Of Humanity Over Humanity :: Closed

[Them Apples]

Warning: This thread contains adult themes and language. Read at your own discretion!

Of Humanity Over Humanity.



“Of all the preposterous assumptions of humanity over humanity, nothing exceeds most of the criticisms
made on the habits of the poor by the well-housed, well-warmed, and well-fed.”

- H. Melville.

The morning food market was in full flow. Unnoticed, dust eddies jumped to life from the earth, dancing and ebbing fleetingly in the wake of hundreds of pairs of hurried footsteps as they shuffled from stall to stall, smelling and touching and foraging meticulously, like bees harvesting pollen. Ironically, the incessant background clamour made it impossible to process what one was really doing. If you inspected a fruit and put it back, by the time you had inspected the next, that first fruit had moved from where you had placed it, and you might obliviously inspect it again and again, repeating this arduous process a dozen times or more, before finding one that satisfied your standards or, more often than not, giving up and shuffling out of the way of the impatient rabble; on to the next near-identical stall, save the colour and shape of its wares.

Italo stood shins pressed against one such stall, his mind absent from the hollering cries of the stall owners; the rattle of carts and wagons carrying goods to and fro; the elbows, arms, breasts and chests that pressed unremittingly against his back and sides; the unwavering stare of the stall attendant that bore into him in ruffled anticipation, for he was behaving suspiciously.

He held a large green apple in his upturned hand, not twisting and squeezing it as would be customary, but propping it gently in his arched palm. He had remained statuesque in that pose for a minute or two; enough time to deter three or four anxious rummagers from examining the stall's fruit, at the lamenting acknowledgement of its owner. The young man’s head was held as still as the fruit that held his gaze. He appeared to the attendant to be mesmerized by the partly faded crest that was stamped upon its skin – it consisted of a shield mounted on an upright water cask, with two horses supporting it. There was a scene set within the shield; a solitary mountain with a manor at its base. A motto was written below the crest upon a sprawled scroll, but the letters were too small to distinguish. Italo remained motionless for another minute at least, before recognising that subconscious feeling that he was being watched, and glancing up wide eyed to catch that curious glare upon him. He gave a weak smile that was greeted with an unapproving shake of the head, before the stall worker was beckoned away by another customer. Italo carefully positioned the apple where it would not roll off the stall, but looked upon the crest for a few seconds more, before a hair-coated hand darted into his line of vision and clasped over it.

Italo followed the attached arm up to a long tear in the shoulder of a soiled white tunic, and past that to the weathered, dirtied face of a man who met his gaze with an expression of veiled intimidation. They stood for a second only a foot or so apart, locked in an awkward exchange, experiencing a moment of silence in the eye of the whirlwind that roared all around them. Then the man withdrew, stood from his leaning stance and vanished just as quickly as he had appeared. Italo turned back to find the apple, and its stamped crest, had gone. It took him a second to process the implication. Then his eyes drew thin as if tightened by purse strings, and he shoved his way into the crowd with untold intent.

[Them Apples]

Despite having to swim against the tide of the swaying throng, Italo made ground quickly on the thief. Had the stranger not glanced back once to ensure his not being pursued, he might have escaped unimpeded, but he did not see the duellist advancing through the crowd and so did not hasten his retreat. Italo, however, pursued with escalating determination. When only a few bodies separated his from the scrounger, he barged between them with his shoulders, reaching across his body and snatching a handful of the man’s tunic above the elbow. He tugged him round with excessive force, and the man pirouetted like an inebriated ballerina, his leading leg flaying loose and throwing him into the air, where he seemed to hang in bewilderment before crashing to the hard ground and throwing up plumes of thick brown dust around him. He lay dazed for a long moment in the shape of a star, his eyes rolling back into his skull and then eventually falling back into place; his fingernails had pierced the skin of the apple that he subconsciously still clenched in his hand.

As the immediate crowd slowed and stopped to form an audience, the man’s pupils darted back and forth behind flickering eyelids, until he regained clarity and they came to rest dead-centre; came to rest on the looming form of the young man standing over him, as if he were the shadow cast at his assailant’s feet. Indeed, the sun sat blindingly behind the figure that stood over him, and though still stunned, he squinted to discern a face. He held his breath involuntarily. No matter how much he narrowed his vision he couldn’t see into the pits of Italo’s eyes, but disturbingly he could hear – clearly even over the never ceasing tumult of the market place – the air billowing from his nostrils like a bull priming to charge.

And charge he did.

The fallen man could only let out a strident scream as Italo descended upon him like a wolf on a lamb, ramming one knee down into the beggar’s bicep and drawing back his opposite hand at the same time. He swung a wild fist and his knuckles barely grazed the vagabond’s cheekbone. The next punch, though, landed square on the man’s temple, and he cried out sickeningly as his head rebounded off the uncompromising ground. Italo didn't relent. He threw another punch, then a fourth, fifth and sixth, each strike answered only by a reflex tensing of the limbs and collective gasps coupled with interjected wails from amongst the gathering crowd. Onlookers lost count of how many times the defenceless man contorted and sagged under the assault – some had turned away to save witnessing the vicious scene – but once Italo withdrew and returned to standing over his crumpled form, unintelligible murmurs leaked with the fresh blood from between his burst lips.

