Lost In The Moment

[Skie and Avery]

{ This thread takes place 10 years after Harmless (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=3566). Closed. }


Whom shall I call on? Who will share with me the wretched happiness of staying alive?

-Sergei Yesenin

A pair of shaking hands held a torn paper. Skie dan Sabriel had picked it up off of the road on her way to her hotel room. For some reason, Radasanthian hotels had lost their familiar veneer a long time ago. There had been once in her life when they had been her home away from home. She had watched this city come to life and fall to sleep on countless occasions, and then there had been that one beautiful late Autumn day. As the frosty night came in from the sea, she'd been held in a prizefighter's arms, safe and warm while the storm of life sat still for such a short time.

To Skie, she had changed so much since then. Looking in the mirror, more than just her clothing had matured. Her face had lost nothing of her youth, though it was marked with a small gray-green star under her left eye. Her hair was still as black and long as ever, her eyes as blue. She'd fallen, though, broken and near-dead before those in the last decade that had treated her wrongly. The spark had gone from those cerulean iris', the shimmering of stars dimming as if obscured by a clouded night.

Would he have changed just as much?

Upon the paper there was a proclamation. "The Architect of Destruction Fights Tonight!" There was more, but she only had eyes for that first line, and the small woodcarved picture that had been printed beside it. The linework looked little like the man who had shared her bed many years ago, but the name was familiar. The Architect of Destruction was a prizefighter that few knew as Victor Callahan. Closing her eyes, leaning her head back, Skie smiled as she murmured a name that had been on her mind countless times before.

"Victor..." her voice came as a breath, a tiny remembrance of the ways she'd gasped his name in a cold room, in a warm embrace. As her cheeks warmed with the phantom caress on her arm of his calloused hands, she pressed the paper to her lips, kissing the picture as she breathed in the scent of wood pulp and ink.

"I've found you." she said, her voice a laugh that bubbled up from her chest. Looking through the lace that curtained the windows, her eyes caught the moon. It was nearly full, pulsing with the energy that it was gathering. In three nights it would be pregnant with possibility, giving aid to the Moontae, to her brother. Avery had become a true monster in the last nine years, his heart heavy with the loss of his child and the abandonment of his wife. The gravity of his heartache had pulled him down, and he had fallen. In three nights, when the silver kiss of the moon was full upon them, she would release him from the pain that had warped him so far from the beautiful man she'd once known.

Skie was grateful for one thing. In her journey to end one story with another's beginning, she'd found a chapter she'd thought was too far lost to be recovered. Smiling, she folded the paper up, tucking it in her small satchel and left the room. She turned to look at it one last time before shutting the door. Small bed, covered in a woolen blanket, lace curtains fluttering in the midsummer night's breeze, a small vanity dresser with a dirty mirror looking out onto the room. Her smile grew warmer, and she laughed. So much in life had a way of turning full circle. Where she was seemed so close to where she had been. She hoped, that with such a short trek to the outskirts of the city tonight, she would find herself in the place she felt safest: The presence of Victor Callahan.

The Architect of everything she had grown to be...


xoO|V|Oox

The heat flowed upwards from the arenas. Skie stalked along the edges of the bleachers, her eyes searching each pit. She didn't linger on each fighter for too long. There were many, bloody and sweating, and she felt that she would know the man she searched for the moment that she saw him. As spectators and gamblers screamed out all around her, she wiped the sweat from her brow, narrowing her eyes against the dim light of the arenas. Large torches and lanterns above illuminated the pits, the flash of magnesium bulbs exploded a white, hot light among faces for the barest of moments. It was, there, rendered in harsh highlights, that she saw a familiar face. Of course, the name most screamed in the stands would be the one surrounded by the most cameramen.

The camera obscura was possibly the most popular thing out of technological Alerar. Tintype pictures were everywhere in the big city now, Radasanthians scrambling all over each other to catch the glances of the photographers who lugged their flash bulbs and portable dark rooms up and down the downtown streets. The dwarves had been making a killing from the trade, and in this place, Skie could see why. Who wouldnt want that perfect punch preserved on paper? These were the bouts that would be passed down in seedy bars everywhere for years to come. The final moments would be argued over, yes, but it would all come down to that last strike. The crack of knuckle on skull, the crossing and glazing of the unfortunate loser's eyes, and then the thump of a body on canvas. She heard it everywhere, amidst boos and cheers and the sloshing of ale in mugs.

Her steps were light as she skirted around all the arenas, her hand placed gently on the hilt of her sword. She wasn't expecting any trouble here, but when men and beer collided, you never knew. Somehow she managed to make the trek to the other side, her eyes always on one darting, muscled figure. He was bulky, more muscled than when she had known him, but there was no mistaking the flash of passion in those eyes, the frown on his face. She'd seen the expression he wore in a fight before, because she had once faced him. She had been clothed in illusion then, hiding the fact that she was a woman and a demon from him them. Her steps took her to the ringside of the Architect of Destruction, where he was staring over his fists at a man who proclaimed to be the Radasanthian Rage.

Her breath caught in her throat. He was somehow harder now than he had been before. The lines on his face were deeper, a touch of gray combed at the temples of his brown hair. There were scars on his torso that she knew hadn't been there ten years ago, but those lips were still the same. As she watched, a bell rang and the pugilists began to circle each other. Skie's hand flew to her neck, where a small silvery locket hung, and she smiled.

Even when she had been on the beaten end, she had always admired the way he seemed to lose himself in these moments.

[The Cinderella Man]

Another day, another bag of shinies...

The heat of the arena was almost unbearable, a satchel filled with bricks that pulled down at his shoulders and sapped his vigor. The shimmering light bulbs, the stands packed with agitated folk, the half-naked louts drenched in their own sweat, it all worked together to turn the interior of the Bone Glove Arena into a furnace. It wasn’t a pretty place. It wasn’t even a crummy place. It was a place where worst of the worst regularly came to exchange punches and receive standing ovations for either bleeding or bloodying the other guy. Weapons were banished from the rings, but that was probably the only rule that was strictly enforced between the ropes. It wasn’t boxing anymore, just street-fighting set in an environment that the audience preferred more then alley slugfests. Here they got all the amenities of the regular bouts and all the unhinged violence of the less regular ones.

Victor Callahan liked to believe that he wasn’t in this stinkhole by choice. He liked to believe that, because of his rap sheet and the prison time, he was banished from the world of sanctioned boxing and thus forced to participate in these bare-knuckle fights. But the truth wasn’t so unambiguous. He didn’t have to be here. There were other lines of work he could pursue, less hazardous, less painful, more prospective. They always sought some extra muscle down at the docks and a multitude of those wandering merc companies sure weren’t too picky. And yet Padre always kept returning to this arena of pain and blood, suffering and delivering punches. He sat down once to deliberate on the reasons for this self-destruction, but the best he could come up with was that he was punishing himself. For what, though, was a knot he couldn’t quite untangle yet. Perhaps for squandering his life. Perhaps for death he brought. Perhaps for Aicha.

Ultimately, it didn’t matter. The fights provided the necessary sustenance and if someone came around and knocked his lights out for good, it was probably none too early. So far none of those were matched up against him, but several came close enough. Two weeks ago he fought a black-skinned outlander that fought both hands and feet, and he moved both faster then Victor could even see it. The only thing that saved the Architect of Destruction to finally meet the latter part of his fancy title was the fact that he was kicked out of the ring. And yet the crowd still favored him. The ex-con won as many bouts as he lost, but for some reason the mob cheered him on whenever he stepped onto the canvas. It was probably because he was as tough as nails. When he won, he made a mess of his opponents, and when he lost, he made a mess of himself. Either way, the audience got what they paid for.

