Work Text:
The ale burnt as it went down, pungent with the suffocating smoke and stench of the rest of this sodden barn of a tavern. But at this stage in the evening, she was quite welcoming of the change in scenery. The burn of the drink was the sensation which any Mirrahn knight would rightly relish, and Lucatiel had worked too damned hard for this title to risk disproving the rumor. ...Last time she tried to drink light, some drunk had gotten up on her about it, and she’s still avoiding that bar after the damage she caused it. She liked her bars full of strangers. And if it protected her from the rainflurry outside, all the better.
Still… not ideal. The ragged gentry here, though she had been among them not several years ago before she and her brother became knights, didn’t take kindly at all to her presence here. Personally, she had better things to do than to try and arrest a peddler or to otherwise start any other kind of shite, so it was an easy enough resolution to just keep the brim of her cap over her eyes.
She fluttered her eyes shut, coughing into a handkerchief as some of the ale threatened to come back up. It wasn’t like she’d be any good as an enforcer of the law in her state, anyways.
An icy gust of air washed over her as the door burst open. Lucatiel merely held on to her hat and ducked as the barkeep shouted at the newcomer to keep the gods-damned door shut, ya lout, amidst the cacophony of other complaints from fellow patrons. Lucatiel couldn’t help but laugh into the knuckle of her glove, the stench of alcohol on her breath. As if this rotten little place would be any more ruined by a bit of rain.
Eventually the complaints died and Lucatiel felt the rather abrasive presence of the newcomer to the seat to her right, shuddering in their sopping black cloak.
“Beer,” he said. Raspy voice, thick, cultured. ‘Melfian’ was the first label that came to mind, but if at all possible this voice was still too posh. What kind of rich idiot would be traveling through Mirrah at a time where Forossan bandits were making life hell for everyone?
The barkeep squinted. “What kind?”
“Your cheapest.”
Lucatiel chuckled again. It wasn’t funny at all, but hell, she was drunk and nobody knew her, she could make as much of a fool out of herself as she wanted. Still, somehow she was still self-aware enough to sense the heavy gaze of the stranger upon her, and lifted her chin to meet his challenge. Striking green eyes, copious red stubble that’s begging for a clean shave—sorry, friend, you’re just not growing a full beard with that face, dear Aslatiel can attest—and drooping wet rosy locks to match. Lucatiel had hardly ever seen hair so red, in truth. Kind of reminded her of her childhood stories.
Actually not too bad on the eyes, overlooking that. But Lucatiel wasn’t a flirt and no amount of alcohol was going to change that. And this man looked positively miserable, so no chance at all of it going the other way, either. At least, not if he’s got at all a right mind to him.
She sipped her drink, raising a tired brow, and swallowed. “I ought to ask what a foreigner like yourself is doing about these parts.”
No doubt that her armor was putting him a bit on edge. “For security purposes?”
“A knight of Mirrah is never off the job, but for now let us presume not.”
The man snorted and accepted his drink, dropping a few coins into the barkeep’s waiting palm before immediately going for a sip—and immediately scrunching his face in obvious pain. He hacked. “What is this?”
“Beer,” Lucatiel answered, her laughs escaping from her in drunken hicks. “Nev-never had it?”
“My purchasing options are quite limited at this moment,” he growled. But he went for another drink, anyways. Good lad.
“Mmm. Cheers to that.” She raised her mug, and after subjecting her to an undeservedly deadpan stare—what was his problem?—he raised his in turn.
Clink. “Cheers to poverty?” He asked.
“Cheers to suffering. It probably will not get better.”
She succeeded, in that moment, in actually getting the poor man to smile. “No… you’re right. I don’t think it will.”
And they downed their drinks. Lucatiel finished off her glass. The red-haired man hardly even finished half a mouthful before yanking the drink away from his lips, spilling a bit onto himself, and wiping at his mouth with a grimace. Strange man. Strange, strange man.
“So where are you from?”
“I cannot tell you. Wherefore this curiosity?"
