The words spewed out like from a broken cask. Azrael was already regretful. “All day, I was lookin' for that boy, and y'know what I found? Nothin'!”
“'That boy', huh?” he answered, resigned. “What boy are we talking about?”
“My boy,” Bailey answered, aggravated.
Azrael answered automatically: “You have a boy?”
“A'course I have a boy!” the girl pouted, asking him snidely, “What, y'don't think I can get a boy?”
Her leap to the defensive made Azrael wonder how far he wanted to plunge into this subject. In the end, he couldn't bear keeping silent, and incredulously asked, “And you care for him?”
She huffed – but strangely, Bailey didn't seem offended, only exasperated. “Y'ask the weirdest questions, y'know that?”
“Not so much,” he replied neutrally, “and that's not an answer.”
“If I didn't care about him, why'd I come runnin' to the city first chance I got t'find him, huh?”
Azrael creased his brow. That still hadn't been an answer, but at least he knew why she'd been so dead-set on following him. He thought to ask her more details, but she was perfectly capable of running her mouth without his input.
“He came t'the city right around half a year ago,” she was telling him, “an' wanted to join up with the city watch. He was always showin' off at home, always had t'be the best and strongest out'a all the boys, so we all figured he'd do fine. He was gonna join the guards, earn some money, then once he got everythin' sorted out, he was s'posed to send for me, and we'd both live in the city. 'Cept then, he started sleepin' 'round....”
“He was sleeping around? Who told you that?” Azrael questioned shrewdly.
Bailey's eyes shifted away, then returned determinedly to their mark. “Nobody. I figured it out on m'own.”
“Ah. So, from Sturtfeld, you managed to divine that he was cheating on you,” he summed up dryly. “Admirable.”
Her mouth snapped shut. “Don'tcha take that sorta tone with me!” Her voice pitched to a shriek, “I sent him letter after letter after letter, and he ain't answered any of 'em! Hoppy's last letter got t'me two months ago – what could be stoppin' that boy from writin' me two months, unless he's got somebody he's spendin' his time with?”
Azrael sighed, “You're leaping to conclusions.”
“If yer girl didn't write nothin' to you fer two months, how would you feel?” Bailey replied tartly. “That boy's found somebody else, I'm tellin' ya!”
Suppressing a frown, Azrael wondered if it would be worth it to argue. Whenever he'd been away from Emiree and unable to tell her, her reaction had always been, I was worried you'd gotten hurt!, and never, you've got some hussy on the side! It didn't seem like Bailey had even considered that there was something else keeping her beau from writing – or if she had, she was determined to ignore the possibility.
Either way, Azrael was tired of listening to it. As the girl complained further, he sighed noisily and stood, starting for the room's exit.
“Huh? Wait, where're ya goin'?” Bailey questioned, offended. “I was talkin'!”
“I'm going to go find Hoppy for you, and beat him up,” he answered. “That's what you want, isn't it?”
Horror flowed onto the girl's face, slacking her jaw. “What?! No!”
“That's what it sounds like,” Azrael mused, opening the door and pausing to assure her, “Don't worry, I'll take care of it.”
“Don't be stupid! Yer half the size Hoppy is -- he'll flatten ya!” Bailey scrambled to her feet, jumping down from the bed, rushing to stop him. But he was already through the door - and concerned as she was, she didn't get more than two steps before remembering that she was in her underthings. Balking at the doorway, she tried frantically to call him back, “Thomas, wait--”
Concealing a trouble-making smirk, Azrael strode from the door, feeling immensely pleased with himself as he started down the staircase. When she figured out he'd been pranking her, she'd be furious. Still, for all the teasing she gave him, it was only fair turnabout. Trotting down the steps, he nodded greeting to the barkeeper, who was watching him oddly after overhearing the exchange at the top of the stairs. The common room was busy that night in spite of a soft rain pattering outside the drafty windows. Azrael wondered again how truthful the innkeeper's son had been about the Deleain's economic state – if the people here had money enough to drink as heavily as they did, they couldn't be hurting that badly.
He thought of the heavy price of their room, and wondered again. Maybe he should make sure that they weren't being swindled. Azrael wound his way around the tables and bustling bar patrons, set on the bar; the bartender was certain to have an answer for his curiosity.
Azrael had only crossed the room halfway when a peculiar shortness of breath overtook him. While he stood and wondered at it, the sensation blew up into a full-blown sense of, something is wrong....
He couldn't ignore such powerful intuition. Azrael diverted from the bar, trying to identify what bothered him so. The room was crowded, but no one seemed suspicious. There were a few guffawing locals that he felt immediate dislike for, but nothing that inspired the sense of threat.
“'Scuse me, hun-” one of the bar maids skirted around him. He smiled thinly and nodded apology, continuing his survey.
What was that? A shadow at the window snapped his gaze around, but it was gone already. Had it ever really been there? Urging himself on, Azrael pulled up a seat and blended in with the patrons, observing.
Several minutes later, he caught a motion from the window again, stirring his fears.