Today, a fellow that fancied himself to be the Radasanthian Rage faced him. He was young and at the top of his form, but compared to the thirty-six years old Victor Callahan, most fighters were young and canty. Faster too. The Rage came at him with a fury of blows, launching right-left-right combos that finished either on Padre’s torso or on his raised hands. The blows hurt the way bare-knuckle punches only could; it was a much sharper type of pain, the kind that seemed to tear through flesh and bone. But Victor didn’t even flinch. He took the punches, gauged his opponent between his raised fists, and then retaliated when time was right. His left-handed jab licked the Rage’s cheekbone once, twice, but the third time Victor feinted, Rage took the bait and got a gutful of Victor’s hammering right fist. The youth stumbled backwards, clearly shaken, raising his fists in defense, but a hook went around his block, crashing against his ear and sending him on one knee.

The segment of the bleachers focused on Vic’s ring was ecstatic, their hands and betting tickets raised with their voices. The odd little contraptions that supposedly made an instant portrait of a person flashed at him, capturing him in a potential moment of victory. If there were sluttish women lazing around, dressed scandalously and waving at him, this would’ve been the glittery fame that Victor never attained and never really wanted either. As it was, there was only one woman he noticed as he turned to the crowd with his fist raised, and her face was oddly familiar.

“Skie?”

There was no time for verification. Even as his eyes fell on the black-haired woman, a fist fell on his back, pounding at his kidneys. Victor reacted instinctively, swinging his heavy fist in a backhanded manner as he pivoted, but the recovered Radasanthian Rage ducked and fired away at his torso again.

“That was a lucky shot, old man,” the young fighter growled in the clinch, his fists working Vic’s body. But instead of a painful grimace, there was an almost ugly smirk on his face. Back in the Furnace, the infamous Radasanth prison, he spent ten years fending off goons that could punch thrice as hard as his current opponent. This was no more then a sparing match.

“Then Luck is a lady tonight,” the ex-con responded. Using his right arm and his bulky musculature, Victor took his adversary by the neck and pulled him sideways, spinning him in a manner that reversed their positions almost instantly. With his back against the ropes, Rage could do little but take the devastating blows that Padre fired at his body mercilessly. And when his breath ran short and he dropped his elbows to protect his flank, an uppercut to the jaw sent him in the land of painful dreams.

The crowd celebrated. The bulbs flashed. The Architect of Destruction walked out of the ring, indifferent to the uproar.

He was sitting on a wobbly stool, catching his breath and receiving about a dozen pats on his sweaty back, when he saw the face that got him the back ache. Skie wasn’t the love of his life. She was a one-night adventure ten years ago. Ah, but what a night it was. Perhaps he got hit in the head for money, but Victor’s memory of the succubus was well preserved. Perhaps he forgot how she tasted, but he remembered the passion they shared and the consequent sorrow of their parting. Just as well, he mayhap forgot the name of the inn, but he remembered the room that her presence turned into a lofty palace. And her scent, of course. He couldn’t quite smell it, but he remembered how it drove him insane.

But those were memories of another life and he watched them through a sepia filter, like one of those small images the camera owners sold for small fortunes.

“Skie,” he repeated her name as she approached, looking up at her as he wiped the sheen of sweat off his skin. There was something akin to a smile on his visage, but it was even less pretty then it was a decade ago. Smiles came hard nowadays. “It’s been a while. You didn’t come to fight me this time as well, I hope?”

[Skie and Avery]

Their eyes had met, and Skie found she had to force the lazy smile on her face to stay there. There had been something behind his gaze that sent a shudder down her spine, and her fingers reflexively tightened around the tip of her sword hilt. No matter how much his body and hair had grown into someone older and harder, she would never forget how much those eyes had fallen into something slightly darker. The glance was gone, and her hand moved to cover her mouth. She had been so drawn in by the pain in that gaze, that she hadn't even seen his opponent stand. Now she was cursing softly, speaking words that perhaps would have only been uttered by the ringside sluts that were scattered here and there, hanging on the arms of bruised and battered heroes.

She looked away once, when she was sure that she couldn't stand to see him in pain. Her eyes found a better who seemed just as devastated as she was when Victor was hit from behind, and decided to keep her eyes on him. After all, if the prizefighter went down, she'd rather find out from this stranger's anger than seeing it with her own eyes.

It wasn't because Skie was a woman unused to violence. Over the years she had honed her skill with a longsword to devastating accuracy. She'd slain more than one life in her time, laid to rest the good, the bad, and even the ugly. Most had been accidental necessities, things that had come when the chips were down and it had been her or them, but there was always that once, hanging over her head. The sound of a body falling was echoing all through her head, but she wasn't sure if it was from the arena or from her memories. She didn't have to wait long for her answer; the man was jumping up and down enthusiastically, spittle flying from his mouth as he screamed in happiness. She blinked back her tears, again reminding herself that she didn't come here to get upset. She came for some last shred of happiness, to get lost in the moment and not remember her nephew's death or her brother's fall.

When she turned to look for Victor, he was being led off the ring. Composing herself, she let her light footsteps take her to the ground level. She had wasted so much time already, she knew. She felt like a fool for letting him walk away ten years ago, and for not finding him sooner. She should have at least tried after being freed from Griffin's touch.

When she had wound her way through all his congratulatory fans to his seat, she had managed to banish all the guilty thoughts. The biggest help had just been to squeeze her way through the mess of adoring fans until she could finally see his face. His smile was just as awkward as she could remember, and just as endearing. It brought a curve to her lips as well, this reminder of his struggles. She could still smell the oil on fumbled gun parts, cold metal, and both of their nervousness. She didn't have her aphrodisiacs this time. They'd been taken away when she lost her wing, but she did have one thing that had been amiss for most of their previous encounter. She had feelings for the boxer that had somehow managed to last through all her trials and tribulations. She knew he couldn't feel the same way; even if he had at one point, the years would have dulled it down to a fond remembrance. She, however, had seen his soul. It was hard getting over something like that, especially when there had been so much that called to her in that one glance. It might not have been love, but it was still felt just as poignant to the woman.

"No," she answered with a laugh when he chose to break the ice first. "I learned that lesson a long time ago, the hard way. I think I can still see the bruises in certain lights."

Her joke was laughed at by more voices than she cared for. Her eyes stole to the sides, glaring at the people who were still there, waiting for their handshake with a big name. It was as if it was their own little few moments in the limelight, and they were unwilling to part from the shadow of Victor's success. They had nothing to do with it, but somehow just being there was as precious as having won the bout themselves. As innocent as their longing was, to look as if they were personal friends of the Architect, they only served to drag on Skie's nerves. She had precious little time, and she wasn't going to waste any hourglass grains on these sweating heathens. She held out her hand to Victor, letting a full smile finally show.

"Come on, old friend." she said, her head tilting to the side as she winked at him. "Let my buy you a drink. I know a little place down the way that's pretty quiet and I wanna go where nobody knows your name."

[The Cinderella Man]

Victor had never been fond of the ‘good old days’, but not because they weren’t necessarily good. On the contrary, he disliked them because they were good and because every journey down memory lane brought back the images that hurt so much more then the recollections of the bad times. When he thought about the times of joy and happiness, he couldn’t stop thinking about how they were forever lost. On the flip side, when he thought of the wretched days of his life, he felt lucky for surviving their tribulations. Suffice to say, the good memories regularly hurt more then the bad ones.

