The majority of the things Kia cherished in his life he learned as a man, not as a boy. He didn't learn to read until he was an adult.
It wasn't that he didn't want to, or was reluctant. He simply didn't have the need for it. His father couldn't read, nor his father before him. Yet when he was on the brink of taking over the largest drug, gambling, and illegal prostitution ring, it had suddenly become a necessity to read and do basic arithmetic. He couldn't appear weak or stupid in front of his men, and it was a legitimate business that required him to communicate with others from all over the world.
It was a slow, painful process. He met with a tutor in secret every night. It was a struggle, and with his short temper, the nights often ended with him grumbling or yelling at his teacher in frustration. It was her fault that he was having a hard time. She wasn't teaching him right. It was just too difficult. She wasn't explaining things in a way he could understand.
His tutor was a whore. She wasn't a filthy prostitute, but an ex-harem girl that had once belonged to a prince. He didn't know anyone legitimate who could discreetly teach him. He looked for intelligent working girls that were willing to do the job.
He slept with her frequently, and paid her extra for the lessons. She claimed she didn't mind. She had serviced much odder, stranger requests. In fact, she said she was glad she could better someone's life.
He doubted it. The lessons were long and arduous, often bleeding into the early morning hours. He had very little patience and was exceedingly difficult to work with. He was frequently verbally and physically abusive. Part of what he was paying for was her pleasant attitude.
It was expensive, but it was an investment. With the ability to read and write, he tripled his money quickly. He was able to expand his business. But he soon succeeded. He mastered reading and writing. He even offered to pay extra if she could teach him to read and speak the main human dialect. Which she did.
After that, he felt he could conquer anything.
There were unintended consequences. He and the whore had spent a lot of personal time together. He had begun falling for her. She influenced his everyday life. She converted him to the worship of Eryss, the goddess of the arts. She encouraged him to pursue other things he had an interest in, but didn't dare learn.
It was how he learned to play the piano.
Sometimes, when his rough, hairy hands plunked along the keys, he thought of the working girl, Llara. What became of her? He tried awkwardly once to confess his feelings, but soon stopped before he went too far. He paid her to pretend to like him. He paid her to writhe under him at night. He paid her to teach him to read, write, and play music. He paid her to look pretty on his arm in front of his men.
When he began to develop legitimate emotions, he put an end to their relationship. He fired her.
She almost looked wounded.
Months later, he heard a rumor that she had moved into a bigger, better, more exquisite whorehouse where she didn't have to service or see men like him. She would have the best clientele with fatter coin purses and fancy titles. Mostly nobility and royalty. She was housed under Shadowglade in the Flesh Quarter.
He was glad for her. She deserved it.
He never forgot her fiery locks and he still kept Eryss' idol on top of his piano.
Kia wondered if he would ever play his piano again.
It soothed him. He felt he could express the things he could never say. When he began, he would play simple folk songs. They weren't satisfying and he got better. He found reading music much easier than reading words. He moved on to play complicated orchestral pieces. He poured himself into the compositions, building loud crescendos and pounding away his anger and depression. He'd give anything to have a keyboard in front of him now.
It was the close of the third day down in the sewers. He and Anryn drank fallen rainwater and feasted on cooked moss. He stopped walking and set her down on a comfortable bed of dried leaves.
He was a strong man, but she had grown heavy in his arms. He had marked his path, and knew that he hadn't been wandering in circles anymore. He still felt it was pointless. He had probably walked for miles and miles. He was probably out of Belshalara. The tiny sewer grates in the ceilings above were largely useless. He could use the sunlight and tell which direction he was traveling, and what time of day it was. Yet this shred of information did him little good if he could not position himself in relation to everything else.
Every day that had passed, Anryn was growing weaker. She had perhaps another two days, three? He wasn't sure. He had kept her wound clean and given her water. He felt it was better for her to stop wandering and keep her warm near the campfire. He built it under a small sewer grate to allow the smoke to climb out into the air. Maybe someone above would see them.
He spoke to her. Told her stories. He continued to pray to the luck goddess, Ysimul. He wondered why she had sent them in this direction, which ultimately led him nowhere. It wasn't a way out, but more labyrinthine turns that had gotten him even more lost. Perhaps he did have luck, just not the good kind.
