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The back room of the tavern had become so full of smoke it was difficult to make out the cards that had been dealt. Ryatt squinted as he tried to decipher the number. Even more unhelpful was the fact that he was now seeing double, had been that way for a few hours now… possibly why he kept losing. He dragged a rough hand down his face. The strange Fae liquor clung to his clammy palms, the smell alone enough to make his stomach roll.
The only light came from candles dotted around the wood-clad room. Not that it was night, not that he could be sure, there were no windows to say otherwise. Between this seemingly endless losing streak and a bar tab he didn’t want to consider, he couldn’t quite tell how many hours he had been there. All he knew with certainty was that if he lost this game, he would not have the money to pay them.
He squinted once more, still unsure if he held a ten or a five. The female Fae cleared her throat, a lithe figure with a forked tongue flicking between her teeth and slits instead of round pupils. She had won the most. He snorted in response. Why did he bother playing cards with the Fae? They always won. He couldn’t prove anything, but he was sure they cheated. She was probably reading his mind now, trying to decipher what number he was looking at. Would her vision too be blurry?
He shook his head at the useless thought. Another player to his side began tapping their fingers against the wooden tabletop. Ryatt reached for his drink, knocked it back, teeth clenching at the too-sweet taste. Everything in Anwyn was too sweet, too sickly. He laid his cards on the table, nothing to be done.
Hungry eyes looked up at him, twisted smiles. It had been a five then. He leaned back in his chair, moving his hips forward, hands fumbling into his pockets that he knew were completely empty. Still, it bought him a few seconds.
The male next to him, the one with ink coloured fingertips, flicked a knife that landed next to Ryatt’s empty glass.
“Pay up,” he spoke in a sing-song voice, so at odds with the murderous look in his eyes.
“I will.” Ryatt’s head lolled back. The worst they could do was attack, and yes, it would hurt, but he would be taken to some magical mender. They would put him back together like nothing had happened. He laughed. Before, being hurt meant something. The Fae and this land had even taken that away.
“Don't,” a quiet familiar voice came from a corner he hadn't realised was occupied. “He's the Rot's brother.”
Ryatt squeezed his stinging eyes shut. Even through the haze, he felt the way the entire table collectively pulled back. Wooden stools scraped over the cobbled floor causing his temples to throb. He sighed, rubbing a hand over his beard that he had let grow too long. Another tavern that would refuse him once they knew who he was, who his brother was.
Ryatt stood, the chair clattered to the floor. “Sorry.” He mumbled, slight sway to his body. He would have preferred a beating over being let off just because he and Slade shared the same blood.
None of the Wrath had ever been afraid to strike in the training circle. He closed his eyes, a phantom scent of the Fourth Kingdom tickling his nose.
“I can get you the money,” he stumbled, reaching for the wall. “Or you can beat me like you’re supposed to. I’m not about to run and tell my brother.”
No one moved.
“Money then.” He hiccuped over the words. Had he been here drinking for hours or days?
“No payment,” fork tongue hissed.
Relief flickered, unwanted. But he still hadn’t found work. Why would anyone hire a human when they could have a Fae? No magic, nothing to trade. But he would get the money. And not from his brother.
He turned, flicked the latch, and made his way through the main room of the tavern. It was empty except for a barkeep with horns who gave him a filthy look. Ryatt waved, muttering something under his breath as he shouldered the door open, his eyes burning in the sudden harsh glare.
It was daytime then.
The street beyond was busy, humming with movement that made the alcohol in his stomach churn. The smell of street food clung to the air, thick and sweet, coating his tongue, while somewhere nearby a busker’s spindly song scraped at his skull. He pushed through the crowd, shoulders knocking into strangers as he tried to put distance between himself and the noise.
He needed water. The thirst had come on all at once, another curse of being drunk. But something told him he would not be welcomed back in the tavern so he pressed on, with aimless, heavy steps. There had to be some sparkling glen nearby. This was Anwyn after all.