The next ten seconds passed surreal and prolonged, as the scene remained frozen save the twitching of Italo’s bloodied fingers, and the propped up leg of the beggar that flopped from one side to the other like a ship rocking on rough waters. The dust eddies had ceased their dances and fallen into hiding; the immediate hubbub had diminished into almost complete silence, interposed with bold whispers that hung on the air like rolling waves.

The weight of the atmosphere was finally lifted by the emergence of two guards from behind the crowd, who approached from Italo’s front and only spared a glance to the body on the floor as they advanced in an unfittingly casual fashion. Each slid an arm underneath the aggressor’s own simultaneously, then dragged him backwards until they were far enough away that they could no longer hear the groans and whimpers of the downed beggar.

While one guard dispersed the crowd with reassuring words and hand gestures, the other remained with Italo, a firm hand gripped around his wrist and the other on the sheathed hilt of his sword. After a few seconds, Italo leaned over and spoke a sentence or two in his ear, and the guard’s grip slipped away. The first returned to stand before them as the gathering groups began to shuffle on, his hands rested on his hips, where he rocked back and forward on the balls of his feet as he glanced from Italo to the beggar, repeating the motion three times. Then he whistled in mock astonishment, and said: “Hromagh’s wrath – where did you summon the strength in those puny arms to inflict a beating like that?” Italo remained dour-faced. “Poor man’s lucky to be alive,” the guardsman continued, “and I reckon you’ll be lucky if you’re not shitting in a bucket in a cell for at least the next week!” He vented a loud chortle, then flashed a telling stare at those spectators who had remained and regarded him with disconcerted looks. In turn the prying assemblies diverted their attention, and pretended to occupy themselves while staying within distance to observe the drama unfolding.

The second guard reacted by tapping the first on the shoulder - his eyebrows lifted until they were hidden beneath the rim of the kettle helm that topped his head – and leaning in to relay Italo’s words to him.

He leaned back again, and now it was the senior guard’s brow that raised in subtle surprise. “I see…” he began. “I… well, that changes things now, doesn’t it?” Italo remained silent and apparently preoccupied, his long stare on the still struggling body of the beaten vagrant, as the guard addressed him. “You, uhh… you watch what you get up to, boy,” he said unconvincingly. “You won’t, uhh… get away with doing this kind of thing regularly.” He regarded the young man with intrigue, but got no response. “You’re lucky you’ve caught us on a… good… day. Well,” he sighed, and glanced amongst the crowd of witnesses again, who had begun to filter away from the scene as if afraid they would be reprimanded purely for their presence. With the crowd mostly dispersed, the state of the marketplace was now apparent – squashed fruit and burlap sacks lay scattered indiscriminately from stall to stall. Swarms of flies jumped in excitement at the feast that had been unveiled for them. “Be on your way,” the guard finally bleated. “I think you’ve caused enough of a scene here, don’t you?” With no reply and his question hanging awkwardly in the already unsettled air, he rocked once more on the balls of his feet - this time more exaggerated than before – and then took a few long steps backwards before turning his body mid-stride to ready himself for exit. The other guard followed suit, casting Italo a knowing glance before hurrying after. The two vanished quickly into the throng of bodies.

A few more uncomfortable moments passed before Italo finally became animated again, meeting the stares of the stall owners who regarded him cautiously from behind the safety of their stacked crates of foodstuffs. In a sudden turn he advanced, until he came to stand again before the beggar, who had managed to lift his head slightly from the ground, his long curled hair matted like the fur of a stray dog with deep red blood. His face was as the pulp of the fruits that lay strewn around them - mangled and unsightly; his eyes now peered out from behind puffy swells of pink flesh, the open cuts on his cheeks and nose framed by blossoming bruises, his nose skewed and visibly broken. “Please!” he wheezed desperately at the abrupt movement, but his assailant didn’t land another blow. He reached down to where the beggar’s hand lay outstretched, and tore from it the apple that he unknowingly still held there.

Italo inspected the fruit again, this time holding it closer to his face. He gazed upon the stamped insignia for a few seconds more, then spun the apple in his hand and sank his teeth through the skin and into the juicy flesh, ripping a chunk from it with an audible crunch. He slowly chewed it to mush with his mouth open, then discharged the solution of saliva and apple pulp onto the beggar’s body to gasps from dismayed spectators. He ignored them, instead bearing down with a visage of bared disgust at the cowering man. “You dirty fucking thief,” he spat. While still holding the apple in his outstretched hand, he shot out an accusatory finger that shook uncontrollably. “Don’t you dare fuck with me!”

The beggar’s gasp widened, but no words broke his disbelief and reached his lips. Somehow, even though his battered face was bulging and obscuring them, one could tell his eyes were wide with fright, his pupils reduced to grains of sand. Without warning or explanation, Italo withdrew his outreached appendage, tucked the rescued apple neatly into the pocket of his cloak, turned about-face and walked away.