Ysimul was the goddess of fortune, both good and bad.
He wondered what Arie was doing, running his business while he was away. Maybe she was doing a better job than he was.
After meeting Anryn, he wasn't sure if he loved Arie. The idea didn't feel guilty, strangely. He was grateful he had a chance to meet Captain Stormcrow, even if their time together was rather fleeting. It was perhaps meant to be that Arie took over his business and he died in obscurity. Though not unhappy. There were worse ways to die. He killed people in far more torturous ways. Maybe he deserved all of this.
He wasn't a good man. He didn't lead a good life. Some of this he wanted to blame on his father. A lot of it, most of it, he knew, he brought on himself.
He looked over at Anryn. She was breathing steadily, asleep. Occasionally, she made small moans, mutterings. He thought they were words. Once or twice, he leaned his ear close and tried to hear. Nothing, just pained, weak noises.
He hushed her softly, told her to sleep. He doubted she heard him. She seemed so far away.
But what if Anryn died and he lived? If he somehow managed a way out?
It was agonizing to think about.
All of this over what? He slid the Idol of Turtih out of his pocket. It still shined in the darkness. It was lightweight and small, made of black bone. It was always cold, even when it had been in his pocket against his leg for long periods of time. It was a carving of a warrior in heavy armor with a massive sword. It was so small, so inconsequential, yet cost him so much. Turtih, the god of war. Arie worshiped him, he knew. She had a small shrine dedicated to him. He turned the idol over in his hand.
This was all Lillandyr's fault. Anryn died saving his life and it was the Marquis of the Flesh Quarter's fault. If he ever made it out of here, he vowed to use the favor that Lillandyr owed him to save Anryn's life. It was the least he could do.
He thought about Lillandyr a great deal. Sometimes he was angry and resentful of her. She sent him down here knowing that it would kill him. It was on purpose, to get him out of the way, and she would have the opportunity to gain control over his domain.
But then he reminded himself that it was he who had gotten lost. Made poor decisions. Got caught.
She was pretty, Lillandyr. He had wondered what she looked like naked. It wasn't all entirely her fault, he rationalized after his anger died away. He just wanted someone else to blame. He shuffled a stick in the fire to reignite the embers. The campfire hissed and cracked. Plumes of smoke rose into the dripping iron sewer grate above. He'd make her humble. Bend her over and pull her hair. He wanted to hear her scream, and then shut the bitch up.
He began to hum. A deep, low, reverberating bass. The sound of it echoed off the sewer walls and bounced across the stone. He stopped humming to sing the words every once in a while as the lyrics paced through his head.
As he hummed, Anryn stirred. The groaning and pained noises ceased. It was a folk song, simple and sweet. It wasn't happy, and it wasn't sad. It was the story of two elves that took a long journey together through an ancient forest in search of a golden city.
The story was never clear if they ever found it, but Kia always liked the song.
He was hungry. His stomach constricted in needling pain. He wanted food. Meat. A good steak and a cold mug of beer. He curled up beside Anryn on the bed of leaves and fell asleep.
He wasn't sure how long he had been asleep. Twelve hours? Seven? Maybe it was only two. He felt disoriented, and didn't feel strong enough to lift his head and peer out of the sewer grate above him. It felt like nighttime. But he continued staring at the dried brown leaves in front of him. They made for a comfortable pillow.
He could hear Anryn's labored, rattling breathing and the sound of a drip splashing against a puddle somewhere in the distance.
There was a shuffling. Rats maybe.
The shuffling became louder. Footfalls. Heavy footfalls. Soft mutterings. Someone… people. People were nearby.
He hadn't seen a person, alive or dead, in days. He immediately sat upwards in a jolt. He grabbed his saber, just in case. It could have been an Unquenched, or a cultist. He clung to hope that it was neither, though he was realistic. It seemed unlikely that they would be friendly.
Ysimul, he prayed. Please. Let me be lucky. Maybe it would be someone, a merchant, maybe, that had wandered from the Marketplace and lost their way while carrying baskets of unsold food.
He'd never be that lucky.
He remained sitting in the pile of leaves beside Anryn. His hand tightly clutched his sword.
