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archiveofarethusaThe autumnal equinox festivals of New Kaddar were garish heresies, casual celebrations of a day that had been a solemn wonder in Cassair. Clyde came to the festivals in town because Annie dragged him down every year for the purposes of "not being an awful drag," and if it were anyone else he'd have been a deliberate awful drag the rest of the week for spite, too. The cider might have had something to do with his complicity, too, of course. It was sticky and achingly sweet and shone brilliantly in rose and goldenrod and fiery orange, which meant at best that it was incredibly illegal and at worst that it was probably fatal in excess. He had imbibed enough that he would know before the night's end.
Annie sidled up next to him on his seventh mug, her cheeks alluringly aflame. Her cheeks were always furiously red this time of year, as if they still remembered the scorching summers of Cassair and the unrelenting cold of Kaddarsi was still foreign to them. Clyde's skin remained an unrelenting olive, even with the bitter winds of winter blowing into town. He was more son to Kaddarsi than his beloved highlands with each day, and the cold sat better with him than he'd have liked to admit.
"I'm not going to run away!" Annie said, preamble and context be damned. Her voice was sharp, precise, and clear, and she barked out her words like an executive order. Clyde pulled himself out of his fetal slump ever so slowly; he had known Annie long enough to recognize when he could tune her out and when his life hinged on heeding her every word. "What do you say to that? I will let them think me docile and subservient while I burn their empire down around their golden, gilded ankles."
"Oh, okay," Clyde said. "Your lips are really shiny. Like, like stars. What makes them shine so bright?"
"Clyde, please. We are not at this point in the evening," Annie said. "Please pay attention and give me your counsel or I will shock you sober."
"All right, you caught me. Don't worry your spinning little heads about it," Clyde said, offering a small grin. "Wishful roleplaying, you know. Hoped if I acted properly three sheets to the wind I would be sooner rather than later. As to your first question...when did you learn the meaning of docile, or else what foul trickery is this on the night the dead may steal away the living?"
"A wise fool told me once that there's a first time for everything," Annie said. "If I go through with this - if I remain under Miratech's possession - I can't help you escape, either. I will have to be as careful as if every action I take could stick me as sure as a knife in the dark. If it comes to that, I'd like you with me, but beware that if you do it could free your breath from your body as easily as it could you from your bonds. The choice is yours, now. I won't break my promise to you for the sake of ease, and if you want it I can get us free tonight. What say you, friend?"
Clyde took a long, luxuriant swig from his tankard, letting the comforting warmth of the alcohol fill his throat like a benediction.
Clyde had always been grasping for better than he deserved. Well, that was just what one did when they dreamed of the gutters and the stars were always too dim to dream on. That was why he was always loose tongued with Annie even when he wasn't all that buzzed. That was why he looked Annie dead in her green, green eyes, sparkling with orange and red from a nearby torch - fire in her eyes, and gods, even where the spark of flame didn't catch them they didn't lose a mote of intensity - and said, "So what horrible medical profession should I aspire to, then, boss?"
The cider didn't kill him, at the end of the night, and in the light of day this news was a horrible disappointment. He imagined it would not be the last time it was.
Annie sidled up next to him on his seventh mug, her cheeks alluringly aflame. Her cheeks were always furiously red this time of year, as if they still remembered the scorching summers of Cassair and the unrelenting cold of Kaddarsi was still foreign to them. Clyde's skin remained an unrelenting olive, even with the bitter winds of winter blowing into town. He was more son to Kaddarsi than his beloved highlands with each day, and the cold sat better with him than he'd have liked to admit.
"I'm not going to run away!" Annie said, preamble and context be damned. Her voice was sharp, precise, and clear, and she barked out her words like an executive order. Clyde pulled himself out of his fetal slump ever so slowly; he had known Annie long enough to recognize when he could tune her out and when his life hinged on heeding her every word. "What do you say to that? I will let them think me docile and subservient while I burn their empire down around their golden, gilded ankles."
"Oh, okay," Clyde said. "Your lips are really shiny. Like, like stars. What makes them shine so bright?"
"Clyde, please. We are not at this point in the evening," Annie said. "Please pay attention and give me your counsel or I will shock you sober."
"All right, you caught me. Don't worry your spinning little heads about it," Clyde said, offering a small grin. "Wishful roleplaying, you know. Hoped if I acted properly three sheets to the wind I would be sooner rather than later. As to your first question...when did you learn the meaning of docile, or else what foul trickery is this on the night the dead may steal away the living?"
"A wise fool told me once that there's a first time for everything," Annie said. "If I go through with this - if I remain under Miratech's possession - I can't help you escape, either. I will have to be as careful as if every action I take could stick me as sure as a knife in the dark. If it comes to that, I'd like you with me, but beware that if you do it could free your breath from your body as easily as it could you from your bonds. The choice is yours, now. I won't break my promise to you for the sake of ease, and if you want it I can get us free tonight. What say you, friend?"
Clyde took a long, luxuriant swig from his tankard, letting the comforting warmth of the alcohol fill his throat like a benediction.
Clyde had always been grasping for better than he deserved. Well, that was just what one did when they dreamed of the gutters and the stars were always too dim to dream on. That was why he was always loose tongued with Annie even when he wasn't all that buzzed. That was why he looked Annie dead in her green, green eyes, sparkling with orange and red from a nearby torch - fire in her eyes, and gods, even where the spark of flame didn't catch them they didn't lose a mote of intensity - and said, "So what horrible medical profession should I aspire to, then, boss?"
The cider didn't kill him, at the end of the night, and in the light of day this news was a horrible disappointment. He imagined it would not be the last time it was.