Sillas knocked again, considerably louder this time. Still no answer. Shrugging, the seadweller shouldered open the enormous door (you could drive a scuttlebuggy through that thing) and stepped inside, letting it slam behind him. The noise boomed through the cavernous hive and was replaced by absolutely nothing. Sillas chewed at his unlit sopor-stick. Mirage's hive was never exactly lively, but this felt grim and forboding even by its gloomy standards. He shook himself and pressed on into the unnecessarily large livingblock. Not a troll in sight. "Ahoy, Mirage?" He called, turning slowly amid the imposingly tall armchairs. Somebody had daubed a little grinning face on one in deep blue paint. "It's me, Sillas. You in here somewhere?"
What he had at first taken to be a pile of rags in the corner moved. A pair of familiar curved horns rose into view as she lifted her head.
"What? What is it?" she answered shakily, with a valiant attempt at her usual intimidating aura. The highblood's black clothes were splattered with violent fuchsia, and there was a thin cut across the side of her face.
Sillas's sopor-stick dropped from his mouth. "Bulgeblistering fuck, Mirage, who did that?" He took a step forward and then undid it. She was always weird about being touched, and anyway, they weren't 'rails. Not by a long shot. He glanced around quickly, regretting his decision to not put on a shirt this morning. If whoever did this was still around, they wouldn't have much trouble murdering the shit out of him too.
"None of your business." She lifted her chin a fraction and grabbed the side of a chair to steady herself. "I don't need to explain myself to anyone."
Why are all my friends prickly assholes? Silas wondered. "You're leakin' the future of the fuckin' Alternian empire all over the floor and you got the guts to say it's none a' my business?" An appeal to her duty as Heiress would work best. "Pretty sure your gillslits are fucked too." He felt around with his foot for that dropped sopor stick. Smoking always helped him calm down.
Mirage's hand crept unconsciously up to the side of her neck, and winced.
"Why are you even here?"
He didn't look like he was going to leave, so she gestured to a chair, collapsing into one opposite.
Sillas recovered his stick and sat down, pulling one of his feet onto the opposite knee. "You said you'd got too much sopor on your last delivery and told me to come pick it up. Good thing I did, too." He pulled a lighter out of his silladex and lit up, leaning back into the depths of the chair. "Your gillslits are gonna scab over if you're not careful. What about your ribgills, are they OK?" Her left fin had little puncture marks in it, he noticed. That must sting like crazy.
"I don't know." Mirage dropped her facade and bent over, her head in her hands.
"Why am I doing this?" she whispered. Images flashed unbidden before her eyes...
Abruptly, she straightened up.
"It's not serious, right? I'll be fine! Nothing to worry about..."
The Heiress' hands were clenched around the hem of her cloak.
"It isn't unusual, we fight all the time. It's only natural."
"What? Who?" Sillas sat up a bit. Lecturing her on the finer points of gill care could wait. "C'mon, Mirage, I've known you since we were a couple a' wigglers. You can't expect me to just sit on my ass after something like this." Unfortunately. Honestly, he wanted nothing to do with this business, but... well, Mirage was his friend. A shitty friend, yes, but the point still stood.
Mirage struggled with herself for a minute, and then rolled up her right sleeve. Her arm was riddled with scars, but one stood out from the rest. Carved into her shoulder was a simple sign, two lines.
The symbol of Nifret Alexin.
"We could never be friends. I was too proud, he was too violent. A black pairing waiting to happen."
She bit her lip, and forced a smile.
"So here we are! One of us is going to kill the other someday, but until then..."
"You're joking." Sillas wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. "Nifret. Fuckin' Nifret. I mean-" He slumped back in his chair and ran his fingers through his damp hair. "..I can't handle this right now. We can talk about how unspeakably buggered your idea a' blackrom is once you're not bleedin' royalty onto the cushions." The seadweller heaved himself out of the depths of the armchair and stood up. "Your gillslits need lookin' after as well, but that can wait." He really wasn't looking forward to that. From the looks of things the blood had already started to clot in the slits, which meant he was going to have to tease the scabs out with tweezers or something similar, which meant Mirage was going to bitch at him. A lot.
Mirage made a face, but stayed still almost the whole way through. She talked a lot, though.
("Besides, he- AAH, THAT HURTS! What are you trying to do, KILL ME?"
"You have no idea... do you even have a kismesis? What about that other Heiress, she seems to hate everyone."
"If you're just going to make it worse like that, you can bugger off back to your beach and stay there!")
It was getting late, nearly morning already. Mirage was patched up, and almost back to her usual irritable self. She would never admit it, and she certainly didn't mean to tell him, but she was grateful for the help.
"You want a drink?" she asked, sweeping out of the room. The nearest to a thanks her pride would allow.
"That'd be good," replied Sillas, leaning out of a window and blowing greenish clouds into the breeze. About halfway through she'd remembered that he wasn't supposed to smoke in her hive, which was irritating. All it did was tint the ceiling an interesting colour. "Have you got any a' that clear yellow stuff? I can't remember what it's called, somethin' about cuttlefish."