There were two voices. One was low and rumbling, distinctly male. He couldn't make out what he was saying. The other was soft, light, and female. He was able to catch a word here and there.
Ysimul had been listening the entire time. She had answered all of his prayers. He was lucky, just not in the way he expected. She had sent him down this path so he would be where he needed to be in that exact time and place.
The two figures turned the corner. They both seemed as startled to see him as he was them. The large male was carrying a torch. He was pale and draped in heavy, black spiked armor. His steps were heavy, clapping, and metallic. The male's face was waxy and bluish, his hair long and white like a sheet of snow. He was dead. An Unquenched. Kia noticed the dangerous, wide broadsword fixed to his side. It had a twisted obsidian handle with a mother-of-pearl dead tree decorated in the hilt. It was Shadowglade's symbol; he was a general.
The halo of firelight illuminated the female. She was tall and thin. She wore a long woolen cloak that covered her skinny frame. Her hair was a curtain of spiraled scarlet. It was unmistakable. Only one woman in the world had hair like that.
It was too serendipitous. Too much of a coincidence. Ysimul, he thought, thank you. And you have a strange sense of humor.
"Kia?" she asked quietly, her voice echoing in the cavernous distance. The huge, hulking, dead beast grabbed her shoulder so she couldn't advance further. "Is that you, Kia Sin'del?"
Kia heard the Unquenched grumble something in her ear. The Unquenched then lifted the torch to cast more light down the tunnel.
"Yes… Llara?" Kia asked, relieved and confused. There was also a loud sense of danger pulsing in his ears. Maybe they were sent to kill him. But why? Why send a whore and one Unquenched? "Llara Lily?" he squinted. His eyesight was poor, and he was used to the darkness.
"Yes, it's me. Are you hurt?" she asked with gentle concern. "What are you doing down here?" she asked, forced to keep her distance. Ashtorath still had one heavy, dinner plate sized hand on her shoulder, keeping her from advancing.
"I'm not," he answered. But before he could explain that his friend was injured, the Unquenched barked.
"Drop your sword," Ashtorath snarled. "Leave it."
Kia dropped it into the pile of leaves beside Anryn. He lifted both of his hands and slowly stood, showing he was completely unarmed.
"Are… are you a fugitive, Kia? Are you running from someone? Is that why you're down here? Who is that with you?" Llara pointed to Anryn. "Is she hurt?"
Kia knew damn well that Llara knew who and what he was. She had every reason to believe that his past deeds had finally caught up to him. It made perfect sense to hide out in the sewers if things had gotten too overbearing. She had no reason to trust him, no reason to think he wasn't dangerous. He didn't blame her for not wanting to approach him. He kept his hands in the air.
He wondered if Llara thought it was he who wounded Anryn. It wasn't a far-fetched idea.
"No, I'm not running," he replied doggedly. He could hear in his voice how tired he was. Starved. Thirsty. He probably looked like a mess. He hadn't shaved or been able to bathe in days. "I got… I got lost. I came down here. Under Marquis Shadowglade's orders. Captain Stormcrow and I," he gestured to Anryn. "Lillandyr sent me to look for something. And things got… out of hand. At the Marketplace."
The big Unquenched sneered. It was a half laugh, half noise of derisive mocking. Llara turned and said something quiet to him. The large dead man seemed dubious, reluctant. Slowly, he removed his hand from her shoulder to allow the woman to approach. Kia kept his hands open in the air.
He could feel Ashtorath watching him closely. He noticed that the big, plated hand was resting on his sword handle. He wanted to eat Kia, he could tell. He looked like a rabid, hungry animal. It made Kia uneasy. How was Llara able to control the monster? It was as if she had a spell lassoed around him. He didn't look at her as if she were a meal. He looked like her protector, her armor. She was unassuming, gentle and feminine, but he shadowed her like a hulking weapon of war and destruction.
Ashtorath stayed where he was, obedient but alert. His glazed, icy eyes were transfixed on Kia.
Gradually, he lowered his hands. He could see Ashtorath tense.
"It's okay," she said as she glanced back, motioning to Ashtorath to stand down. He didn't. "I know him."