The Fae who bustled past quickly moved out of his path. It didn’t take long before the thatch roofed buildings thinned, and he felt soft grass under his boots. A small cluster of trees appeared, leaves all wrong, too bright to belong anywhere in Orea. Then again, this was Anwyn. He scowled. Even after all this time, his mind still wandered home. He heard the stream before he saw it.
His legs gave out, dropping to his knees, then forward onto his hands, crawling the last stretch. His mouth tasted like ash. He made it to the riverbed without being sick and scooped water into his mouth, swallowing greedily. It was cool, clean, sharp enough to cut through the lingering taste of sour liquor.
His lips were cracked, his head pounding.
He lowered his head into the stream without much thought, letting the cold bite into his skin, into his skull. It jolted through him, clearing his mind for a moment.
A faint ease followed. His body loosened, the tight coil of it unwinding as his thoughts slowed.
He leaned further in, water soaking into the collar of his leather, his shoulders. The current shifted faintly around him, steady and quiet.
Rest. That was what he needed to clean up, find work and get home.
Anwyn, not his real home.
He barely felt it. The cold dulled him, his body sinking further into the crisp stream, his thoughts slipping loose, softening to a blunt tip. He tried to think why it would matter.
What was he supposed to be doing?
It couldn't have been too important.
Something seized the collar of his neck, fingernails biting into his skin. His eyes snapped open.
He dragged in a breath and choked as water flooded his nose and mouth, burning his lungs so viciously he thought he may have been struck, winded even.
The hand was too small to be Osrik. Not Lu…
He was hauled back and dumped onto the bank. The impact knocked the air from him. He turned, retching, alcohol and river water spilling into the grass. The bitter taste clung, refusing to leave.
He stayed curled in on himself, one arm braced in the dirt, grit pressing into his palm. He didn’t look back. If it was Digby, he didn’t want to know.
His jaw tightened. Better the river than have to face Digby like this.
“I wasn’t trying-” Ryatt wheezed. “I just needed a drink.” His voice scraped raw in his throat. He dragged his forearm across his mouth, eyes squeezed shut against the light.
“Honestly, I don’t really care.”
Not Lou, thankfully. But he knew that voice. His stomach twisted again. Emonie.
“If you’re going to drown yourself,” she went on, tone light, almost bored, “at least make sure no one’s around to rescue you.”
He cracked an eye open.
Bare feet in the grass. A satchel dropped carelessly nearby. His gaze dragged upward. Hair a perfect shade of sand that curled in ringlets, catching the sun, her eyes the colour of sapphires.
“Turn yourself back,” he muttered, clenching his teeth as he let his head fall against the ground again. “If I’m talking to you, you can at least look like yourself.”
“Aw, I thought I looked rather pretty.” She practically hummed.
“It's not you.” He didn't care how pretty she looked, she looked fine anyway. But he hated the Fae tricks more and more as each day passed.
She sighed, rolled her shoulders once before her eyes began turning back to their usual shade of brown. Her hair lengthened, it was longer than the last time they had seen one another. A deep chestnut at the roots, copper catching at the ends. He blinked once.
“So,” she said, crouching. She plucked a daisy from the mossy grass, twisting the stem between her fingers until it bent but didn’t quite snap, “what were you doing face down in a river, if not drowning?”
Ryatt huffed a breath that might have been a laugh if it didn’t hurt. He turned his head slightly, enough to look at her properly now.
“Disappointed?” he rasped.
Her mouth curved, not quite a smile. “It would’ve been very inconvenient.”
He let his eyes fall shut again. “Your rescue is much appreciated. You can leave now.”
She snapped the stem at last, letting the flower head fall into the grass between them. “Why were you falling into people and cursing through the township?”
“Not your problem.” His voice clipped.
“Would it be Slade’s problem?” she said easily.
He exhaled slowly, the breath shuddering on the way out. The world still tilted slightly. “I don't see why it would be, unless you tell him.”
“If I leave, are you going to try for another swim?” He didn't miss the way she side stepped his question.
She was eye level now. She smelled of cinnamon, something spicy. He rubbed at his nose, surprised he could still smell her through the water clogging it. “Don’t tell Slade.” He used his commander's voice, utterly useless.