For Padre, women had always been at the root of those memories that really mattered. Delilah had been the first, and as all first loves, she had left the deepest scar. The ex-con read somewhere that you never quite stop loving your first crush and he couldn’t argue against that; fourteen years have passed since Scara Brae and Delilah and he still felt heavy of heart every time her image flickered before his mind’s eye. Aicha was the latest, and the scar from that wounding was still fresh. It didn’t fester anymore – he had remedied that with his fiery carnage – but it didn’t quite go away either, like an old war wound. And Skie... Skie was somewhere between Aicha the Dead and Delilah the Lost, a gorgeous succubus that he knew so little about and yet shared so much with. In a way, Skie was both Delilah and Aicha, both and neither of them. And most importantly, while the two women were lost to the prizefighter, Skie was right there with her hand outstretched.

“A drink for old times sakes?” Victor said not without sarcasm, accepting the hand that was just as soft as he remembered. He didn’t allow her to drag him out just yet, though. “Sure, why not? I need to hit the shower first. I’m afraid that in my current state, I wouldn’t be a very pleasant company.”

His joke was welcomed just like Skie’s, but the smiles and chuckles of the gathered hypocrites only brought a grim expression on the boxer’s face. He looked at the congregation long and hard, thought of chasing them off with a curse and threatening gesture or two, but instead decided for a subtler approach. “I haven’t seen this woman for over ten years and she comes to offer me a drink,” he raised his voice just enough for those around him to take heed of his words. “I see you maggots every week and not a single one of you ever bought me a drink. So go shout someone else’s name and get out of my face.”

With that said, he started to push his way through the pool of bodies, but by the time he shouldered his way past three, the rest moved out of his path. Such outbursts weren’t uncommon nowadays, most of them knew, and most of them rooted for him because of that. Because he was a harsh, mean son of a bitch that rather broke the spotlights then basked in their light. There were murmurs behind his back, of course, but there were always some malcontents that had a thing or two to say about everything. And Victor didn’t give a damn about what they were saying.

The shower should’ve cooled him down, but while the spraying water washed away sweat and grime and tension, it brought to surface a different kind of heat. It reminded him of another shower, the one in Skie’s rented room, and the crumbling door of the bathroom. It brought back that one night of passion and inadvertently dusted off and awoke a decade old desire. He shook his head at those thoughts, though, as if they would go away like water drops from his hair; Skie wasn’t here to restart the romance that was never truly a romance to begin with. Chances were she just stumbled upon the arena and saw a familiar face. Thinking otherwise would be jumping the gun, and Victor was done with jumping and guns.

Fifteen minutes after he had left the ringside and his succubus acquaintance, Victor Callahan walked back into the arena, refreshed and five hundred gold pieces richer. The battle organizer had caught him in the locker room just as he had finished showering, gave him the usual rant about lousy public relations and the prize money, but Padre barely heard the man. By then, his thoughts were bent on Skie and the reasons for her sudden reappearance. There had to be some. You didn’t just walk out of someone’s life only to return ten years later with no motive. Though, technically, he was the one that walked away the last time.

He found the woman near the exit, where the crowd was thinner and the air was more breathable. Beyond the ajar doors, the night was clear and cloudless, presenting a star-laden sky over a city that never seemed to sleep. It was a mild night, though, so much so that his leather coat seemed like an encumbrance, but he wore it anyways. He didn’t trust the locks on the arena lockers with his possessions. Skie greeted him with a smile that called forth some long forgotten images, but it failed to elicit the same effect on his face. He looked at her face for a several seconds, taking heed of the fact that she looked so much like the woman he made love to ten years ago. In fact, if not for the strange start tattoo beneath her eye, Victor could’ve sworn that she hadn’t changed a bit.

“Alright, let’s go. I’m tired of this din.” He walked out and held the door for her, but didn’t ask any questions yet. There were hundreds in his head, but he was never a nosy bastard and he figured there was a better time and place for them.

[Skie and Avery]

She smiled as he swaggered away for the shower, amused at the way he scowled and growled. If he'd been blond, she'd half expect to find him on some beach, glowering at people and muttering, "Hi... Name's Biff.." She waited until he had successfully cleaved his way through the crowds to the locker rooms before she turned to leave, only to be stopped as a large hand wrapped itself around her wrist. Spinning quickly on her heel, her free hand moving to her sword hilt as she began to hiss a warning when she was freed from the grasp. Standing with a look of bemusement on his face, hardly afraid of the lithe woman before him, was the Radasanthian Rage. His face was a mask of gloating, his eyes on her as if she were nothing more than a fly that could be far easier batted away than the Architect had been.

Something, however, seemed off. Skie narrowed her eyes, peering at the man for a moment longer, until she realized that it could not be the boxer she'd just seen knocked out. For one, he wasn't covered in sweat. He smelled and looked far better than Padre had, coming off the ring, and Skie relaxed for a moment before stepping back to get away from that hand and the face that was too like the one she'd so recently seen go slack into unconsciousness. It dawned on her later than it should have. After all, she herself was a twin. Still, it came as a shock, to see every muscle imitated in this man, a practical impossibility standing before her. His smile was warm, and attractive, though she had seen many handsome men in her time. His looks and charming were lost on the woman as she turned again to leave, her leaving glance daring him to grab her arm again. It may be the last time he had use of his.

"Wait," he finally spoke when she'd torn her eyes from his, and began to walk away. She continued to walk, ignoring the sound of footsteps shadowing hers. She'd learned to ignore people well in the last ten years. It was mostly safer that way, and she was mostly happier. There were still a few connecting threads that spiraled out from her. One of them met with a Fallien princess she'd shared more than just the bonds of slavery with. The other was with Victor Callahan. She had no intentions of stopping for another boxer. She'd determined a year ago to begin cutting these small bonds, removing them as carefully as the edging of unwanted embroidery, and now was not the time to make new ones. Her plans for Victor tonight might be making things worse, leading her back to where she had sat by a motel bedroom window so long in the past. However, from the moment her foot had pushed against the edging of the flyer in the Radasanthian gutter, her mind had been made up. Folly or not, she would not regret these steps made tonight. Again, she took another step, and another, determined to leave behind the Rage's brother and find the old thread that could bind up these wounds inflicted by knowing just how much longer she had to live. Again, this stranger behind her spoke.

"I think I know you from somewhere."

This stopped her, her feet coming to a pause as she glanced over her shoulder at him. It was a lie, and she could smell it. Did he think that he was so clever that she'd be blind to his game? It was Divine Retribution in it's smallest form. Your side loses, and you take what you can from the winner's circle while they're eyes and mind is on the adoring fans. She knew she had never seen this man, because she cataloged everyone she knew in her mind. They built a small Rolodex of secrets in her mind, a list of people to never get too close to, lest the unthinkable happen. She was a cursed woman. She'd taken souls before, and it had somehow always ended up alright in the end, but between finding the story of her father and the sacrifices he made for love to ensure that the curse wouldn't go wrong, she knew that her luck would run dry. She couldn't stomach the horror of finding love, and finding a corpse, so she kept her friends close to her heart and far from her touch. She kept the stars floating in the sky, because she couldn't face the idea of watching them fall.

"I don't think so."

"Oh, but I'm sure. Why don't you come with me, instead. My brother's in the locker rooms. I'm sure he's come 'round by now." His smile was drawing ever more sweet, sexy, and enticing. "We'd love to chat." The line brought a sardonic sneer to her face, and she took her hand from the sword hilt finally, waving him off.