[Them Apples]

Italo slumped, nursing a tankard of syrupy bitter while staring absently up at the slowing swaying lamp that cast dull light over his table and the booth it was situated in. He had been sitting silent and solitary for a bell or so, until the inn proprietor’s eight-year-old son slid onto the bench opposite him and sat expectantly gazing over the table top. When he sat he wore a sympathetic smile, but as he waited longer and solicited no reaction that smile fell away, and his expression turned to one of childish concern.

“Sir?” he enquired, breaking the long-drawn-out silence. Italo responded immediately by redirecting his gaze towards the boy, then a pleasant smile broke his solemn countenance, and he wriggled upright and leant forward, the weight of his elbows tilting the table with a subtle squeak. The boy beamed back at him with obvious familiarity. “Can we play again?”

“Sure,” Italo agreed, and with that the child pulled his hands from below the table, between which he clasped a deck of cards he had brought over in anticipation. He shuffled them the way the guest had taught him, glancing up to catch the approving smile Italo cast as the scuffed corners fell into place reordered. The boy repeated the motion three times, with each one checking to make sure the lodger was still watching his technique intently, and shifting excitedly when he was. He aligned them and then dealt sloppily, every now and again having to pry apart cards that were moulded together with spilt beer.

“I go first,” he exclaimed.

“Oh? Why so?” Italo questioned playfully.

“Youngest always goes first, remember. It’s the rules.”

Italo accepted the assertion with a short ‘ahh’ and they began. Shortly after starting, he noticed the boy glancing repeatedly at his hands and then away with a contemplative frown. After ten seconds or so he gave up trying to quell his curiosity.

“How did you hurt your hands?” he asked pryingly.

Italo turned them over to inspect his knuckles - most of which bore fresh, bright cuts – and then explained nonchalantly: “I caught a thief at the market today. He tried to get away and I captured him.” The boy’s eyes lit up with exhilaration, his mouth agape but curled in a grin, soliciting a light-hearted laugh. “It wasn’t anything special! I was just doing what anyone would, honestly.” The boy closed his mouth at that and leaned back a little, but he still gazed upon the Italo with newfound wonder for a long moment before laying his next card.

In another bell Italo had lost count of how many rounds had been dealt and played, but he inwardly sighed with relief when the landlady called the boy’s name and beckoned him to make has way to bed; it had seemed he would keep dealing and collecting the cards with the same fervour until well in to the night. Instead he sprawled both arms wide across the table and gathered them in one movement saying, “Night mister. Thanks for playing,” as he did so. He then swept the whole deck off the table into a makeshift net he had fashioned from his tunic, and made his way careening between the scattered tables to where his mother held the door to their private residence open in waiting. She regarded the solitary customer with a warm, grateful smile before closing the door behind her.

Italo finished his drink and made his way through the empty bar, up to his room where retired for the night.

[Them Apples]

He did not spend any more nights unravelling in that empty space, though he still lodged at the inn above owing to a growing affection for the presumably windowed landlady – a plethora of emotions that Italo had limited experience battling with – and a sympathy for her lack of custom barring his own. He found greater comfort fleeing that confounding war between shallow condescension and deep desire, and retreated almost-nightly under the soft glow of evening time once he had changed from his work attire, down the cobbled streets a few hundred steps to a raucous bar called The Plastered Pauper. There he felt as if he were a background feature in a cluttered painting, only rarely acknowledged by the few regulars he had shared exchanges with and the working acquaintance that had recommended the tavern to him during a mundane, time-passing conversation.

His sudden and curious presence over the weeks had, conversely, caught the attention of the younger of the two serving maids: she would weave between the tables balancing more tankards, jugs and plates than seemed possible for a young woman of such slender build to lift, and when she passed Italo and retrieved his vessel she would often look upon him with a nervous flutter of her eyes, then dance away with noticeably more grace than she approached with. From back behind the bar she would cast flitting glances across the room, aiming them through the constantly shifting mass of bodies like an archer finding a target through a copse of trees, and now and again he would catch them and divert his attention to beyond the window, where he could privately project his smugness onto the glass while his vision lost focus. It was a game they played, or so he joked privately, and a rare one where they could both be winners.

When he wasn’t attempting to silently woo the coy barmaid, Italo would spend his uncounted hours in that faintly illuminated corner doing two things: he would firstly spend some time pondering on how he would acquire his own estate, or where he might migrate to to discover his true fortune. This was a repetitive and usually fruitless trail that left him feeling nearly as desperate, and undervalued, as the present situation that had caused him to dwell to begin with. But his thirsty hankering couldn’t be repressed. It wasn't so much dreams of wealth that plagued the young man. What he wanted was the power that came with it; to stand aloft above the common folk and watch as they bowed loyally or cowered like cornered mice - it didn't matter which.

