-Emilio-
Two templars walk into a bar.
The scenario reminded Emilio of a set-up for a joke. But there they were, stuck working together again. Markos was grim as always with that distant look in his eyes, glowering at the barkeep. He wondered if Markos kept the same expression with his woman or if his friend simply lost the capacity to smile. There was half a stein of frothy beer in front of his partner - he supposed that he might have been late but, Emilio had immediately left after receiving the summons to meet Markos. How long had Markos been sitting in that spot?
"How does Teiwaz's grace find you this day, Markos?" Emilio offered a friendly smile, but it was greeted with a dour grimace.
"Quite well, I take it?" Markos squinted at him without a trace of humor. It felt strange for him to see him so.
"Must you cluck like a fat hen?"
"Must you look like you have a mouthful of dung? Surely, you have not been made to muck out a stable recently. I know that was your favorite task," Emilio retorted as he settled on the bench across from Markos who glowered at him. It did look like there was more pepper in Markos's hair these days, more creases in his brow and at the corners of his mouth. "I was told you had the mission, but there is no sense in not being friendly."
Markos grunted. Emilio waited.
After Markos emptied his stein, he pulled a rolled parchment from a pouch at his waist and set the stein on one of the corners to keep it from rolling away. He stabbed his finger at the center of the paper. "We're going into a pit. You'd be less cheery if you'd actual been inside of one before."
Emilio peered down at the parchment and the annotations for what was supposed to be inside. "All joking aside, I know it's been a while but I'm a templar too. How is the pit different from fighting aphotics? I thought you'd find demons refreshing after all those days chasing runways and… elves." He regretted saying it immediately as anger flashed in Markos's eyes.
"This isn't a damn game." Markos's voice was firm, scolding, edged with disdain. "It isn't always fun."
Emilio rubbed the back of his head, uncertain of what had set Markos off. Perhaps, he was still sore about that one mission before his recall, but it had been months and Markos had completed countless missions since then. Did his friend still nurse that bit of wounded pride?
"Are you done? This is about what, a half-day's ride? We should reach each it by nightfall, but it would be better to descend after daybreak." Emilio tapped the map. "Or is the lager an indicator of your intentions to take on a pit tonight? I also take it that since we are not accompanied by a lovely young woman in crimson, that we are doing this on our own then?"
"It's a half day's ride. We should not delay. The demons are taking the nearby children… the Church will not send one of the Order to handle this. They will not risk a sister getting pulled into darkness," Markos growled as he shoved the stein away. He glared at Emilio. "If you are afraid, go home. I'll do this alone."
Emilio folded his arms in front of his chest, his gauntlets clinked against his breastplate. He could have sworn they were both wearing the same equipment which both showed the same wear from use, but Markos had a different light to him, his friend had a strange aura around him like he was being bound by something. But now, something felt off in the way he carried himself, as though the armor settled heavier about his shoulders than it had a right to, and with a look of solitary self-determination as though no other man could bear the weight. Emilio could not quite put his finger on it, but it felt like the man was being pushed by something unseen.
But he would not let that stand between them. Blithely, he ventured, "What happened to you?"
"Happened?" Markos inquired, rising for the road. Emilio hurriedly drained his tankard and tossed a few copper kilns on the table to pay their order, plucking up his hated helm from the edge where he had left it.
"Yes. You're acting particularly miserable today."
Markos scoffed back, "We're walking into the mouth of hell on earth."
"Yes," Emilio wielded his voice as delicate as a rapier, and as pointedly. "And this is not uncommon for us."
"You met the elf." Markos's voice had the same edge as the sword he buckled on, and they shoved through the doors of the tavern into the street. Emilio lengthening his stride to keep up with Markos as they headed towards the Church's livery stables, a few streets down and closer to the Temple's district. The late afternoon sun had finally started to drive off the merchants, hawkers, and holy-relic peddlers that usually preyed upon pilgrims or the generally unwary, which Emilio counted as good; it looked as though Markos would have shouldered through them like a titan in gray metal.
It took a few seconds for what Markos had said to sink in. Emilio, startled, said, "Yes, I did."
"Sintija."
"Leanhaun… yes, she said her name was Sintija," the words came clumsily as Emilio tried to recall the painful encounter at the lake. "You do know of her?" His cheeks flushed hotly at the memory of that bit of humiliation.
"Yes, I know of her. Very well."
Markos seemed chilly; chilly was an understatement. It seemed like the other Knight were watching Emilio, and not in the friendly, challenging way he had used to. Something had worn him down to a razor.
Markos shoved aside an unlucky peddler in his way with a bit more force than Emilio thought was strictly necessary. The rest of the crowd started to open in front of them; at least the ones that were paying attention. A knot of people had started to gather around someone yelling on the other side of the town, and they were heading towards the commotion.
Emilio followed; his companion had responded but had not given a true answer. Had the elf wounded him? He tried to recall if Markos had ever mentioned the woman but had no memory of such an event. Markos was never the sort that bragged of his accomplishments nor whispered his failings. Was it truly only prayer, drink, and death that moved him?
"Hey now, what of it? You never want to talk about missions," he called as he caught closed the gap between them, offering gesturing plications of apologies as he navigated his way through the crowd.
"That elf," Markos said, pausing in front of a knot of commoners who didn't immediately yield to the obvious weight of his mood and ceremonial armor, "Has been plaguing me, on and off, for years. She toys with your emotions, then flits off into darkness, or wherever, too quick to catch."
Given no other alternative, Markos placed a gauntlet on the shoulder of a dirty young woman, barely over fifteen or so. She wheeled like a dervish, some violent reply on her tongue, before suddenly realizing who was moving her. She was pretty in a simple way, Emilio noticed, somewhat self-consciously, or she would have been if someone had dumped a bucket of water over her and set to scrubbing. He smiled at her, but she did not smile back.
Markos continued into the crowd, inexorable as a ship ploughing rough ocean. Their path was taking them towards the stables, sure, but they were closing in on a street preacher in tattered habit, standing on top of a stopped wain, and now they could hear him.
"Fear not the evil that wears a demonic face! Beware of that which teases and seduces with beauty! Be not led astray to sin from the light of might Teiwaz! Mara tempts in loose bodices and earthly pleasures!" The preacher droned.
Through the stench of unwashed bodies and horse, a delicate perfume wafted on the breeze. Emilio noticed a small blue bird perched behind the preacher's head on the half rotten wood. He paused and felt the press of the crowd around him. The memory of the elf's face in the sunlight brought a flush to his cheeks. "Sintija?" He whispered before shaking his head and continuing forward.
Markos was saddled atop an unfamiliar dark maned stallion by the time Emilio reached the stables. The glint in its eyes reminded him of an unbroken beast of horse that his father's men and Markos had to break in for a war charger when he was younger.
"I had your horse saddled. We can make it if we press." Markos pulled on his helmet with a dismissive glare.
Emilio led Bolstead from the stall and climbed easily onto the saddle. Markos had been his friend for years; he trusted the man despite how angry he seemed. "Thank you. It's been a while, hasn't it?"