(“Wherefore means ‘why’, Aslatiel,” the woman had once said to her older brother. Some obese Melfian aristocrat had strutted on horseback right down their street, talking far too loudly to some pushover retainer. Melfians were weird. Saw themselves as heir to the teachings of some old pantheon. A bunch of cultists, if you asked her.)
Lucatiel blinked, and stared towards the wall ahead with a huff. Already she was waving away the man’s concerns about wherever he might have insulted her. Melfian, for sure. “Just trying to make conversation while drinking my night away. Gods. Then may I ask, as a Knight of Mirrah, to where you are headed?"
The man's mouth opened and he seemed just as willing as before to try and tell her off, though he furrowed his brows and stopped himself. He was thinking really hard, this one. Hopefully he wouldn’t pop a vein. "I'm… looking for someone. Someone who calls himself Faraam."
Immediately Lucatiel's droopy smirk fell, and she reared the corner of her lip in what may have been a disproportionate amount of disgust. "Oh. A follower of Faraam, I see."
The man was alert like a cat to a mouse. "Know you where I can find him?"
"Certainly," she drawled, going for another swig of her mug before remembering that it was empty. Ignoring the man’s frantic look, she shook it at the barkeep, who shook her head. "You're joking. I'm not that drunk."
A sterner look. Lucatiel threw up a hand. The barkeep shook her head again. “Gods damn you, woman.”
The man apparently wasn’t about to be distracted."Prithee—" the man caught himself. "I mean… Please. You—you must know how I can find this man."
What useless bunk. Lucatiel smacked her glass to the bar with a thunk, grumbling. "Oh, Faraam is quite easy to find. You can hardly take five steps outside without being mugged by one of his followers." She leered at the strange man sidelong, "You must know you can't actually 'find' him. He's a god, not a man."
The man grimaced and straightened. With how miserable he seemed not a few seconds ago, Lucatiel was frankly surprised that he possessed the strength. "I believe the Gods are quite real."
"I used to, as well. But no amount of praying rescued my brother and I from our poverty. Or our parents from the plague. Or my village," she sipped what little ale there was left, "From the Forossans."
The man's face fell. Lucatiel might have actually been drunk, but she still thought she detected some genuine remorse in those eyes. "...I'm sorry."
Lucatiel had to tear herself away before she became lost in them. The memory was distant, now. Foggy. But it wasn’t quite something she’d ever forget. “It’s… okay. Not your fault, anyhow. Not unless you wielded the axe, or the torch. And no offense, but I can’t see you having the guts.” She sighed. “Still. If Faraam does exist… he took everything from me. And my brother and I got to where we are today not because of him, but in spite of him.”
The man held shut his eyes and exhaled slowly. He appeared in no small measure of distress. “He would never do such a thing,” he whispered.
“Then that’s even worse. He’s no god, at all. Or maybe he’s simply dead, his name run amok without his guidance.” Now that was a thought. Who the hell even was Faraam? Gods… maybe if her head weren’t throbbing, she’d ponder further.
But of course, the man was smiling. Wistfully, almost nostalgically. Lucatiel could almost hear the essay coming, but managed to steel herself. “You think the Gods omnipotent,” he said.
...Lucatiel stared. “Do you not?”
“The Gods are long-lived, powerful beings, with special souls. While Humanity is borne of dark, the Gods are borne of light.”
“Which is how the Gods are so much greater than us,” Lucatiel drawled.
“I used to believe as much, but I find it simpler to see us—them—as members of a species entirely distinct from Humanity. A species just as fallible as we, in countless ways.” His smile fell. “And where there were dozens of Gods, there were millions of Humans.”
Lucatiel, frankly, wasn’t quite certain how to unpack this. On a better day, with a clearer mind, she’d be field to the brim with hundreds of things to say in turn. She’d turn this into a full-on interrogation. That slip of the tongue being most suspect. ...But also, she was drunk. So maybe she’d outright misheard. Feh. “And what sig-signifi—what exactly does it matter, now?” The syllables came like rocks over her tongue.
Apparently the wrong words, even for how true they rang. The man frowned far more deeply, the creases upon his face suddenly seeming to Lucatiel very, very old. “Why does anything matter?” he whispered.