She knelt down beside Anryn, leaves crunched under her knees. Llara unlatched a water canteen from her shoulder. She wetted the other woman's lips and brushed her hand across her forehead tenderly.
"She's feverish," Llara whispered with worry.
"She took a poisoned dagger to the side," Kia explained. "I did what I could to stop the poison, but I've been down here for days. There was an incident at the Marketplace, and we tried to get out. I wound up losing my way in the skirmish. She's going to die unless we get out of here soon."
Llara glanced up to Kia briefly. In the dim light, he saw her navy blue eyes study him, scrutinize him. He had no idea what she was thinking.
Maybe she heard the genuine concern in his voice. She was a kind soul, he knew. The feelings and memories of her came flooding back. He remembered the unique, floral smell in her hair and her stifled, polite laughter that always hinted at genuine mirth. She was practiced and poised, a whore of the old ways. He remembered how she kissed, warm, bright, passionate, and hungry. He remembered the feel of her lightly freckled skin under his hand. Kia licked his lip.
Then he glanced back and saw her polar opposite. The frozen monster with hard, jutting black armor stood vigilant and watched. He was statuesque and didn't move in the darkness. Ashtorath didn't make a sound. He didn't even need to breathe. He was a nightmare wolf waiting in the shadows, drooling and eager for an opportunity to strike.
What she was doing with him, he couldn't even begin to guess.
"Yes, we… saw some of that. Heard about it," she said as she slowly rose to her feet. "Everyone has. People were saying that bombs went off and a few people even died. They said terrorists sent by Seralah were responsible, and Unquenched have been coming out to roam the city above. We have been avoiding it." She sounded doubtful. Kia surmised that she probably thought that he also had a lot to do with what happened in the Marketplace. And she was correct.
"Look," Kia said, cutting to the chase. Being around Llara was bringing back too many thoughts, too many memories. Ysimul sent her, he was sure of it. Not that he didn't appreciate it. He did, but he didn't want to reminisce. He made a lot of mistakes, many of them with her. He wasn't sure if the goddess was taunting him, or teaching him a lesson. Whatever it was, he just wanted it to be over with. "If you could point me the way out, I'd really appreciate it, Llara. I would. I want to get her help and I obviously can't do it down here. And I'll be out of your hair forever. I won't bother you." He glanced back to Ashtorath, then back. "Ever again."
"I…" She was carefully choosing her words as she flicked a piece of blood-colored hair from her eyes. "Understand, Kia. I'm not sure all that's going on and what you have to do with it, but if you don't tell anyone that we are down here, I'll do the same for you."
It eased him somewhat, knowing she wasn't an agent sent to kill him. She had her secrets and her reasons for being down here with the General of the Unquenched, and he didn't ask. Being in his business, he saw a lot of crazy things and a lot of people in strange, precarious positions. He knew better than to ask questions.
"Deal," he said as he extended his hand to shake.
"Deal," Llara agreed as she pumped his hand with a smile.
Kia heard Ashtorath snort and snuffle in the distance, disagreeing with him touching her, even if it was only a formal handshake. Immediately, Kia released his grip.
"Go down there. Make an immediate left," Llara pointed to the way she and Ashtorath had come. "Follow the sewer grates leading west. Always west. It's best to follow the sun, if you can. And then you will come to a large red brick opening. It begins to slope upwards, and you will find your way out. Once you begin to see the bricks, you know you're heading in the right direction. It's maybe a half hour, twenty minutes."
He had been so close to his exit the entire time. He was elated and frustrated simultaneously.
He didn't say another word and he didn't linger. Kia carefully collected Anryn into his arms. Then he hooked his saber into his belt. He muttered a thank you to Llara. She smiled at him, and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
"Goodbye, Kia," she whispered with a brush of her hand to his hairy face. "And good luck," With those words, he knew it was all Ysimul's handiwork.
She offered nothing else, no words of advice or hope. He could see a twinge of pain, perhaps regret, in her face.
Ashtorath clomped forward and claimed Llara for himself with a possessive, ferocious growl. He yanked her by the arm and together they disappeared into the darkness.
Kia didn't look back, but he listened to the patter of their feet as they parted ways. Ashtorath's boots were loud and commanding against the stone. Eventually, the echoes faded into silence.