Lately he had experienced actual dreams of that exact scenario: he was a giant - and by his understanding within the dreams had always been one - and he stomped through the streets of Radasanth flinging carts and casks and crates with each sweeping stride, cityfolk fleeing like crickets from beneath the soles of his gargantuan boots. Some would fall beneath his thunderous footfalls, splatting like dung; others would seek cover behind the nearest door, peeking from slithers of darkness as the giant stampeded with rampant licence, his arms as flails that wildly smashed the stone and glass of houses and their windows, his maniacal laugh the only noise that dared to sound in his wake. Eventually, when his destructive urge had subsided with the pulverised dust, he would come to the cliffs on which the city's manors perched, though the climb was far steeper than usual. He would eye the summit and squeeze his fists until his joints popped with the sound of twenty cannonballs firing in unison. By this point he had grown to a tremendous size, standing as high and as resolute a watchtower, and his skin had taken on the colour and smell of raw iron. Then he would swing one of his immense hands over his head and into the rock face like a rake brought down on sun-dried ground. With a great leap he would begin his determined ascent, ever growing as he clambered over the cliffs and the tiny estates that eventually became so small they would collapse beneath his fingertips. He quickly became hypnotised by the repetitive and rhythmic climbing motion, and after some time - when his fingers began to throb with the warmth of overuse and his awareness returned - the roar of rushing wind was all that he could hear, and then he stopped, craned his neck and looked below. He had climbed until the city was a toy miniature beneath him, the river a length of string weaving to the coast, the residents barely distinguishable, as fleas scurrying under a thick mane. It was a sight that usually only winged creatures were lucky enough to witness. I must be nearing the summit, he reasoned, and his determination grew.

The giant Italo turned and cast his dogged gaze to the sky... but the light of day didn't beckon him as it had before. Silhouetted by the shocking blue that framed it, a head and then a body now peered over the summit, filling half the sky - an inconceivable colossus that dwarfed even him. His mouth dropped open and gaped like crater as the figure reached an enormous arm over the cliff edge. He could do nothing to stop it. The being's palm pushed against his forehead effortlessly, and he sagged under its strength. His numbing hands relinquished their grip on the cliff's surface, and he was held by the head like a child's doll for a second before being cast cheaply from that great height. As he fell he focussed wagon-wheel sized pupils upon the dark visage that peered down at him, but no features came forth. That face remained shadowed, like a storm cloud filling the sky, until suddenly the darkness enveloped all he was, and he awoke. He usually lay beneath the covers as still as a ruin, for minute after minute, contemplative of the slight differences in that rendition to the time before and before that. One thing he was always sure of, and the revelation that troubled his thoughts the most, was the identity of that shadowed figure that condemned him to his fall from grace.

When he wasn’t fruitlessly attempting to plot his course, Italo would listen intently to the conversations that filled the air, tuning in and out of each until an exchange piqued his attention. He took great interest listening to discourse about women or family – whether positive or negative – or talk of foreign culture or customs – since he had never experienced any – or any recounting of anecdotes, of battle or absurdity, adventure or woe. He would drop his chin to his chest so no-one could see him smiling to himself, eyes squeezed shut as he tried to claim the memory as his own; as he strained to picture himself within the scene and overlook altogether that he was never there.

[Them Apples]

On one particular evening, after he had flirted mutely with the barmaid and stared absently at the golden glowing cobbles outside, Italo took to scanning the room for intriguing conversation. He listened for a minute to a dialogue between two colleagues as they complimented each other’s distaste for their boss, and concocted theories on how they could dispose of him, then moved on hastily – the subject of work was a common and banal one among the patrons – to the one-sided ramblings of an eminent regular at the tavern, who bawled his words as if the table he sat at were his pulpit and the pub-goers his congregation, though Italo doubted any real sermon would be centred on the comical performance of the speaker’s wife between the sheets as this one was. He followed along impartially until the bellowing became an irritant.

Amid the roaring laughter and prosaic chit-chat that carried on tailless smoke trails meandering around the room, Italo’s ears pricked at a voice he had not heard there before; a hushed and profound monologue that didn’t fit the mood of the raucous inn. Italo leant forward and placed his elbows on the table top and cupped his chin in his hands, his face scrunching as he focused. His proximity to the table at which the exchange was being made meant he could distinguish the bulk of the conversation through the clamour.

“… Was instructed as usual… East Dock in three… second bell… nondescript leather… marked as always… just take it for storage to the…” The din intensified at that point, drowning out the rest of the directions. Italo waited eagerly.

When the noise died down again, another man was speaking in reply. His voice wasn't as delicate, and Italo followed his words easily and with increasing captivation. “… Goin’ to be paid that much… surely?” An inaudible reply followed. “Blimey!” he exclaimed, to collective shushes. “’S a bit much i’nt it? Must be pricey cargo - what we shiftin’? I ain’t shiftin’ nothin’ dodgy. ‘Member that staff?” He paused, presumably to solicit acknowledgement. “Magic’s trouble. Yeah, I ain’t shiftin’ nothin’ like that staff again. Ain’t Ever.”

“Nobody said…” began the first speaker’s incisive response, but the words rose and fell on Italo’s ears like a fish routinely surfacing for air, and he struggled to follow. Shortly thereafter, the perceived ringleader made his way to the bar, and Italo took the interval to re-evaluate the details, counting on his fingers as he recited mentally: three days from this; at the second bell; at the Eastern Dock; a presumably illicit and expensive cargo; contained in a leather case with a motif on; to be taken by a few unorganised henchmen for storage…

Italo paused, one hand spread and his second thumb raised. It was almost as if fate willed it – what a telling coincidence, to be overhearing such a conversation! He drew a deep breath through his nostrils as his contemplative brain galloped excitedly. As he became conscious of his manifesting eagerness, he attempted to remain casual and inconspicuous, leaning back and peering again out over the gold-lit flagstones.