Someone must be outside, but Azrael couldn't be sure; every time he blinked or glanced away, he thought he saw a face, but it disappeared whenever he tried looking at it again. Could it be a Courier, watching him? What were they waiting for – an opportunity to get him alone?
If that was the case, he had a brief advantage – he could lure them into the open. He was still injured, however; the idea of challenging a potential assassin didn't bode well. But what other choice did he have? If he waited for them to pick the time for confrontation, the odds could only be worse!
Standing, Azrael trekked toward the front exit. The innkeeper, watching the door, caught him with a question; “Going out late, huh?”
“A bit,” he agreed in a pleasant tone, “but I should be back soon - just a quick errand to run. If I do run late, though, would you please tell my friend not to worry after me?” At the man's positive grunt, Azrael nodded his head gratefully and left the inn.
Once he was outside, his demeanor transformed. He cased the street quickly, picking out the forms of a young couple walking down an adjoining road, and the tired form of an aging man on his way home. None of them seemed to take notice of Azrael as he came out onto the street, though; their heads were bent against the rain, and they hurried along without any regard to his presence.
Pulling his jacket tighter around his torso, stepped out into the rain and began down the street. If he had a follower, they wouldn't leave him to walk alone – they'd follow, wait for him to be secluded, and ready their move. Azrael thought quickly over the places he knew; there was a little back alley that would be good for a confrontation. It was a bit of distance away from the inn, but that was more of a selling point than anything – less chance of anyone walking in on the conflict.
His mind made, Azrael oriented himself and began to walk the street, searching unobtrusively for his follower. The falling rain hazed the air, shrinking the already poor visibility the street lanterns provided against the moonless night. Just the same, he could see a grim form flitting out of the darkness, tracking him. He'd made a good call; now, he just had to lead them off, make them think they had the upper hand, and strike when their guard was dropped.
Satisfied, if wary, he began striding a bit more quickly. Between one step and another, though, his head sparked with a shooting, ambiguous pain; he slowed, stopped, and put a hand to his temple. Worse than a headache, not quite a migraine – how odd, he wasn't generally prone to them....
He saw the shadow of his stalker. Unexpectedly, it was moving toward him; it must have seen the moment of weakness, and chosen its moment to strike. Cursing his distraction, Azrael grabbed out one of his knives and whipped around, ready to defend himself--
Something misty washed over him, blasting past his face with a howl of wind. He was blinded for a moment, and this time he really did spit out an oath as he covered himself with his arms, trying to sidestep the inevitable attack– but then it passed. He was alone in the road, with no sign of an attacker, a pursuer, or even just an innocent bystander.
For a moment, all he could do was stare, stricken. The street was still; no signs that anything had happened outside his own imagination. Agitated, he backed away toward the curb, sheathing his weapon. His chest tightened against a growing sense of alarm, his lungs sucking air through an indiscernible thickness. Azrael's mind sprang back to the night he left Sturtfeld – the inexplicable sadness and worry, and an overwhelming sense of wrongness, those tricks played on his eyes....
A feeling overtook him, and he gasped at its suddenness; an unwarranted melancholy stirring around him, within him but separated at the same time; there was no cause, no reason, but it felt like the very air he struggled to breathe was packed with the crushing hopelessness.
Between one opening of the eyes and another, the world shook itself clean of reason, transforming. Color drained from the buildings, the clouds, the night sky and stars; the whiteness was strange, and seemed to fizzle and hiss. Straight lines curved, bending and shifting at the slightest change in light. Even the smallest of shadows were pitch-black, even Azrael's own. And against these monotones, the rain was vivid and red. He watched the drops as they struck his hands, spattering tiny red specks, pooling in his palms, falling beneath his fingers to collect in rippling puddles.
Wide-eyed, trying to comprehend the impossibility of what he saw, Azrael shot his gaze wildly around. This isn't real. There was no way that it could be real – but what could it be, then? The more he tried to make sense of it, the less he understood. For all intents, this place was identical to the world that he knew; mishued and twisted, but the same. The streets led in the same directions, the buildings were just as tall, and if Azrael's own hands were whiter than paper, they otherwise looked the same as they ever did. But the way it felt – everything was wrong!
Someone was calling, Thomas. And again, Thomas. Distractedly, Azrael wondered who Thomas was, and why he ignoring the calls--
From right behind him: “Thomas!”
Azrael snapped his gaze around. Eyes, black and hollow, were peering at him; he jerked away before realizing the creature he saw was Bailey. A strange Bailey, with paper-white skin and blurred form, but Bailey all the same. She seemed... concerned – yes, that was the right description. She was concerned. It was difficult to think in such terms, but he thought that she was....
“Herald's Hands, what are y'tryin' to prove? Yer soaked through!” She scolded him. “What's th' matter with you? You gone daft? Inside, now!”
Unable to find words, Azrael didn't know what else to do but follow instructions. Slowly, he turned his attention to the inn. Its entryway was a dark maw in this world, impossible to see beyond. He rationalized, it must still the same door that he'd come out from, but there was a primal fear raging in his mind, screaming, begging him not to pass that way.