He gave another word of thanks and praise to Ysimul as he followed Llara's direction. It was a strange collaboration, a twist of fate and luck. He wondered if they would ever cross paths again.
The sun was rising. It made it easy to tell which way was east by the climbing pink and golden sky. He needed to head west. Just as Llara said, the oily, wet, sewage-smeared ground soon turned to crumbling red brick. Follow the red brick, he thought.
He felt a blast of fresh, clean air. The architecture began to open and breathe. It began to look less like a large storm drain and more like the opening to the Underground. He climbed stairs and ramps. The world was beginning to brighten and slope upwards. He was close. He could feel it, smell it.
The Underground was strangely quiet. Normally, he would have seen at least a few people milling around and heading towards the Marketplace. All except the occasional squeals and scurrying of rats, he saw and heard no one.
He squinted as he was met with thin, cool shafts of light. With Anryn in his arms, his pace hastened as he finally saw the exit. Then he was met with the pale blue morning. Praise the gods, he thought. He would need to give thanks to Ysimul in particular as soon as he had a chance. Luck smiled on him for once. Hopefully, it didn't run out for Anryn. He prayed that she wasn't too far gone, that it wasn't too late.
Kia didn't waste any time. He knew the best medical doctors were in the Artisan Quarter.
He didn't care that he looked and smelt like he had been in the deepest recesses of the sewers for days and days. He didn't care that passersby looked and stared at him. A big, one-eyed, terrifying elf that was carrying a nearly dead woman through the streets of Belshalara. He brushed by guards and ignored their pleas for him to stop. No. He wasn't going to stop, not until he slammed his fist on the door of the best doctor that he knew of that could help Anryn.
They were closed. It was too early in the morning. They hadn't opened yet. He didn't care. He kept banging his fist until his knuckles were raw and red. And finally, finally a nurse opened the door. She looked confused and alarmed.
He explained rapid fire as he set Anryn down on the table. She was dying. She had been stabbed in the Underground Marketplace several days ago with a poisoned knife. He didn't give any more details about the hows and whys. He did the best he could with the bleeding and the poison.
The nurse sent for the physician to come an hour or two early. He arrived in just a handful of minutes.
The nurse shooed Kia to sit in the waiting room. Sit, calm down. There was nothing he could do; now it was in the hands of the doctor. If they needed an alchemist or a shaman, they would surely send for one. Hopefully, it would not come to that. Sit, the nurse insisted. Could she get him something to drink, she asked? Coffee? Water? Kia scarcely heard her. Her voice was all a blur.
Beer, he wondered? Could he have a beer? Scotch, maybe?
The nurse's lips thinned. She thought he was being funny. He wasn't. He was serious. He could use a fucking beer. A whiskey. Something to take the edge off.
The nurse disappeared and returned with hot, black coffee. It was good; it smelt nutty and dark, strong and thick. He refused cream or sugar. It was far better than coppery rainwater. Even though it scalded the roof of his mouth, it was the best thing he had tasted in days. He relished the searing pain. It made him calm; it made him feel alive and awake. And gods, he was tired. He exhaled and finally relaxed.
And then he waited in silence. More nurses were being called in, but no one was telling him how she was. If she was alive. If there was hope. He stirred uncomfortably, impatient. It felt as if hours passed. He finished three cups of coffee.
He dug in his pocket and fished out the Idol of Turtih and looked at it. He wanted to get rid of the Idol. He wanted nothing to do with it. It cost him too much. A little, meaningless trinket. And he needed something to do while he waited. He asked the receptionist for a quill and parchment. Blandly, he handed Kia what he wanted, and shrugged when he asked him how Anryn was doing.
Kia grumbled and began to write. His handwriting was a small, sharp, crisp scrawl.
Lillandyr,
Here is your fucking Idol. Stormcrow is badly wounded. I am well. She is at the Copperhead Hospital in the Artisan Quarter. You owe me a favor and I am calling it in immediately. Find the best healer in the city, and have him save her. I ask for nothing else. We will be even.
– Kiaphus, The Old Dog
Kia rolled the letter around the idol and bound them together.