"There's not much to say in the loser's locker room." she finally said, her voice a little harder than she intended. He stood there, staring at her retreating back a little longer than she felt he should. Skie could feel his gaze on the back of her neck and found it as repulsing as his hand had been. When she finally made her way to the front doors, she didn't have long to wait until a cleaner, and slightly overdressed-for-the-weather Victor joined her. He held the door open like a perfect gentleman, and she resisted the urge to take his hand and dash down the road like they'd done so long ago. They'd both grown, not only in age but in maturity since then, it seemed. Now they walked in companionable silence for a few moments. These were the times that were always most awkward, when she felt she was standing on the precipice of something far greater than just conversation. There was so much to say, so much that hadn't been said so long ago, that she didn't know where to begin. Should she ask him why he never turned around when she'd hung half naked out the window, calling his name? No, she finally decided. Those were memories that belonged to the bitter past, at least for now. There would be time later to stand hunched over the little pools of milk long soured and weep, but for now she put on a smile that perhaps didn't quite reach her eyes and walked a little closer to the pugilist. She'd always felt safe in Victor's presence, though whether it was from their mad dash through Radasanthian alleyways or the mere fact that he was a good hearted man (and she knew this for a fact), she wasn't sure. As the warmth of the evening drew it's humid breath around them, Skie let their crunching footsteps on the graveled path be their only conversation. Silence had always been a kind companion where the two were concerned, the need for conversation erased by their actions so many times. When the sun had sunk below the horizon and all they had to guide them was the glow of the gravel walkway between pools of wayside torch lights, Skie finally chose to slay that old friend and bring their voices to rise among the chirping cicadas and croaking bullfrogs.

"Have you been boxing in Radasanth long now?" she asked quietly, wishing there was some less awkward way to delve back and try and repair the damage of ten years with naught glance nor word between them.

[The Cinderella Man]

There were times when Victor Callahan would’ve felt antsy around women, when he would’ve felt the distinct desire to crawl out of his skin just to rid himself of the anxiousness such closeness brought. But life and time did a good job at ridding him of some of the sentiments that used to be an essential part of him. It wasn’t that the ex-con didn’t feel a certain warmth around his heart that Skie’s closeness caused, and it certainly wasn’t that Victor lacked the sexual drive nowadays. It was rather that such emotions seemed less important somehow, as if they lost their power in the tumult that always left him alone and wanting. Once a person loved and lost, affection gained a different taste, not at all poetic and sweet as the songs claimed it to be. Love hurt. And love killed.

So, as the pair of old acquaintances and one-time lovers walked through the streets of the Radasanthian Slums that slowly sunk into the gray twilight, Victor was content with the silence just as he would’ve been content with chitchat. He was rather certain that neither of them lived in the illusion that they could simply restart their relationship from the point they left off that morning so long ago. No, much was lost during those years they spent apart, and little was gained.

Radasanth still looked the same, though, especially the Slums. Victor could’ve sworn that this particular part of the Corone capitol would never change and that there would always be rundown buildings housing rundown people in a decrepit borough. Only the had faces changed. There were times when he could link mere passersby with names, but not anymore. Ten years was a long time. Chances were that if you haven’t moved out of the Slums after ten years, you’d be coming out in a pinewood box some time soon. It was a harsh neighborhood providing shelter for those poor souls who didn’t have anywhere better to go.

Minutes passed in silence before one of them spoke, but it wasn’t the uncomfortable silence. There was seldom such silence between the two. It seemed as if, on some abstract level, they both comprehended the unsaid as well as the uttered. But there was only so much one could spend in complete silence.

“I haven’t boxed in Radasanth for years now,” Victor responded with a chuckle that didn’t sound too lighthearted. “What you saw back there, that wasn’t boxing. That was just a sugarcoated barroom brawl, made more presentable for the masses. But if you’re asking how long I’ve been doing that... A couple of months now. I’ve been too wrapped up in something the last years to box.”

Victor opted not to hammer away with the whole truth and nothing but the truth straight off the bat. Skie didn’t need to know about ten years spent in the Furnace, not yet anyways. If he landed such a bomb in her lap right now, he’d probably sooner see her scurrying away then joining him for a drink. The succubus, despite her heritage, was a nice enough person and nice people weren’t too fond of sitting with recently paroled convicts. He needed to know the reasons for her visit first, see if she was still the sympathetic woman with whom he had fled through these very streets some ten years ago. Back then they were running from an angry mob made of disgruntled pugilists. Today they seemed to be running from their pasts. And unlike the chase from years ago, today they could hardly outrun their pursuit.

Before he got a chance to pose a question in return, they reached the tavern Skie had suggested. Unlike most of the dingy establishments that seemed more fit for ‘condemned’ signs then ‘open for business’, this particular taphouse was located close to the invisible border between the Slums and the much better maintained Bazaar District. It was still made of wood, but the roof looked like it could actually provide protection from the elements and there was a demure tune of a lute coming from the inside instead of the din made of drunken curses and broken mugs. The interior failed to disappoint, which was a surprise for taverns in this part of the city. The room was well lit, fat candles made of rosy wax burning in the sconces on the wooden columns and along the walls. At the far end of the taproom was a hearth, but there was no need for fire. Instead, a musician sat at the foot of it, plucking notes from his instrument. The clientele wasn’t usual for these parts either; instead of barflies that reeked of their own puke there was common folk that looked quite respectable. No royalty to be sure, but no itchy-fingered scoundrels either. All in all, it was a quaint place, more fitting for a rendezvous then a prizefighting arena.

“So,” Victor finally got a chance to ask the inevitable question once the two were seated at one of the vacant tables. “What brings you here after all these years, Skie? Chance, like ten years ago? I remember you fraternizing with boxers back then as well. Not the nicest bunch to be around to be sure.” A meek smile snuck at his face without him even noticing it, an instinctive response to his mind’s retrieval of the images from ten years ago, when they met as foes and wound up as lovers. It was a memory that warmed the heart. And it was a memory that hurt like all the good ones did, bringing the bitter taste of regret and the ‘what ifs’ that always asked the questions and never offered any answers.

[Skie and Avery]

It hurt to smile at his joke, it truly did. While she wasn't sure if it was her own guilt for not getting in touch sooner, or the fact that she was using his company to make the next few days more meaningful, she still felt as if she wasn't deserving to be sitting in front of him. She wondered what had been occupying his time for so long. His form was so well built, more muscled and solid from the last time she'd seen him, he had to have been working physically every day of the past years. She decided not to probe, because he had not asked about the loss of her wing. Perhaps he thought she hid it under another of the illusions that she had been unable to perform for the last eight and a half years. So much had been stripped back then, but not her memories of Victor Callahan, or what she saw in the window of his soul. It was, for that, she kept her words as vague as his had been.

"I think some boxers aren't so bad as others," she said with a small chuckle. "You have to dig through the dirt a little to find the gems, though. Some manure too." Now her laugh was full, her eyes closing as she ducked her head and covered her mouth to keep from distracting the attention of the other patrons to their little booth.

The waitress came and brought them both a thick, strong beer, the specialty for a region whose crops were rich with barley and wheat. The dark lager was a little to sweet for the woman's taste, and she busied herself for a moment while she wondered what could be said next by pulling from a small bowl the strange yellow fruits that were coming out of Fallien these days. A few of them squeezed into the beer and dropped within to bubble happily among the dark liquid and she was usually ready to drink as long as it took to forget her trespasses. Today, she decided that she would stay sober. It wouldn't do to turn into an idiot in front of an old friend, an old flame.

The lemons brought with them a small tinge of regret that she'd never been to visit one of the desert oasis' that cultivated the delicacies in such mass quantities, but the beer did a small help to erase them and remind her that there would be time to weep later, at the end.

"When I met you, I was on my way to Raiaera, and I've been back and forth a few times, but lately I've spent most of my time in the Red Forest. You could call it a small hermitage of sorts. I'm only here for a few days, to finish up some business I've left sorely unattended." Her hand moved unconsciously from the handle of her mug to the hilt of her sword, though she leaned back in her chair as if the touch of Devon's steel comforted her.

"After that, I'm going home."