Then Bailey wrapped one snowy hand around his. He felt it against his skin, the only warmth in this desolate world. There was no silliness or triviality in the way she urged him on. For once, she felt wholesome and real, devoid of fronts or evasions or childish dramatics. He wondered if it were an effect of the place he was in that changed her, or a bit of real honesty in her character shining through. Whichever it might be, Azrael was astounded to find that he trusted her to lead him into the darkness.
One step through the doorway, and he was in the thick of it.
He'd been certain that once he crossed the threshold, the endless darkness would revert. He was wrong. Plunging into the shadows, his vision was overwhelmed by it. He gasped and stumbled blidnly. Unseen hands found him, righted him. Bailey's voice was so small now, and distant - “What's gotten into ya?” she said from somewhere, and his eyes went wide as he tried to find her. “Thomas, y'look bad....”
“Y... yeah, I....” He put his hand out for balance, finding through sheer luck the wooden door-frame. Azrael gripped it tightly, using it to remind himself that the world was still there – he couldn't see it, but it was still there, he just had to... stay calm. That was what he did best, right? When he was calm, he could think; when he could think, he could plan. He wasn't sure what sort of tactical thinking could solve his blindness, but a few slow, deep breaths, some seconds of blank-mindedness, and....
There was motion. Something was near him, almost behind him, pulling near while he was weak. It was raging, tempestuous- he could feel its fury just as clearly as his own confusion and fright. Whatever it was, it wasn't just malicious – it was murderous, and it was approaching him quickly--
He whipped around to face the thing. But it was like a flash, gone already by the time he turned his head. Instead, he saw only the rain pouring down against the backdrop of the street, hued the regular browns and grays and evening darks.
“Thomas, y'aren't right,” Bailey fumed worriedly behind him, a hand to her heart, “goin' and scarin' me like that!” He turned to look at her, staring at the fast-breathing girl, soaking in the colors and textures of her clothes and skin.
“... I'm, I'm not-” Azrael's voice choked itself off.
His wild and frightened expression pushed her back, and she clasped the hand at her chest and swallowed before answering. “N, not what?”
Azrael stared at her. It was amazing how quickly she'd absorbed his fright – even the smallest insecurities on him reflected tenfold on her. Terrified, meek, and small, she reminded him nothing of the brash, loudmouthed-pain in-the-ass that had followed him to Deleain.
“Not... ahm. No. Nothing.” Abruptly, Azrael brushed past her, ignoring the concerned questions of the innkeeper as he retreated to the room upstairs. Alarmed and worried as she was, Bailey did not follow him. The door clicked behind him, and he was alone in the flickering light of the fireplace.
For some time, he was simply sitting, staring at the floor between his feet. A sense of depression had followed him from that other world – else, it had merely been replaced by his own genuine emptiness. It didn't much matter, as misery was misery whatever its source. For once, he found himself almost wishing for Bailey's company; that she hadn't come to the room after him was disheartening. Without her distraction, he was left with his thoughts – and the more he wallowed in them, the worse he felt.
He found his escape in his bottle of brandy. Digging it out of the blanket on the table, Azrael found about a fourth of it waiting for him. Retreating to his chair, he drank the entire amount swiftly, then spent ten minutes more sucking at the lingering dribbles and drops in the bottle.
While he was at this, Bailey steeled her nerves enough check in on him. Seeing his greediness, she abandoned her caginess and spat a disgusted oath. “No wonder y'were actin' so far outta yer head, drinkin' like that!” she bullied him. “Put that thing away. It's late; we oughta turn in, right?”
Reluctantly, he set aside the empty bottle and nodded his agreement. They made some quick negotiations over sleeping arrangements – and naturally enough, the dispirited Azrael came out the loser. As they settled in to retire, Bailey had the bed to herself, while he made do with some blankets on the floor.
Sleep that night could only be troubled, and he found little of it. Closing his eyes, he'd try to rest – but without crossing to the peace of sleep, he would return to that night in Riviem.
It would begin on the rooftops. The wind would blast by, trying to push him back from his goal. Mumbles and whispers would pass, shrieking at times, mellowing at others – light laughs and disappointed sighs caught up in the drafts. Coming to the high peaks of the home he'd picked for his strike point, the gales worsened. He could see through the walls in these dreams; the inhabitants slept inside, their eyes wide open like those of troubled corpses, following him as he climbed the sloped rooftop.
Reaching the flat landing, the gusts would suddenly reverse course – now, they pushed him forward, toward the roof's end, demanding for him to follow the line of fate. His determination faltered; he turned against the surge, but he was forced further toward the edge. Struggling to keep his balance, with nowhere to retreat, he knew that he should have never been there in the first place, but it was too late--
And Azrael would gasp, open his eyes, and look blearily around the room. He was in Deleain still, at the Three Goodfellow's. Ignoring the daunting suspicion that he'd never fallen asleep, he'd pull the blankets around him again and nod off, hoping time and again for a dark and dreamless rest – but always, it was Riviem that waited for him. If he slept at all, he didn't know.
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