He stepped outside and waited for a rattling black mail carriage to pass. He offered it to the deliveryman and paid him a few silver to ignore his route and deliver it to Shadowglade's manor at once. The mail carrier tipped his hat and agreed. Kia watched as he slapped the reigns of his horses and set off towards the Flesh Quarter.
He turned and stepped back inside the hospital. Hours passed, and a new doctor swept in through the door. No introductions were made. The short, bald elf with wire-rimmed glasses and a white laboratory coat was all business. Kia assumed he was the best in the city, just as he demanded.
Four days passed. The nurses allowed him to stay, sleeping in a cot at Anryn's bedside. He slept, shaved, and ate. Her condition seemed unchanged.
The best doctor in the city was named Doctor Greenwood. He was just a little over four feet tall, but carried himself with dignity and professionalism. It made him seem taller. He could tell that he didn't think much of the Old Dog, or Anryn. The doctor probably assumed that they were filthy ruffians and Anryn was injured in a bar fight, or dealing drugs. Kia didn't care what he thought, as long as he was taking care of her.
He explained that she wasn't entirely out of the woods yet. He made no guarantees. Her health was very poor. The doctor explained that Kia ought to go home. His presence wasn't going to change her condition. He pushed his glasses up his nose and turned to administer another dose of medicine to Anryn. Afterward, he put the syringe down and turned away.
Kia didn't want to leave. This was entirely his fault. She was unconscious and struggling to breathe because she wanted to save his miserable life. She jumped in front of him and took that poisoned dagger.
But Greenwood was right. His presence wasn't going to suddenly make her well again. He probably ought to return to the barge. See Arie. She likely was wondering where he was, what he was doing, maybe. He had never written to her or sent her word. Maybe she even thought he was dead.
He had a whole world to return to. A business. His life wasn't going to stop because some pirate captain partner of his was critically injured.
Kia brushed his hand through her auburn and salted hair. She was older, like him. He couldn't guess how old, but she was more his age. She had seen places and done things. He didn't need to hear her stories, though he wished to. He could tell by the lines near her eyes and the creases down her jaw that she had experienced life, and it was hard. Just as he had. He liked the smattering of freckles near her nose and the small scar on her forehead.
She was beautiful. Not conventionally so. She was funny. He wanted to grip her hand. Talk to her. Say something.
But what was there to say? He wasn't a man of many words. So he said all he wanted to say to her.
"Get better, Anryn," he muttered as he patted her knuckles and released her fingers. He drew in a heavy breath as he stood. The chair groaned under him.
The doctors didn't spare him a second glance as he walked away.
He stepped out of the hospital. It was a dreary day. Puddles of rainwater littered the broken cobbled streets. A thin chill frosted the air. Garbage and colorful debris from the Feast of Saint Baellith littered the ground. He forgot about the holiday. He must have missed it. He had been absent the last handfuls of years, but he had meant to go. Who wouldn't want to see Lillandyr whore herself in front of the entire city? He doubted he would have been close enough to get a proper view of her tits, anyway.
Hands shoved into his pockets, he made his way to the Industrial Quarter.
He met with his usual contact and chartered a small ship to take him to his barge. His home away from home. Though these days it was more his home than the one he owned on land, outside the city. He hadn't been there in months.
From the outside, everything seemed and looked like business as usual. However, it felt different. Something in the atmosphere was wrong. His men greeted him as they always did, yet he could tell something was off. It was in their eyes, their cadence, and their body language.
Something changed.
He wanted answers, a report. His captains, he discovered, could not be found. He wanted to speak to Arie. What was the status of his business? Was there any news? How were sales from the holiday?
He headed for his private room and shoved his guards aside. They told him she was in there, resting.
Fine, he answered. Whatever. Good.
He threw open the doors to his room. It looked as if it had been ransacked. Had he been robbed? He'd slaughter the asshole that touched his shit. The bed was disheveled. Clothes, some his, others that were clearly not, littered the room. His stacks of papers (only he understood his filing system) blanketed the floor. Bird feces splattered the walls. Scraps of food, bottles, and trash lined every countertop. He was messy, but this was pure filth.
Matthias, his raven. Where was he?