It was a lie she could live with, but just barely. Her discomfort must show on her face, but she hid it behind the large mouth of the mug, downing more of the alcohol in an attempt to compose herself. Lying had always been an art lost to her. She was one of those people who were just too honest, and too guilty for her own good. From across the landing, she could see a large table that was rounded by three couples, two of which had the mothers trying to wrangle down small children and ply them with any of the sweets and meats offered on the menu. Their noise was welcome, jovial and playful. Finally, one man guffawed loudly, slamming a tankard down on the table.

"Where's that blasted boy, anyway?! We want the match results!" he called, pounding his fist against the thick oak before him as if it might get results sooner. A few more nodded in agreement, but kept their voices to a minimum. One of the men raised his glass and called "Radasanthian Rage! Have some home pride, guys!" His voice was a little slurred and his wife rolled her eyes in exasperation as his friends turned to look at him, first in silence and then answering in loud jeers and laughs that made the man turn a rosy shade and duck his head back into his ale. The scene was one that brought a curve to Skie's lips.

This was how last days should be spent.

[The Cinderella Man]

They were both playing the same game, beating around the bushes and offering explanations that raised more questions then answers. Victor didn’t mind much. A lot could happen in ten years and not all of it was worth mentioning. And if you had been born under an unlucky star like the muscular ex-con obviously had, chances were that you shoveled a lot of crap in ten years. Retelling the stories of such days would’ve no doubt turned this rendezvous into a depressive little get together, especially with the alcohol pulling them deeper. So he listened to Skie’s explanation, leaving the blanks blank and sipping methodically on his brew.

“Red Forest? I visited that place once,” he interjected at the mention of the Raiaera’s fabled forest expanse, abandoning the bittersweet taste of the beer for the time. “Wound up being chased by some trees that turned into wolves. Or was it wolves that turned into trees? I honestly can’t remember. I do remember it not being the most friendly of places. Wherever I turned something wanted to make me very dead.”

Victor wasn’t really interested in the Red Forest – it had been a one-time excursion that started badly, ended worse with the only highpoint being that he got out of it alive. But it was the safest thing to comment on and keeping the ball of the conversation rolling and changing hands. If he hadn’t opted to speak of that, he would probably have to tell her how disappointed he was that she planned to stay in Radasanth for only a couple of days, and the bare-knuckle prizefighter wasn’t entirely certain if he was really disappointed.

In all truth, as fiery as their escapade had been a decade ago, it lasted long enough to barely fill a single page in a history book. Was it a page worth remembering? Of course. But did it really tell the story of more then just an opportune encounter, a temporary infatuation? Victor wasn’t so certain. Their relationship consisted of a single day of running, a single night of passion and a single decade of separation. Hardly a foundation for something more then a brew and some nostalgic words. So Victor didn’t hold his breath expecting more. If Skie was here just to palaver and visit an old friend, he would play his role and keep her company. And if she by some odd turn of events wished to replay that one night when they belonged to each other, Victor certainly wouldn’t say no to such stroke of luck. But the delusion that there could be something more, some relationship that made sense... No, he didn’t buy it. In the real world, old crushes didn’t come around after years of absence to live with you happily ever after.

The beer found its way to his hand again and he took another uninterested sip. Beer was never his poison of choice. Nowadays he preferred something short and bitter that struck like a gunshot to your belly. But shot glasses filled with hard liquor made short conversations and idiots, and he wanted neither with Skie. The bunch at the next table, however, obviously had no issues with sounding like a bunch of tipsy morons despite the presence of their spouses. Victor didn’t know any of them, but he knew that they weren’t the usual crud that gathered around the boxing rings. They were too refined to attend such slugfests and without a doubt too married. Of the three little wives that sat at the table with their men, two looked like they were the ones wearing the pants in that particular family. Still, even if they disallowed them from visiting the arenas with the rest of the louts, they had no problem with their volume.

“Our Rage is bound to win this one!” one of the three men proclaimed, much to the displeasure of both his companions and most of the clientele. With a mug in his hand, he pointed towards the disagreeing faces. “I tell you, that ex-con doesn’t stand a chance against our boy. I even put some money on Padre kissing the canvas.”

The willowy brunette at the man’s flank was quick to display her scorn, hitting her husband and starting to talk his ear off about how he always spent their money on stupid things, but their conflict hardly caught Victor’s interest. The revelation of his time spent in prison that he tried to keep concealed from Skie, however, was a kick in the groin. Of all the ways to disclose such a piece of information, this was quite possibly the worse. That was why his eyes couldn’t help but gauge the reaction on the other end of the table. The questions were about to pour in, he knew, and he wasn’t certain that he wanted to answer them.

The messenger boy postponed the interrogation, though. The spindly teen in grimy clothes barged through the tavern’s door, carrying with him a paper with the night’s bout results. The barkeep took the paper the way he probably did every night, poured the lad some weak brew and started chalking down the results on a blackboard that hanged above the bar. When the man in the apron jotted down “KOd in the first” next to Radasanthian self-proclaimed prodigy, the half-drunken man at the next table was unable to stifle his dissatisfaction. His two companions, clearly Victor’s fans, couldn’t help but smile.

“Padre is tough as nails,” one of them said. “He’ll be a champion one day, mark my words.”

[Skie and Avery]

She was drinking faster than he was, she realized when lifting her mug only brought a bump against her nose as the lemon slices came tumbling with their nest of ice. A little embarrassed, but too busy smiling warmly at his words about his own recollections of the place she'd found peace in, she nodded as he spoke. The Red Forest was formidable, indeed, and it had almost claimed her as it's own prize when she'd first taken a fancy to make it a place to live. But the Forest provided for it's own, cared for and protected the creatures that lived within, and for the past several years one of those creatures had become Skie dan Sabriel.

She was in the middle of wondering who had been caring for Victor these past long years, when the commentary of the pub regulars caught her attention. It was the words of a particular proud Radasanthian that she paid most mind to, and his accusation of Victor being nothing but an ex-con. Ten years ago, she wouldn't have believed it. Yes, he was a boxer then, as well, but he had been a just, tender man. Althanas was not a world where deeds were strictly punished. Skie'd seen one too many dead stares at the end of her longsword to know that, and had never felt the threat of the hangman's noose. What had he done? Her face pulled into a thoughtful perusal of what she could tell of his form under his clothes.

There was no doubt he'd bulked up. She could tell, even though the details of his body from so long ago had faded. No man had touched her since his last caress, and while she'd played their night over in her mind so often, especially since she was given the truth of the dan Sabriel legacy, she'd be lying if she said her memory of every muscle was perfectly. But beyond the question of her memory, there was the question of how far was too far when it came to information? Even the last time, they'd known practically nothing about each other. Sure, she was privy to the most vital information that lay on the surface of his soul, but even then she hadn't looked very hard. Too terrified to see her own reflection, twisted into the monster that a succubus was supposed to be, she hadn't looked too deeply at the soul canvas that was stretched before her eyes. How had the years tarnished that truth she'd seen so long ago, and did she even want to know? Griffin had once said, "Discretion is the better half of valor." She'd hated him for it at the time, convinced he was nothing more than a coward for those words that released him from obligation. And then had come Raiaera, showing her everything it had under the surface of the elven beauty. Could she bend with the wind of circumstance as Griff had done so often and take the valorous road today?

She was saved from that decision from the messenger that came bursting in. She hadn't realized that her eyes had been locked with Victor's, the two of them waiting with apprehension for anything that might be coming from the other's lips. As names and scores were chalked up, Skie couldn't help but grin at the rumbling rabble that sat not far from them. Everyone was ganging up on the lone Rage supporter, even his wife chiding him with that special tone that only good friends can carry in their insults.