When the leader of the troupe returned the trio’s conversation shifted to other things, and Italo lost interest. He sat staring into the street for a while longer, and when he perceived his surroundings again most of the bar had emptied and it was awkwardly quiet. He finished his drink in one long swig, gathered his coat, acknowledged the elder, less attractive barmaid with a gratified smile, and left hurriedly into the cold, swathing night.

[Them Apples]

After absently sleeping and working Italo returned to The Plastered Pauper in the early evening in hopes of garnering further details of the precious consignment due to arrive at the Radasanth docks two nights following. He arrived before the sun had set, and the tavern presented itself as a different place to the one he had been frequenting. The solitary room wasn’t as cramped as he had thought – there was sufficient space to move unrestricted through the aisles and no queue to be served. A bard sat in the far corner by the unlit hearth with a lute in hand, and bounced discreet verses off the opposite wall; the other attending patrons, of which there were six or seven, were otherwise unobtrusive, exchanging calm conversation, casually passing a pipe or sitting idly like grazing horses. Both of the establishment’s oak doors were propped open, allowing rolling breezes to sweep through one and carry the residual stale odours of ale and smoke out of the other.

Italo stood at the door for a long moment in bewildered silence, surveying the unfamiliar scene. He eyed his usual seat by the window, but as he adjusted to the novel atmosphere he chose instead to move uncertainly between the tables until he arrived at the bar. He pulled out a stool and sat, and as no-one was tending the taps, rested his forearms upon the table top and let his gaze wander over each bottle that lined the back wall. He began tapping his fingernails to the cadence of the bard’s soothing song.

Before long, the faded and threadbare maroon curtain that hung in the doorway at the right-hand end of the bar ruffled, and through it emerged the alluring barmaid that Italo had shared so many extrasensory moments of intimacy with under the blanket of tobacco smoke that warmed the tavern in the late evenings. Upon laying sight on her, he stopped rapping on the wooden surface, and lifted his arms to sit upright before realising the movement had been noticably awkward.

Luckily she didn’t notice him at first, instead walking the length of the bar top and taking up a position facing the wall at the far end. Italo slowly rested forward again and watched the back of her head intermittently in the time she spent rearranging and reordering the tankards and glasses she had carried in with her. She hummed along to the melody in the background as she worked, and only noticed the young man waiting as she made the return journey towards the back room.

“What can I get ya?” she recited as she slowed to stand before him. Her big-eyed stare jumped probingly from feature to feature before aligning with Italo’s own. “Ah! Not used t’ seeing your face in the lightaday,” she remarked, and he smiled tentatively. Her accent was broadly local, but her voice carried a subtle, refreshing timbre that seemed to blend with the lulling atmosphere. He noticed her top rested part-way down her breast, but glanced back up quickly.

“Long day,” he said thoughtlessly.

“Hah! You’ve gotta be kiddin’!” she retorted loudly, then cast apologetic glances to the patrons she had startled and gathered herself before continuing. “Were you up b’fore the sun? Out the door in the chill glowa dawn? Scrubbin’ tankards n’ sweepin’ floors ‘til noontime?” She reached behind her, pulled a glass from the shelf and began polishing it with the sleeve of her blouse. “Nah. I bet a smart fella like you rises with the sun and sits behind a desk ‘til what… two bells after noon? Three? Long day! Gimme a rest. Literally.” She gave a disapproving huff, followed by a kindly smile as she noticed Italo was taken aback at her tirade. “So—”

“No, I’m sorry,” Italo interjected. “I spoke inconsiderately. You’re right – I don’t have to rise early or work late.” He paused to search for words. “It’s all just a little tedious, is all.”

She wasn’t quite as alluring in the day time, nor without the background din to obscure the harsh accentuation of her voice. Standing opposite her, Italo mapped the pock marks of her cheeks and forehead as she polished the last smears from the glass in her hand, and noted the leanness of her wrists and neck. He eyed the stains on her clothes and involuntarily scrunched his nose up. He felt his fantasy-like infatuation for her wither, like a flower finally realising it had expended so much energy reaching towards a candle flame.

“Well,” she replied, “let’s sort all that out. What can I get ya? You can get me one later on if you really want to make up for upsett’n me.” She smiled at him again. Her smile was a pretty one, he admitted to himself.

“The usual…?” She stared blankly, then retracted her bottom lip and shook her head softly. “Orchard ale,” he elaborated, embarrassed.

“Elsie Wirewood,” she said without prompt, and this time her hospitable smile was tangibly more authentic.

“Italo Applehall,” he responded in kind, and tried to imitate the warmth of her expression to no avail.

[Them Apples]

Two or three bells passed before the sun retreated behind the rooftops and the tavern began to fill with its regular patrons. Over that time the pair exchanged idle and playful conversation about their daily routines within and outside of work, discussed areas of the city they retreated to for solace – Italo elaborated vaguely of his desire to be a wallflower within the confines of her establishment, while she told him of a placid park overlooking the statue of the elf Radasanth where she stopped sometimes on her way home after a shift and ‘unravelled the knots in her head’ – and about some of the more intriguing regulars of whom Elsie was eager to recount memorable anecdotes of.