Kia found him loose, perched in the corner of the ceiling. He was feasting on a discarded piece of fruit. Ravens ate meat. Arie hadn't been caring for him at all.
"Matthias," Kia gently held out his hand and called to his bird.
The great raven dropped the fruit, flapped down to land on his wrist. Gently, Kia stroked the long, slick black feathers with affection. Big black mirror eyes peered at the elf, as if he recognized him. A gritty, scratchy squawk escaped from deep in his rounded belly. Kia coaxed him onto his shoulder and continued to look around for anything missing.
A few things were gone. The safe bolted to the floor of his closet was cleaned of gold, but the deeds to his barge and property were still intact. Strange. A thief should have taken those, too. Some of the artwork and artifacts that he had collected over the years were defiled and smashed on the ground.
He continued to look around when he stopped. There was a sound emitting from the bathroom, like weeping or heavy breathing. Slowly, he pushed the door open and twisted the oil lamp on.
It smelt like sour piss, alcohol, and vomit. The bathroom had been torn to shreds, too, but he quickly saw the reason behind it all.
Matthias shifted uncomfortably on his shoulders, digging his long, black talons through his shirt. The bird made a nasty, wretched noise when he saw the woman on the floor, hunched over the rim of the toilet.
She was crying and sick. She panted and trembled. Her skin was waxy and gray. Her makeup was streaked down her face.
"Arie," Kia said as he stepped over several soiled towels. He reached for her shoulder to turn her to face him, to better gauge what had happened.
He could smell what happened. She didn't need to explain. Her eyes were bloodshot and her breath stank of rank booze and chickheed. She probably had binged while he was gone. It explained what had happened in his apartment; she was probably searching for gold and pawning things to feed her habit. She had stolen from him before, but it had never been this bad, this desperate.
"Tyrin…?" she asked in an incoherent haze. Her head rolled, her skinny frame flopping in his grip. She coughed a rasping, rattling, wet sound past her cracked lips.
A twist of anger surged through him. No, he thought. He wasn't Tyrin. Tyrin was fucking six feet somewhere. Kia was gone a week, nearly killed. And this… this was what he had come back to? A strung-out lover asking for the man she had fucked behind his back? She destroyed his home. Stole from him. Starved his pet. And this… this was what he got?
He should kill her, too. And whose clothes were those on his bed? Men's clothes, not his. Don't think he didn't fucking see that just because he had one working eye, woman, he thought spitefully.
He hoped she had a good time while he was away, because it was all about to end.
"Get up," he barked as he went to grab her arm roughly.
"Why…?" she moaned. "Where are you taking me?" she asked in a daze.
"Do you even know who I am?" he snarled at her face. He was tired, exhausted. Too old for this.
She was many, many years his junior. He was what, hundred and nineteen? Twenty? She was in her sixties. More of a child to him.
But he took care of her for many years. He had given her a home and nearly everything she ever wanted. Gold, jewelry, clothing, power and a reputation.
When he met her, she was different. She acted and looked much older than her age. She worked the Underground, buying and selling weapons and ammunition. She was feared and building a name for herself. She acted like nothing scared her.
He saw her laugh when she first shot a man. It was what sealed it for him; he needed this woman by his side so people would respect him. She was also young, blonde and beautiful. With her at his side, he completed the "drug lord" veneer. And she had links and contacts to additional firepower. At the time, she was everything he needed and could hope to want. She was perfect to have on his arm.
And he gave her so much. Not just material possessions and a place to live, but her circle of clients exploded. They were both quickly respectable names in the arms trade. It was a new source of revenue, in addition to the gambling, drugs, and unsanctioned prostitution. It was a lucrative business deal.
However, he genuinely cared for Arie. Sure, when he met her he knew she had sampled his products. Many of his lower employees were addicts. He chose to ignore it.
It was a big mistake.
"Oh," she groaned as if she just recognized him. She smiled lazily and giggled. "Kia, baby, you're home."
"Yes," he spat as he shoved her onto the bed. He felt disgusted looking at her. How dare she? How dare she disrespect him like this? And his business? Everything he had built and worked for? She was revolting. A piece of shit.
"The fuck did you do to my home, Arie… and why… and why is my statue of Eryss missing?"