Her good mood had been sealed now. Somehow the happiness in the pub was infectious, and Skie could feel her puzzled expression turn into a smile as the man who sat before her was lauded by those who had no idea what he looked like. Of course these decent men wouldn't have been to the harder fights, but in the sports bar they'd hear the scores again and again. It was obvious that Victor was a frequent favorite. It was easily guessed, if this was the treatment given to a friend who bet wrong, what might happen to a stranger that didn't support the crowd.

"Remember the first time we met?" Skie asked nonchalantly, her eyes glittering almost ferally as she regarded the group of friends and their families. Without waiting for an answer - it had been a rhetorical question anyway. "Have you been running often since then?"

With a casual grin, she leaned back in her chair, tipping it onto the back two legs. Her legs were crossed, and the limb that was lain over top now began to bounce, the toe of her boot kicking the underside of the table. Their mugs jumped lightly and after four quick bumps, the din in the den began to lower, eyes upon them. She could feel Victor's confused eyes on her as well, and somehow the thought of the plan that was hatching in her head, as dangerous as a newborn viper, was starting to make her head feel as if it was attatched by a string. Maybe it was the beer, stronger stuff than what she'd grown used to drinking in elven pubs.

"Aye, that Padre's king alright," she said with a sharpness that caused a few uneasy hurrahs towards the back. She let the words sink in for a moment before raising her voice again to amend, "King of Shit and Canvas Lovers." The effect of her words was felt more in the air than heard at first. The tension could be cut with a knife, and finally a few growling demands for her to repeat herself, mixed in with even more for her to shut her filthy mouth began to filter out among those who were staring at her in dumbfounded silence.

"Tonight was just luck, all." she continued, ignoring a few drunkards who stood to an uneasy balance. One of them, brandishing his half drained tankard, asked how she'd know anything about it at all. "Woman" was thrown at her like a curse with the question, only furthering pulling up her grin. When "Whore" was uttered from a cautious soul too afraid to raise his voice enough to place with him the words, she was nearly gleeful.

"That right?" she asked, silencing the crowd for a moment. "I've seen this Callahan fight, and personally, he's probably more of a lady than I am. Wouldn't matter if I were whore or not. I could brandish my naked ass at him for free and he'd probably bypass it for some more private sparring with the Radasanthian..." she couldn't finish her giddy spur when the tankard slammed into the wall behind her. She hadn't seen it thrown, too tipsy to feel it as it missed her face by mere inches. The crash, a slight splashing of ale on the back of her neck, and she was sober enough to grab Victor's hand from across the table, give a small squeeze that accompanied her mischievous smile, and tuck tail and run. Before she got to the door, a lemon had pelted her back, another tankard hitting the floor at her feet. Swears were quick to following and when she tumbled out the door into the night air, laughing and whooping, thoughts of death and betrayal had been banished from her mind. Victor could have been clothed in striped pajamas, shackles strapped to his wrists, and she wouldn't have given a damn. The personal raincloud that had been so hard to shake lately was gone, the moonlight was shining in.

She remembered what it was to live.

[The Cinderella Man]

He thought that the long ten years had exorcised this nasty habit out of him, this jinx that followed him around like a stubborn stray mutt that didn’t know you didn’t want him around, but clearly it was not the case. He had always been a magnet for hellions such as Skie, a self-proclaimed savior of the impish, reckless women that had trouble written all over them. Sometimes it was all in the spirit of good fun. More often then not, however, fraternizing with such women got you in more trouble then you bargained for. Off the top of his head, Victor couldn’t remember each and every instance when he wound up in a pickle over someone who had all the right curves at all the right places. But he knew that there was seldom a lack of trouble when it came to women, and tonight was no different.

What exactly spurred Skie into this homicidal rant that was a gob of spittle in the face of pretty much every patron of the demure inn was an enigma only Skie had the solution to. Victor reckoned it was either the booze or some odd form of lunacy that she picked up in the Red Forest. “I’d put money on the booze.” There was no time for the bets, though. Combine a taproom and people sucking the alcohol from those taps and you usually got a bomb with a very short fuse, regardless of the environment. And his lovely companion was playing with matches. She swore and cursed and stomped on his own name and fame that to this lot obviously meant something more them just letters on a blackboard. And just like with every dormant but volatile animal, once you poked it with a stick enough times, it decided to bite back.

Of course everything could’ve been solved with conversation, and if not with conversation then with a couple of warning shots from the pistol Victor had strapped at his flank. But Skie wanted neither a diplomatic nor an instant solution. She wanted to run and replay the chase from ten years ago. That was why she stirred this rather inert pot to begin with. And just like throughout most of their meeting so far, the prizefighter decided to play along. Holding hands and dashing out the door, with half-empty mugs and greasy platters and torrents of curses following in their wake, the pair was on the run again.

Bursting out into the night, they paused for but a moment before a glass shattering at the cobbles below their feet reminded them that they should decide which way to go and quick, before they were apprehended by the mob. Unlike ten years ago, it was Victor who led the way into the web of Radasanthian streets this time around. He veered around the corner of the very inn that spewed wobbly clientele out through the door to pursue the loudmouth bitch and her cowardly man, then took the first alley to the left that looked dark enough. He took another quick left, led them past the only two lamps that were unlit on a wide avenue and continued onwards. He was breathing rather heavily by then, answering Skie’s question without speaking any words. No, he hadn’t been running much lately. He could knock out an ox, but he probably couldn’t outrun it nowadays.

Luckily, compared to the agitated prizefighters that had been after their blood ten years ago, the provoked lot from the inn had neither the stamina nor the interest for a lengthy chase. Sometime after the fleeing pair crossed the lamp-lit avenue and plunged into the darkness again, the shouts grew quieter, and when Victor steered them into another alley with a roof made of clotheslines and drying attires, they faded away into the stillness of the night. And the pair of runners was alone.

There was no denying that the touch of Skie’s hand and the similarity of the night’s scenario stirred certain long-archived memories. That was why, even when they slowed down to a walk and Victor huffed as if there was not enough air in the world, his hand kept holding to the suave warmth of her own. He half expected (hoped?) for the mob to swing around the corner, all fire and brimstone, and that there was a cart passing by. Not one filled with manure, though. That particular part of their last great escape he didn’t miss. But the night was calm and eventless save for a merry tune that seemed to be coming from around the corner and the parallels with the events from a decade ago were cut short. The boxer let go of Skie’s hand and used it to support his massive bulk against the wooden fence.

“What was that all about?” the ex-con asked, trying to sound serious as he searched for her eyes in the darkness. But there was naught but a smile to be read on her face, and after several seconds of being under attack by that smile, it crept into the corner of his lips as well. Victor smiled a grizzly smile, far too old for his apparent age, and shook his head, realizing that this was probably the first unplanned, hazardous, mad-spur-of-the-moment thing he did ever since he got out of the jail.

“Well, at least there was nobody driving by a cart full of dung like the last time,” he added once his breathing was somewhat stable, and they both chuckled at the recollection. Good memories hurt, there was no doubt about it, but on rare occasions they could be more then just a bitter sentiment in the dull hours of the night.

[Skie and Avery]

As they slowed, safe but still too in the moment to let their hands part, Skie wanted to laugh. She grinned silently, pleased when it caught on her companions too-serious face, and laughed at his joke. She vaguely remembered his habit of making little jests to help soothe an awkward moment. It was a habit that endeared him to her, just one thing on a list of dozens of little things that made her want to curl up with him somewhere warm and quiet and never have to leave. She hadn't been sure what she expected to happen when she followed a fight flyer to find him, but now she hoped that she could have that little slice of heaven in her mind. Even if it would only last for a few days, somehow it would be enough. They had both crossed such great distances, beyond Raiaera, Corone, or wherever he'd been since first they met, and she couldn't bear to feel him part even farther away.