It was as Elsie concluded one such story and left to attend the bar that Italo realised he had reached a state of drunkenness usually reserved for special occasions. A glance at the window panes revealed it was far later than he had supposed, for the street lamps cast waves of tangerine light across the glass, and they were not usually lit until the twentieth bell. He had drowned his inhibitions to a state of numbness, and the wet smile pasted on his face followed Elsie back and forth along the bar as she poured drinks for those around him. She repeatedly glanced his way anxiously as she worked, but after a time of constant occupation and only passing words of assurance they would resume their dialogue, Italo decided he would retreat from the crowded bar front to his regular table.

There he waited for her undivided attention, his drink remaining untouched as he stared absently at the cobblestones outside, the dancing light mirrored in his pensive gaze.

[Them Apples]

Italo found he had sobered up somewhat as closing time neared, despite indulging further to wet his throat. Reality felt gradually less like lolling in a cosy dream state, and he could follow his conscious narrative without forgetting where his trail of thought had lead him the moment before.

He surveyed the scene of the tavern as the night neared its conclusion, and recalled a time when three of his father’s domesticated boars had escaped their pen and rampaged through the ground floor of his childhood home. Chairs lay upturned, drunk from the puddles that soaked the floor and the table tops, as if the roof had been removed and a storm cloud passed overhead; the air smelt dank, and a low lying smoke hovered like morning mist at waist height. There only remained seven bodies besides Italo within the pub’s cellar-like confines, and in two cases the word ‘bodies’ was comically accurate – one lay slumped over the bar, his legs dangling from his stool like a child’s on a swing, while the second reclined awkwardly over the arm of his chair, his head perpendicular to his torso. Italo watched him intently, noting his subtle listing every time he released a deep intake of breath. He anticipated that given another five minutes he would crash to the ground, though whether that would wake from his mead-induced slumber was debatable.

Italo’s thought process was interrupted by a body obscuring his line of sight as it waded between the tables collecting stray glasses. He shifted his attention to Elsie, and watched as she worked. Despite having managed the bar alone from morning ‘til past midnight, she still moved gracefully and with purpose, humming a soft tune that genially filled the interludes of silence despite falling nearly inaudible on Italo’s ears. It filled his head, and made him feel lethargic.

To combat his stupor he jumped to his feet and began gathering glasses from the surrounding tables, then traced Elsie’s path back to the bar. When she noticed him lining up beside her, she turned towards him and propped herself against a stool.

“Ah! I think that’s a first!” she said in mock-surprise as he placed the glasses down delicately, raising her brows and nodding her head. “Don’t expect any payin’.

Italo chuckled. While she rested he continued her duties, meticulously tucking in stools and collecting more drinking vessels to return them to the bar.

“How’re you farin’ fella?” she inquired.

He looked up at her, then at the shell of the man that lay sprawled nearby at the end of the counter. “Better than that man,” he replied in jest.

She let out an unrestrained ‘hah’, and then her cheerful demeanour washed away and she looked pitifully upon the slumped drunk. “Poor Colley’s right in the gutter. ‘E’s ‘ad a real tough time of late, that one. It’s all I can do to fill ‘is glass, but I know it only sends ‘im deeper into misery. I leave ‘im ‘ere as long as I can most nights; better than sendin’ ‘im ‘ome to a cold bed.” She winced. “His wife passed, see, not too long ago. ‘E used t’ be a right chirpy soul; played this little metal mouth thing, a uh… harmonica, thassit… and jigged around flingin’ ‘is arm over people’s shoulders. Kinda man that everyone greets with a huge smile.” She sighed. “Seems like so long ago I last saw that man. Such a shame…” She paused, glancing musingly up at the ceiling, then back to Colley. “Even more a shame is what she did after she died; pledged ‘er worldly possessions and ‘er ‘eart to a good friend of ‘is in ‘er will and testament – left ‘im near destitute. Turned out she’d been screwin’ around while ‘e was at sea – deck hand ‘e was, if I recall right – and lettin’ this other fella sleep in the dip ‘e’d left in the mattress. Colley strangled ‘im plain dead out of rage, but it didn’t kill ‘is sorrow, only gave ‘im more guilt in the long run. Man like that doesn’t gain from revenge.” She looked away, as if suddenly flustered by image of Colley hung over the bar like a discarded marionette. “Then ‘e just withdrew, from all of us. No-one knows what to say to ‘im anymore.” Her lip quivered a little, and she blinked away a tear. “Heart wrenching.”

Italo stared blankly at Colley’s back as a sombre silence filled the room. He didn’t prepare a response, and they remained for a moment painted in that most uncomfortable scene. Italo suspected she could sense his apathy towards Colley. For what was a man if a woman could unstitch him like a thread? And a man who lacked the dominion to control the movements of his own wife…? Perhaps Colley should have dedicated more time to leaving impressions the centre of the bed, and less to seeking the adoration of so many other men, Italo mused, then maybe he could have mourned for her dotingly and with his wealth intact. As he stared his face started to twist in to a grimace.