Arie was small and frail, like a little bird. She was easily flopped onto the bed by his sudden force.
He pointed to his piano to where the statues, his idols of his patron goddesses usually stood. Eryss, the goddess of the arts, and Ysimul, the goddess of luck. Eryss were missing. That was a gift from Llara. It was sentimental.
She sat up and looked at him apologetically, as if she had just begun to see him clearly. Her limbs were thin and haphazard. She removed the chickheed cigarette tucked behind her ear and stared at it. Her hair was piled high on her head, messy and scattered. She didn't respond at first. She clicked open his lighter that she had taken from him, the complicated mechanical cogwheels spat sparks until a flame rose and licked the end of the cigarette. The two items weighed heavily in her hand.
"I don't… know what to do," Arie said as she curled her knees close to her chest, protectively. "I'm really, really sorry, Kia, I… I messed up. I took the statue, I did. I don't know what I was thinking," she said as she dropped the cigarette and the lighter on the bed. "I wasn't thinking. I haven't been myself at all, I know. I need help." She looked at him again, wide bloodshot eyes and trembling. "I need help."
She looked sad and broken. An addict, Kia thought. She had the hollow look of an addict. She was a shell of the woman she used to be, and she was crying out for help. He sat down on the edge of the bed. It dipped with his weight. He reached for his lighter and stuffed it into his front pocket. He turned the chickheed cigarette over in his hand. A stab of guilt jolted into his stomach. He felt responsible. This was his product, and he was exposing her to it, day in and day out.
He broke the cigarette in half. He could feel her eyes on him, watching.
"I can help you," he said as he watched the red herb crumble into his palm. "But you have to want to get help." He knew how ironic it was. He was feeding the whole world this poison, while trying to simultaneously get his lover free from its chains.
"I heard you were dead," she whispered softly, resting her pointed chin on her knees. "I lost it, Kia, when some of your men were saying that you had died in the Underground. A sacrifice in one of Seralah's rituals. They said you were in a big cage. I lost my mind then. The last few days have been a haze." She turned her head to the side, using the tips of her knees as a pillow. "It killed me to think I lost you forever," she muttered as she reached out for his free hand. "And then you know what I realized?" she asked as he squeezed her hand. "That I can't do this without you. I can't function. I can't. I need you," she said, quiet, soft, and sincere. "I need you. Help me get back to how I used to be, and we can run this business together like how we once did." She smiled, tired and sad. She tucked a lock of her messy hair behind her ear.
He exhaled, slow and heavy. He stood and dropped the chickheed cigarette into the waste bin. Once he sat down again, Arie reached out to stroke Matthias' oily black feathers. The bird on his shoulder flinched away from her hand. She frowned.
"He's probably just hungry," Kia offered as he pulled the raven away, afraid he would become aggressive. "Feed him meat scraps or corn kernels, and he will be your best friend," he said as he stood and began picking up trash from the floor. His place was a fucking mess. It irritated him; he liked everything to be his mess. Not someone else's.
"I tried, he's never really liked me," Arie replied quietly as she watched him.
Kia grunted. He picked up men's clothing on the floor that wasn't his. He wasn't going to ask, he didn't want to hear the answer. He held the blue shirt up with just the tip of his index finger, as if it were coated in disease. He looked around, and then he tossed it into the waste bin. He wasn't going to bother, he decided. It was a fight he didn't have the energy for. Arie watched him in silence.
"I love you," she uttered softly. "I need you. Will you ever forgive me?" she asked, as if she sensed that he was upset, picking up another man's shirt and throwing it away.
Kia looked up at her as he worked, dubious and unsure. He said nothing, filling his hands with trash and unfamiliar objects he was sure didn't belong to him. He threw them all away while Matthias remained firmly planted on his shoulder.
"Things need to change, Arie, for me to forgive you. Really change. Real effort behind it," he finally replied after a long, thoughtful pause. "Once I see that? Then maybe. Yes."
"Things have changed, Kia. There is… uhm," she looked down and picked at her toe. "Something I need to tell you."
Kia sharply turned to her. He squinted and waited expectantly. Arie took a heavy breath before she explained.
As she talked, he resumed removing the clutter from his life. Things were about to change, and he knew it needed to begin here.