"There's nothing like restitution by compost," she said cheerfully as she took her own deep breath of the night's thankfully non-pungent air. They began to walk more relaxed now, meandering down the avenue as the music in the air grew ever louder. She thought she recognized the tune from somewhere, and after a few moments of really thinking about it, it dawned in her mind. It was a Raiaeran wedding march, one that she'd first heard when she was but a child. It was perhaps because of the fond memories, that her feet began to take her, and them, in the direction of the tune. The avenue opened between the walls around two large households, and they found themselves standing at a dead end.

The cobbled street had led them to the large wrought iron gate that led into the courtyard of one of the estates; a huge thing of elaborate detail. The black metal wound it's way upwards, in huge leaves and flowers. Here and there the telltale glitter of blue gave away prevalida accents. Skie found herself whistling a little under her breath, wondering if maybe following the pretty melody had been the best idea as the gates swung open to reveal a aging gentleman. He was dressed in only the finest of Radasanthian's men fashion, though his courtly bow and white gloved hands spoke more of butler than upper class crust.

"Guests of the Bride or Groom?" he asked, with perhaps more stress on the questioning lilt to his voice than was necessary. It was then that Skie remembered she still had Devon's sword strapped to her side (and his dagger hidden well under her tunic) and Victor could have easily have been mistaken for mafia beef. Nevertheless, the older man didn't seem to show any other signs of doubting their right to be there and the rise and fall through the song strains of laughter and voices seemed to hint that there were more than enough guests to keep the ushers occupied as it was.

"The Bride," Skie said happily, waving an arm in the air as she took Victor's elbow and escorted them inside. "And I intend on seeing her soon! She never told me how she liked the little present I sent her for her wedding night!" Skie assured the usher with a wink that seemed to fluster the older man. By the time he'd gotten himself over the amused, quizzical look, the pair had disappeared into the throng of whirling couples. The wedding was over, and the dancing had begun. As the large pavilion that was set up to ward against errant breezes and unwelcome mosquitoes was brought to life with an ever-enlargening number of paper lanterns, Skie turned to Victor with a coy smile on her face.

"Care to dance, friend?" she asked. Her hips began to sway, using the genetic advantages of the Beauty. Her feet, clad in boots that had seen their share of fast steps in battle, began to move with a dance of a different kind. The march was over, a more soothing sonata taking over. Couples everywhere were dispersing or tightening, the strains of a love song pulling bodies closer together. Without waiting for the boxer's answer, Skie pressed up against him and let her arms wrap around his shoulders. One of her hands clutched lightly at the nape of his neck, the other's fingertips exploring into his greying hair. Stress had taken it's toll on him, obviously.

As she closed her eyes and laid her head on his chest with a smile, she just hoped he wouldn't leave before she got the chance to feel his too-taut muscles finally relax.

[The Cinderella Man]

Victor was never particularly crazy about dancing. All the rocking and swaying and jumping at the beat of some melody seemed childish to him, making dignified men look like buffoons. And that was if they actually were lucky to be born with a sense of rhythm which he seemed to lack. The only beat he knew how to follow was the chaotic one-two of fists pounding against flesh, and that wasn’t particularly useful in this situation. But then the music died down, slowed to a melancholic sonata played by a wailing violin, and Skie defeated the last foot of distance that stood between them. Her body pressed against his, her hands crawled over his skin, her smell devastating enough to bring tears to eyes of a mellower man. When he woke up in the morning, the best thing he could hope for was yet another hard-fought bout and a decent meal afterwards. A chance to hold an angel in his arms never even crossed his mind.

His brawny arms returned the embrace with utmost gentleness, as if she were a specter bound to turn to vapor if he clutched to it too tight. His hands took their position between her shoulder blades and on the small of her back, but they remained static. That one night of fiery passion was naught but a fragmented memory now, a sweet recollection that struck you on some random Tuesday when your nostalgia peaked, and time and circumstances made strangers out of a pair of lovers. They weren’t the same people anymore, not after ten years of blood and sweat and tears and struggles and pulling yourself through the mud. Acting as if none of that ever happened, as if they parted no more than a fortnight before, was impossible.

“I’m not much of a dancer, you know?” Victor apologized for the obvious as he fought a much larger battle then the one back in the ring: to stay harmonized with her fluid motions. Skie didn’t seem to mind. She took his missteps and irregular motions with a smile, keeping her body close and her head leant gently on his shoulder as if they were truly a couple just attending a wedding. There was a deeper reason for this affection, the boxer knew. Old lovers didn’t waltz back into your life with kisses and hugs unless there was some ulterior motive for it. But they were both keeping the fine print hidden so far, keeping their hands hidden in a card game of insinuations and tells, waiting for the other to make that one crucial move that would drop the curtain.

Looking over her shoulder as they moved over the packed dance floor almost lazily, Victor could notice a couple of questioning eyes pointed in their direction, coming with the accompanying hushed whispers. It seemed that while a lie got them in, it could hold out only for so long before they would be discovered for what they were: freeloaders. Best course of action was get out of the public’s eye, the prizefighter knew that much. He crashed uninvited into quite a few balls and parties back in the day when he was little more than a bum.

“Uhm, I think maybe we should go get some fresh air. Some people look like they might be onto us,” he suggested despite the reluctance to break free of her embrace. They withdrew from the podium unceremoniously, her arm wrapped under the crook of his own as they apologized their way past the dancing couples to reach the wide open doors that led to a terrace.

Outside, the night’s coolness awaited for them, a toothless beast that didn’t have the bite that would send a chill through to their bones. Victor loved the summer nights, when you could walk out in naught but a shirt and witness the simple perfection in the contrast between the stars’ twinkle and the encompassing blackness around them. There was no moon hanging in the sky to rob the chipped diamonds of their glow with its own luminance, no clouds to cast a shroud over the dome above. It was perfect, and yet Victor barely noticed it. On any given day his eyes would’ve been locked on the endlessness above, but not tonight. There was something far more magnificent, far more amazing right at his side. And he had to know why.

“So, are you finally going to tell me what’s the deal here?” he asked, softening the question with a smirk, but keeping it as vague as his will to actually pose it. He half-sat on the fence made of sturdy stone columns and folded his arms before his broad chest, keeping his eyes locked on Skie’s. A part of him cried out with alarm bells, telling him that he didn’t want to know, that he should just keep playing his part in the charade. But Victor was never a big fan of mind games. She looked up at him as he voiced his unexpected query. Her eyes probably offered an answer or two right then and there, but the boxer was too slow when it came to comprehension of body language. Instead he clarified and looked away, placing his eyes on the much less spectacular sight of the night in the garden beyond the terrace.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong. It’s great to see you again, Skie. But it’s been over ten years since that night. Have you just chanced upon me back in the arena?” Somehow he doubted it. Such coincidences occurred only in cheesy romantic novels that bad writers wrote for the masses that enjoyed a shallow story and a happy ending. Life was different. You didn’t get second chances in life, not unless you pried them from the cold hands of fate.

[Skie and Avery]

"It wasn't quite as chance as it may have seemed," she said quietly, refusing to meet his eyes. She wasn't sure she could lock gazes and still be able to keep the whole truth for him. It was so hard to admit what was going on, and all in all, it would sound preposterous to a logical person. The truth, as it so often does, required faith beyond mere scientific fact. The truth, again as so often is the case, was something the brain would refuse to handle.

She walked slowly away from him, taking steps backwards so that her body was still turned towards his. Her fingertips brushed against the tops of the terrace fencing, the cool stone helping to mask the rough patches in the surface where the elements was beginning to wear down the fine crafting.