She didn’t even blink. “If I leave to get you some food and some clothes, are you going to stay right here?” she repeated.
He nodded once, unable to keep his head up any longer. The long grass tickled his ear. He needed clothes, his leathers stank, and he hadn’t eaten in days.
“Good, because your brother wants to see you, and he’s not going to be happy if I deliver you in this state.”
Ryatt’s jaw ticked, bringing his forearm over his face. “That was you in the tavern, wasn’t it? You outed me.”
She didn’t respond, her light steps retreating across the grass. He tried not to think about why Slade would want to see him, why Slade had sent Emonie instead of anyone else.
He tried not to think of Orea.
…
He was awoken with a kick. The glen and the mortification of the day filtered through his senses. It was now evening. There was something warm and wet running down his cheek. Dribble. And Emonie, who was standing over him, retracted her foot.
“In my defence, I did try shaking you first.”
“It doesn't matter.” Ryatt sat up, his head throbbing as she knelt beside him. She was warm and still smelled nice, and it only made him smell worse.
“Here.” She held out a small package wrapped in linen. His fingers, still clumsy, shook as he unwrapped the package of bread, meat, cheese, and apples. Simple food. He hadn't realised how hungry he had been until he started eating.
“There's clothes too.” She lifted the flap of her leather satchel, the one she always had with her, and began pulling out bundles of fabric. He eyed the tunic, expecting embroidered nonsense and unnecessary buttons. Instead, it was plain dove grey.
“You didn't have to.”
“Like I said,” she shrugged, “Slade.”
Ryatt couldn’t hide the scowl. Over this last year, after the joy of finding his brother happy and whole, bitter, familiar resentment had begun to build like the child blocks he used to play with. It was fine, Slade could buy him some new clothes.
“And soap.” She gave him a half-smile before he dropped his gaze. “No offence, Ryatt, but you stink.”
“Here?” He felt his eyes widen as he met her gaze again, a devilish glint in her eye.
“I won't peek, but you have to promise not to try and drown yourself again.”
Ryatt turned, eyeing the glen. There was a small waterfall he hadn't noticed. The dusty pink sky caught on the droplets, and it did in fact look like it was sparkling. He resisted the urge to tell her he had called it. She wouldn't know what he was talking about.
He stood, grateful that he was no longer swaying, and made his way to the bank. He turned again, just to check. Why would she want to see him naked? The Fae could rarely be trusted, and she was cheekier than most. He began to loosen the buckles at his collar. His hands knew his Fourth army leathers like the back of his hand, and he made quick work of shifting it from his shoulder.
Emonie sat in the dappled sunlight twisting more daisies. How could someone look so content doing that? He loosened his trousers, and his heavy belt thudded as it hit the floor. Still, she didn't turn.
Why would she, he found himself asking again.
His boots, he now realised, had holes in them. Her bag didn't seem big enough for boots too, and he sighed as he looked at her own bare feet. Right.
The water didn't feel as cold as it had, and it was thankfully deep enough to come up to his waist. He began to lather her soap, which actually smelt nothing like her. No, this soap smelled of chamomile and had little grains of salt to scrub at his grubby skin.
His hair, that he had shorn short, now fell below his ears. A whole year of Anwyn, a year of drink, petrified thistle root. A year of loneliness, a year of hating.
“Be on your guard,” she shouted, “I hear a siren or two occupies this glen.”
Ryatt's shoulders drew up. Anwyn was full of magical folk, and he had spent the last year avoiding them all. “Sirens, seriously?”
“Seriously.” She lay back in the grass, her delicate forearm resting over her head. “I will save you, though. I haven't forgotten I owe you one.”
Oh, he remembered.
Ryatt washed the suds from his hair without hesitation. If there were sirens, he needed to be away from the water.
Emonie didn't move from her spot as he padded forward, her eyes still covered by her arm.
“If you want to make it up to me,” he pulled on the new loose trousers that grazed his ankles, “you can tell me what my brother wants.”
She sighed, but he didn't miss the smile. “Where would the fun be in that?”