“Anyway!” Elsie interjected, “Like I was sayin’… I saw you lost in your own little world earlier; tried to get yer attention but you jus’ stared n’ didn’t respond! Did ya go anywhere nice?”

“I… not really; just pondering things,” Italo replied.

“Things?”

“Yes,” he said, but could see she anticipated more. “You know – the future; the past… the present. I think I drank too much tonight to remember exactly where my mind wandered.”

“Oh really?” she said, tilting her head in feigned scepticism. “So ya won’t be joinin’ me for a quick bevvy and walkin’ me home then, eh handsome?”

Italo looked away in contemplation, with a hint of blushing at her forward approach, and then responded promptly: “Very well; but just the one.” As he gave the word, Elsie rose from her stool and made her way around the bar. She selected two small glasses from the lower shelf, placed them side-by-side on the bar top, and then pointed and waved her finger towards the area behind him.

“Finish up collecting, will ya. I’ll be back in a sec.” With that she disappeared behind the ragged curtain that hid the back rooms of the establishment.

[Them Apples]

Italo rested both elbows against the counter for a short time. He was surprised to see that apart from he and Colley, not a soul occupied the squalid bar. The other napping drunk had evidently awoken and ambled out quietly, while the few still-conscious patrons that had been his company had drained their dregs, disappearing into the street and the obscurity of the night. Italo felt for a moment as if he were trespassing, as one often does when left alone in an unfamiliar place.

He spent the next minute or two hurriedly clearing glasses, and mopping pools of spilt liquor using a soiled rag Elsie had left on the bar. He eyed it with a frown as it soaked up the fluids, and it occurred to him that the cloth’s sullied appearance perfectly illustrated how he felt performing those menial duties. Italo rang the rag out into a glass with a squeeze of one hand. He reminded himself of why he was lowering himself to such humble tasks – she had asked him to walk her home, and the implications of that were explicit. He continued to labour with renewed intent, reasoning that the sooner they left, the more likely he was to be invited inside when they reached her residence.

It was as Italo was clunking the last of the stray drinking vessels upon the bar that Elsie reappeared like a dishevelled magician’s assistant from behind the draped doorway, and held an elegant looking bottle in a pose in front of her bosom.

“You said ‘just the one’,” she remarked, “but… you didn’t specify which one.”

Italo squinted to read the bottle’s label, but the writing was too small to decipher. He recognised the label, perhaps from his father’s extensive assortment of spirits that he had on rare occasions deviously borrowed from in his later youth, but couldn’t place it.

“It’s Lindequalmë Firewater.” She paused in thought. “Lindequalmë. Lind-ee-qual-may. I don’t know what the dots mean. Is that how you say it?” she queried. Italo shrugged, although as he understood it the ‘ë’ character implied it was sounded ‘mee’ and not ‘may’. Surprisingly, the name did not sound familiar, though he knew of the location of the Red Forest, and suspected it was an Elven concoction. “Anyway, I think this stuff is laced with spells or somethin’ - a hit or two does me right after a long day; washes the grime away, if you see what I’m sayin’. Not that I drink it every day or anythin’. Ya ready? Match me.”

They took their places on each side of the bar, and Elsie filled both their glasses excitedly. The alcohol itself was a crystalline red in colour. It recalled Italo of rubies, or blood mixed with water. He sensed the zealousness in the atmosphere, as if they were as tame as teenagers, both meekly aware of the implications of a man and a woman drinking together, alone.

They both grasped their vessels delicately between thumb and forefinger and exchanged a roguish smile, and then as Elsie counted to three, they raised their drinks and drained them.

[Them Apples]

Elsie slipped her arm through the gap between Italo’s own and his torso, bouncing off of him and giggling wildly as she did so. “I’m a feck’n’ ruin!” she cried heartily, and in that moment the young man sensed all barriers of unfamiliarity had eroded between them. “I’m blunt as a club! Are you not drunk? I’m quite… drunk.”

“I’ve not felt it so much,” he admitted. “It’s important for a man to retain some semblance of awareness if he’s walking a lady home. You never know what could be around the corner.”

“Ha!” she exclaimed sarcastically. “I walk this… I was… I do this every night! Never had a problem. Well maybe a couple a’ times but my point is… I can take care of myelf if needs been… be… is my point.” She looked up at him from her half-stooped perspective. Italo’s gaze remained fixed ahead, his visage revealing little of how he felt, though she sensed his unease.

Her temperament changed, and she stood upright like a soldier. “Sorry,” she said sofly, and Italo stopped in his stride.

“Sorry?” he repeated. “For what?”

“For bein’… loud. Bein’ vile.” Italo’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “I… I should go; I know I ain’t your type. Sorry.” She pulled her arm from his and began to move away, but before she was out of reach his hand clasped her slender wrist. She turned and regarded him in surprise.

“That simply isn’t the case,” he said eventually, and loosened his grip. She still appeared unsure. “You’re being foolish. Have I not returned time and time again to your establishment, and sat in the same chair waiting for you to serve me? Do you suppose I come for the repartee, or to dance to that loathsome drunkard plucking at the lute like a hooked fish flopping on a ship deck?” She giggled a little, looking away as she did so, then returned her gaze to peer deep into the darkness of his pupils. “You intrigue me, Elsie Wirewood, as very few souls in this city have done. With people like yourself...” He trailed off and paused for a second. “I would not have stayed to help you if I did not see reason to. I would very much like to know more of you, and forgive me if I have read your gestures incorrectly but I feel you share that sentiment.”