The conversation died. The bar, in its sorry little rain-rotten state, was dying, too. The rowdiest folks could still be heard chanting outside after the poor barkeep had chased them outside—no help from the bloody knight, of course, she was whispering. Dice still rolled. Glasses still clinked. Her head throbbed. But of all the noises still present, Lucatiel was hyper-aware of the dead silence emanating from the red-haired man.
He wasn’t going to give up this foolish Faraam quest, was he?
“Have you a place to sleep?” she mumbled.
The man shook his head.
“We will share quarters, then.”
The man seemed outright appalled. “Excuse me? How is this at all appro-”
“For sleeping.” Idiot. “Come on, already.”
Galib and Kremmel strike her bloody down already. Her head was bloody split open. Or it had best be, because if she opened her eyes and didn’t find a bloody mess all over the place, then she would be left with only one explanation. And she was not going to enjoy telling Aslatiel why she had failed to report back at the barracks last night.
Bleary morning rays shined through the window and scorched her eyes, at least the one not shrouded by locks of long, unkempt hair. Through the light she saw a silhouette of a tall, cloaked man.
Oh, shite.
She was up on her feet and her sword tip was at his chin. Long and heavy yet deft and refined, Lucatiel once cleaved a man with this blade. And she’d wisely held it upon her lap all night, though her back stung like hell from the crooked chair. “Who are you?”
His reaction was a curt “I will show myself out.”
Neurons fired.
“Wait! Wait. Wait, I’m sorry, I—” Lucatiel cut herself off, lowering her blade and rubbing her bleary eyes. Gods, she stank. And was hungover as all hell. Collect yourself! “I remember now. I—my apologies.”
That gave the man some pause, but as Lucatiel was opening her eyes once more, he was already hoisting his hood back up. “Apology accepted,” he said, face blank, “And your hospitality is appreciated.”
He made for the door.
“Wait.” He stopped with a raised brow as Lucatiel brushed the hair from her face, sheathing her blade as she collected herself. Already he was off? She squinted, dashing a gloved finger between the two of them. “Did we..?”
“No. We did not. You fell asleep on that chair as soon as you sat, and I had the bed to myself.”
Damn. Well, not that she would lay with herself in her state, utterly drunk and cooped in her armor, all before drawing a sword on the man. Wonderful. She continued past the embarrassed heat on her face, “Good. That is fine. You… you yet intend to pursue this Faraam dream of yours, then, in spite of the dangers.”
The man seemed to want to argue at that, though given the conversation of last night, seemed to decide against it. “Yes.”
To call him a fool again, she suspected, would serve nobody any favors.
The storm had rescinded throughout the night, and the pleasant smell of wet woodland embraced the duo as they exited the little inn, Lucatiel squinting at the sunlight. The man was already seeming far more distant than she remembered that he had last night, though—damn, was that, too, the alcohol, that made him seem more receptive?
“I would like to apologize for my conduct,” she said simply, and the man nodded in understanding. “‘Tis not how a knight of Mirrah should rein herself.”
“Believe me, I understand your plight.” Finally, there it was, the crack of a grin once again. “I was much like you, once. But life is too short, as a human, to be holding myself back.”
There he was again, with his continued insistance about his humanity. Instead of pursuing the matter, Lucatiel decided that the man was merely a little bit mad. Everyone was, these waning days, with the curse and whatnot. “Even when I have so much to lose?”
The man nodded again. “Thank you for the correction. I don’t have much more to lose.” He eyed her. “I know not whether I will be lingering here for much longer. My search seems to be sending me in the direction of Forossa, or whate’er is left of it.”
“Tch. Good luck.” She smiled.
The air between them stood still a moment longer before the man refastened his cloak about himself, and casting Lucatiel one final look, started up the dirt-trodden path, towards the bluish mountains far to the west, where bandits roamed. Lucatiel stood alone then, the peculiar impression upon her heart still not fully having rebounded. A strange man, a strange soul.
She kicked herself for never having asked nor given a name.