The humble door loomed before her, the unknown lurking behind it.Some content is not suitable for younger readers and people who are easily offended. Sequel to Two Peas and a Pode.
It was a door of common variety, scarred and grime-stained like most found in the inns and taverns across Corone. Erissa Caedron studied the familiar etchings; it was not the first time she had seen this particular door in her part-time home of Underwood. Her hand hovered near it, poised to knock. She had no doubt who was behind it, but in what state she would find her quarry remained to be seen. Her heart thrummed in double-time to the heart of her spell's aim; both pounded in her ears. The arcanist was surprised the finding spell had worked; she half-expected her fellow Ixian Knight's stubbornness to hinder it. However, as her voice lifted and she sang his song, the high elf had heard his heart's rhythm and followed it across Corone.
In her other hand was a cloth bag bearing several goods, among them a glass bottle filled with scotch, the finest that could be bought anywhere. The high elf had spared no expense for this visit, and the rich scent of Fallien cheese wafted from from the ordinary sack. And fruit – out of season – Erissa had managed to procure; the bulge of grapes was enough to make her surprised she had not been mugged along the journey from Radasanth, not that her mugger would have been successful. In truth, the cloth bag full of fineries, not to mention the smoked venison, was not even necessary, but a hope of placating one who could not be placated, a losing proposition but valiant none-the-less, or so Erissa surmised. She knocked on the door.
“Jensen? It is Erissa,” she said with the meekness of a small child.
“Go away.” His response was not unexpected, but he had softened, perhaps not in his rabid hatred of elves in general, but at least toward her. In their excursion into the Red Forest, he had slipped and called her 'friend.' But then, a disaster of the sorts she could not imagine befell him; his fiance had been murdered.
Erissa felt the guilt upon her shoulders as if she were bearing the world, his world, upon them. If only she had been stronger, better trained. Perhaps then the Knights would have made it back in time before Cassandra Remi had exacted her revenge upon Jensen Ambrose, the 'blessed' immortal. Naturally, what was the main concern of the Ixian Knights should have taken precedence over her personal struggles, but luckily the two were aligned. The Ixian stronghold itself had been breached. It was a stealthy attack, one very precisely aimed at Jensen. It was not unexpected; he had left his calling card scrawled upon the very gates where the Fifth of the Forgotten, Oblivion, would surely search for his prize and find it missing.
Erissa knocked again, this time more softly.
“I said go away.”
The voice she had relied on so completely during their time in the Red Forest, chasing after Pode, had been changed, saddened, embittered. The laugh that once set her on edge she longed to hear; he, unlike so many others who seemed so much fairer, had kept his promise to her, had not betrayed her.
“I brought scotch, better than what they serve here, and for that matter, free,” Erissa called through the heavy door. There was a hope-laden pause; the door swung open and she watched her fellow Knight pace back to the rickety bed and flop down. She gingerly followed him in and removed her cloak and satchel, setting them in a dusty corner.
“Remember what happened the last time I got drunk with an elf?” Jensen asked, referring to his brief stay in the New Aurient Prison. She nodded, remembering how she had taunted him while he was behind the bars. Feeling incredibly nervous around her former protector, she began to unpack her wares on the wobbly table.
“Glasses?” Erissa asked, voice cracking. She cleared her throat and prepared to slice the cheese and meat on its wrapping paper. His presence was heavier than that of the 'man of shadows' they hoped to oust; the high elf's hands shook as she wielded the kitchen knife. In an instant she felt the immortal's breath on the back of her neck, his hand on hers as he stilled her shaking.
“Why don't you make yourself useful and get the glasses from the cupboard over there,” he gestured with the knife, having disarmed Erissa without her realizing. She nodded hastily and retrieved the two glasses; of the only two in the cupboard, one was chipped and badly cracked. Sighing, the high elf set them on table before him. “So what the hell are you doing here?” he asked absently as he tossed some of the cheese in his mouth. She could hear the emptiness in his voice and she paused, the grape in her mouth sour.
“Well,” Erissa began, chewing and swallowing, “you do have the essence, do you not?” Jensen nodded once, to Erissa's great relief. “There was a breach in the guard at the Castle; they tore your rooms apart looking for it, as well as the armories. They took nothing. Jensen, Oblivion has received your message. He has come to us, as we had hoped. But how did you know when he would come?” He never paused as he sliced more of the cheese and meat, but his silence was foreboding. Jensen shrugged.
“I just needed to get away from that place. Too many memories.” The immortal's hand clenched the knife as it dropped to his side. “And which one of those bed wetters told you where I'd be?”
“The heart song, from my Songbook of Ages,” she began. “When we were in the forest you allowed me to learn yours, remember?”
“Fucking fairy magic. I shoulda guessed,” he grunted before tossing the knife on the table and pouring a generous shot of the scotch into the chipped glass; he drank it in one big gulp. With a moody sigh, Jensen refilled his own glass and, to her surprise, poured one for the elf. She accepted it gratefully; if there were ever a time she was in need of a drink, it was now. “Have a seat,” Jensen said, gesturing to one of two chairs in the room, a grungy, sweat-stained mess whose cushions were well past being fluffed again to any semblance of comfort. Erissa retrieved her cloak and tossed it over the chair. She sat, back straight and ankles crossed, resting on her skin-tight, maroon leathers, the other awkwardly holding the glass of alcohol. She grasped for a bit of meat, and nibbled on the venison uncomfortably.
“So how have you been?” Erissa asked, brushing a few stray locks of silver hair behind her pointed ear.
“How do you think I've been, leaf licker?” Jensen replied, lacking the strength for his normal venom. Erissa nervously took a rather large draught of her drink; her face twisted into a grimace as the alcohol hit her tongue and throat. She looked questioningly at the immortal, who sneered. “It's supposed to taste like that. A little different than your Raiaeran Red, huh?” he asked. Erissa cleared her throat, attempting to rid it of the burning. “Hair of the dog, elf. First one tingles, second one burns, but the third...” he trailed off and drank from his own glass. The elf's second drink saw her stomach spasm, threatening to purge itself of the snack she had just enjoyed.
But then Erissa heard something that brought her hope. Jensen chuckled softly. Granted it was directed at her, but it was still a laugh. As long as he is still laughing, he will be okay, she thought.
“And what about you, Fairy?” he asked, shaking the table near her as he set the scotch on it and took the other seat for himself. “Humped any bushes lately?” Jensen refilled his glass and leaned over to top off hers. She eyed him suspiciously, surprised he even cared how she was, before taking a third, large gulp of the scotch. The high elf's eyes watered immediately, her stomach went sour, and her throat burned as though she had swallowed a red-hot sword.
“What in the-” she wheezed. Her fellow Knight's chuckles increased to a full laugh as he pointed to a sink. The elf swallowed a few more times, refusing to give in to the urge to rid herself of the scotch, and she looked at him accusingly. “I thought the third was supposed to be better.”
“What?” Jensen asked, still giggling. “You didn't let me finish! The third's like swallowing hot coals just before getting punched in the gut.”
“You, Jensen Ambrose,” she managed between coughs, “are incorrigible. Pour me another; that was not so bad.” The man lifted his eyebrows at her and shrugged before obliging. Erissa began to feel the effects of the scotch, aside from the feeling she had just swallowed fuel. Her mind buzzed warmly, her limbs tingled, and she felt giddy. “Besides, you are my 'friend!' You said it yourself and I heard it. You cannot take that back now."
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