Her eyes glistened with anticipative vitality. “Sorry.”

“Stop saying sorry!” Italo pleaded, his lips curling into a smile.

“So—” she began, but caught herself and laughed it off bashfully. They lingered, searching each other’s faces for a long moment. Elsie attempted to remain composed, but in her stupor could not entirely suppress the childish grin veiled behind her contorted lips. For a moment she was lost in that stare, experiencing some novel connection that for a split second made her feel adolescent again. Italo's gaze was comparatively ambiguous. Then she realised he no longer held her wrist but her hand, and her other had intuitively found it’s way up to rest upon his chest. “Ya know, you talk really posh,” she said.

“I know,” he replied.

“Let’s go, shall we, my noble guardian?” With a giggle she slotted her arm back through his, and they continued along the desolate lantern-lit street, her wooden-heeled footsteps throwing ominous echoes into the distant darkness.

[Them Apples]

After walking a short while arm in arm and chatting boisterously, the pair came to the summit of a long sloping road where the parade of terraced houses that framed their path finally ended. On their right, the ever-open doorway of a lofty temple glowed with the inviting promise of warmth and shelter from the wind. Ahead and to the left where the stars now cascaded to the horizon, a low lying stone wall outlined the boundary of a large cemetery. Peculiar faces peered intermittently from the enveloping darkness - the cast visages of lords and officers revealed in sporadic flickers of light, emanating from candles lay at their feet in moments of fond reminiscence. The pair stopped short of the gated entranceway in the middle of the street and fell silent.

Italo eyed the scene intensely – he knew of this place from stories the natives had told him, and he knew there were good reasons to not intrude beyond that invitingly squat stone wall. As his attention shifted from each chiselled, emotionless face that flashed from the sweeping darkness, he swore that every so often an impossible snarl would adorn one of the effigies, or their eyes would catch the light in a way that stone never could.

“This cemetery…”

“Is full of ghosts n’ spirits n’ yada-yada-yada,” Elsie interjected loudly. “I’ve walked past it ‘undreds of times and ain’t nothin’ ever attacked me. I pop in the temple every now n’ again on my way through – the priests are lovely always fix me up some blue nettle tea or somethin’, ‘specially in winter. Anyway, ‘e told me there’s this in-can… this spell, on the wall. Ain’t nothin’ nasty gettin’ out they vowed, so I just walk round it; there’s a path look, between this house n’ the wall.” She gestured, then grabbed Italo’s hand and led him towards the alleyway, dragging him for the first few steps before he consciously caught up and held his weight again. He cast concerned glances into the distance as they went.

The alley was paved to an extent –randomly placed cobbles littered the grass causeway as if they had fallen from the houses that lined it and slowly sank into place. The only light afforded to the couple came from lanterns placed along the wall at intervals that left areas in near pitch darkness. The silence that permeated through the essence of night was something Italo didn’t think he’d ever experience within the city’s confines; one’s ears became accustomed to the subtle humdrum that spread like a flood through the streets, ceaselessly encroaching on wherever one might seek stillness. It was only as his careful breaths ebbed that Italo realised he had come to wear that din like a blanket – like an unborn baby does the internal resonances of its mother – and its absence made him feel cold and unprotected.

Radasanth had become his surrogate womb. He leeched her sustenance and her poison, taking everything that was served him but still lashing out in complaint. He had at times scratched at her walls but no exit opened for him, and though he relied unduly on her to nourish and give him means to develop, the cord that fed his belly carried the toxins and viruses by which she was afflicted, tainting that process and infecting his spirit with irrepressible feelings of frustration and vehemence. For a time these compulsions and vagaries passed without recognition, until they became too overwhelming to repress, and manifested sporadically like starved wolves emerging to hunt from the black caverns of his being.

“Oh!”

Italo recoiled, his hand instinctively moving to grip the hilt of his rapier. But he caught only air. He shot panicked glances into the darkness, darting from each hint of movement to the next. Then he regarded Elsie.

“Oh!” she exclaimed again as she ambled away from him, her arms both half-raised as if she were in trance. Then she slowed, stopped and turned to address Italo over her shoulder, a grin pasted on her face. “This is the place!”

Italo relaxed his muscles, though his heart still thumped against his ribs. “Pardon…?”

“This is it! Y’know - the place I was tellin’ you about; the place I stop on my way ‘ome to think. Just gotta climb this ‘ill an’ it’s behind those bushes! Oh! I’m well excited to show you.” She gave him a serious stare. “You’re the first person, you know, to be invited ‘ere. You’re priv… pr… you’re lucky, you know.” She reached one of her slender hands back to him. “Come on… what’s your name again?! I’m too stewed.”

“I –”

“Italo!” Elsie interjected. “Come on, Italo Applehead.”

He stood for a moment in contemplation, then walked swiftly to her side and took her hand in his. They climbed the knoll slowly, heading away from the lantern-lit stone wall and into a more shrouding darkness.