"I watched for you, you know." She paused, doing the math in her head. "It took over a year since I left for Raiaera to come back to Corone, but I looked then, and with every visit after that. When life and death were fuddled and meeting in Raiaera, I looked there too. Everywhere I went, I hoped to find you. My luck was just bad." Her smile was a little bittersweet, a wistful thing as fleeting as the breeze.

"A little silly for a one night thing, right?" she asked. "I guess we women get a little sentimental about the last person they've been with, and no one ever came along to help get you off my mind. So, when I came across an advertisement of the match tonight, I couldn't stay away. It would be so cruel to myself to deny some fun in the face of what's to come."

She bit her lip, thinking she had said too much, but the words were done and spoken. The sounds of the wedding were changing inside, the next song coming up. In the silence, her ears picked up something in the distance. She turned from him then, staring at the Radasanthian skyline.

"What day is it?" she asked absently, more to herself than to Victor. It had been many years since she'd called Corone her homeland. It still came to her, however, that this week should be special. If not for the excitement of the flyer, hadn't there been another thing she'd been determined to occupy herself with before her sacrificial death?

She watched as the sky exploded with fireworks, the colored sparks that could only be bought from Raiaera. They were fueled with spells of light and fire, dazzling and distracting. She'd seen them once or twice, but never this close before.

"Silly fools," she muttered before beginning to speak more loudly so that her once-lover could hear her. "When paladins from Radasanth beat a band of peaceful demons into hiding long ago, they began to celebrate the occasion every year. How long has it been since you've been to a carnival? My brother and I used to go every year, just for the irony." When she looked over her shoulder at him, her smile was more bitter than sweet.

"You do realize we've got to go, right?" Jumping the fence on the terrace to the glen below, she took off to the ungated back of the property that would eventually lead to the sprawling streets of the capitol, she kept her pace quick, but not the full run they'd taken earlier. She wondered if he would go with her. She hoped he would. Her years of study and defense had given her patience and a certain solidarity that she wasn't displaying tonight. She wished she could let him see just why she couldn't sit still. With every moment, time marched closer to the last moments she would have in the sun, the moonlight, and the last chances she would have to drink in life at it's best.

How could anyone not make the most of the rest of their life, especially when they knew that time span was a mere two and half days coming?

[The Cinderella Man]

It was a good response, the kind that slapped you across the face and made you feel like an ass for ever asking and suspecting there was some kind of deception beneath the surface. She had been looking for him. For ten years he was more than just an occasional recollection in her mind, more than a face and a name with a one night expiry date. For ten years she had kept him closer to her heart then he had held her. Such a response was a one-way ticket to the land of guilt. The truth was that, while Victor hadn’t forgotten about Skie just as he hadn’t forgotten about Delilah or Kitty or Aicha, the intimate emotions related to those names got numbed down, faded out and set aside like an overused hat. They all held an important place on the shelf of his memories, but that shelf was almost out of reach; he could get to it only if he tried really hard, and he seldom did. What was the point of retrieving and dusting off all those old sensations when they brought temporary satisfaction and long-lasting remorse?

Only, the tactic of selective amnesia didn’t work in this particular case. Skie was right here, not some ghost from the past haunting his nights, not some deceiving vision on a visage of some unknown woman, not a harmful thought, but an embodiment of a woman he loved for one night a lifetime ago. This wasn’t a case of somebody he loved and lost anymore, but rather of somebody who he lost and found and that changed the rules of the game. Unlike the past loves that lived in his mind, women made of stardust and memories and longing, Skie was something that wouldn’t crumble to pieces every time he’d try to reach for her. And that made her a goal worth pursuing.

By the time Victor’s mind reached this conclusion, his companion already answered the call of her frivolous nature and once again set the pace for the night. A rhetorical question and a smile cast over her shoulder was all the warning he received before Skie jumped over the fence and faded into the night. He would follow. Even if he hadn’t come to terms with the reasons behind this reappearance of hers, he would’ve followed. Only madmen and eunuchs would refuse such a tempting invitation, and he was neither.

There was no distinctive trail to follow – the darkness of the dimly lit alleyways swallowed Skie too fast for Victor to follow – but tonight most roads led to the main square and the carnival. The prizefighter strode down several narrow streets, dodging those swerving souls that already had way too much festival in their system and had to puke it out, until he reached one of the main avenues that was set afire by torches burning in all colors imaginable. Flames of red and blue and green and white fluttered on the windows and roofs and streetlamps and the cords between them, creating a trail of shiny breadcrumbs that led to the clamor in the very center of Radasanth. Though on any given day the city would’ve drifted to slumber at this hour, tonight it was vibrant and alive, pulsating with colors and din. Locals and foreigners alike populated the streets, their concentration becoming more and more dense the closer he got to the center of the city until he had to shoulder his way through the crowd.

Locating Skie in such a mesh of bodies seemed like a futile task and shouting her name was about as useful as yelling at thunder. There seemed to be a hundred black haired women roaming around and about a hundred sounds louder than his voice, and every time he would reach for somebody who looked like her, he wound up staring at a confused pair of unfamiliar eyes. Victor was tempted to reach for his gun and fire a couple of rounds at the sky, but given the environment and the fireworks that flashed across the dome above, it would’ve probably been just a waste of good ammo. He was just about to reach that boundary where the amusement devolved into agitation when a hand reached for him from behind and pulled him a step back. His pugilistic reflexes almost kicked in, making him twist out of the mysterious clutch, but soon the touch was joined by words and a warm breath at the back of his neck.

“You looking for someone?” she seeped the words in his ear, somehow managing to defeat the noise of the ambiance and keep a genteel tone at the same time. There was little doubt in Victor’s mind that his quarry has hunted him down instead. The smile made a return to his face again, a weary, old thing rejuvenated just a fraction by her presence. It got a portion of the youth back yet again when he turned to face her.

“Yeah, a redhead. About this tall, pigtails, high heels, short skirt... You didn’t happen to see her?” They both kept a straight face for a couple of seconds after his joke – his cracking under assault of a snicker and hers sporting a false pout of disappointment – before they gave up the masquerade and she punched his shoulder lightly as a sign of a playful warning. “Alright, I’m game. What do we do next?”

The answer presented itself almost auspiciously.

“STEP RIGHT UP!!! STEP RIGHT UP!!! GENTELEMEN, WIN A MARVELOUS PIECE OF JEWELRY FOR YOUR LADIES!!!” From one of the nearby tents, a gnome shouted from the top of his lungs into a cone that stood before his hairy face. His other hand kept up a thin chain made of white gold with a large diamond star dangling as a pendant. An obvious fake, Victor thought, and even if it wasn’t, chances were that you had to do something utterly impossible and spend a lot of gold pieces in the process. That was how all these carnival games worked. But the gnome continued, his voice remarkably loud for one who barely reached to Victor’s waist.

“STEP RIGHT UP AND DEFEAT OUR ARM-WRESTLING CHAMPION!!!” the tiny creature said, pulling back the flap of the tent and presenting a small table and a huge mountain of muscle sitting behind it. “ONLY 50 GOLD PIECES FOR A CHANCE TO WIN THIS PRICELESS TREASURE!!!”

It was a scam, these things always were. The beast of a man probably packed enough power to match even the likes of Letho Ravenheart in an arm-wrestling match, but people got captivated by the glimmer of that necklace so they took a shot. And wound up with broken arms and dislocated shoulders and an egg on their face. And there were no refunds, of course.

((So, I didn’t want to make this post overly long and get Victor into the arm-wrestling match. He wouldn’t step forward on his own volition anyways. So give him a nudge in the right direction. ;)))