Author's Note: Another short piece that was written some time ago, an early chapter to a story that is still sitting in the shadowy corners of my hard drive gathering dust. But a little elbow grease, a bit of polish, and I present to you....
Dark Conversations
He sat alone, watching the embers of the fire as they slowly began to fade, deepening the shadows around him. Occasionally a spark would rise into the air above the coals, glowing brilliantly for a single instant before falling again into the ashes, its radiance bleached to a sooty gray. He watched one after another, never moving, barely breathing, the only sound the irregular crackle of the dying fire.
How long he had been there, he could not guess. There were no windows to the outside here. No light was allowed to enter to speak of dawn, or noon, or the brilliant colors of evening. He would have allowed none. This was his own place. His place to reflect, to remember.
He had sworn that he would always remember.
He sighed softly, turning sapphire eyes slowly to look around the darkened room. They glowed faintly crimson in the dwindling firelight.
His eyes passed over everything, over every piece of ornately carved furniture, over every trailing vine and softly swaying leaf. It was perfect in every detail. He had reconstructed it all from memories that had once been strong, powerful and painful. Now they had faded into a gnawing emptiness, strong and powerful, but less painful. There was no pain. There was nothing.
He looked at the knife in his hand, began to turn it over slowly in his long fingers. The blade was small, delicately carved, and glowed with a light that came from within. A blue gleam that seemed oddly out of place among the crimson-tinted shadows surrounding him. The hilt was of gold, carved with vines and leaves that rose to creep along the base of the blade, softening the appearance of the blade, if not the keen edge.
She had given it to him, what seemed like centuries ago. A gift from a delicate hand whose caress he once had craved, had hungered for, and now barely remembered. A whisper, a kiss… and now he sat alone in the darkness, with only faded memories of another life long since gone.
The voice… a different voice at his shoulder was soft, low and dark. "Jon…"
His head made no movement, but his eyes moved quickly from the blade in his fingers to the shadowy figure that had appeared beside his chair. A slender white hand rested brazenly on the back, near enough to touch the leather hood that covered his head but too intelligent to do so.
He was neither surprised nor startled, only irritated. Her boldness had long since ceased to amaze him, but lately she had grown more confident, more daring. There was laughter in her eyes and mockery on her crimson lips. He would have to end that. But for now she was too useful. Too very useful.
He moved his eyes back to the blade in his fingers, saying nothing.
The figure behind him moved around the chair slowly, her feet making no sound on the smooth stone floor. When she stood in front of him, she stopped. She dropped her hand to her side and stood before him for several minutes, casting a shadow over him that even the darkest corners of the room could not begin to imitate.
He did not look up. The blade still turned slowly in his elegant fingers, glowing more brightly in the heightened darkness.
Finally the figure knelt soundlessly before him, looking up into his face with eyes that mirrored too perfectly the shadow that she had created. Almond-shaped and black, they narrowed slightly as they flicked to the blade, then back to his face.
"Jon."
There was a faint bitterness to her voice now that drew his attention. He moved his eyes to hers slowly, noting with some amusement the tenseness of her pale jaw, the hard light that glinted in the bottomless eyes. His own eyes remained fixed on hers for several seconds, then turned back again to the blade in his fingers, which had never stopped moving.
Her voice became sharp, annoyed. "Joneleth."
The razor edge of her voice could not match his own. "You should have more care, Bodhi."
His eyes moved once again to hers, remained there. She took a single step back, raising her chin in an act of silent defiance. It meant nothing to him. "It is only because of my… fondness for you that I tolerate your insolence. It is only because of my… affection that I allow your intrusion. Do not anger me, dear sister. I have warned you before."
Her eyes faltered, her head lowering slightly in an attitude of reluctant submission, and yet the smile on her lips shattered the illusion as easily as any spell.
"Forgive me, brother."
He stared at her for several moments in silence. He knew her meekness to be a ruse, but he was amused by the game, and curious about her purpose. He suspected, of course, but until now she had said nothing, bringing to him without question the thieves that were so very useful to his experiments. And she had brought him the girl.
He stood slowly, saying nothing, then moved to the mantle and placed the dagger on a velvet cushion before looking at Bodhi again. She remained kneeling, her head still bowed, but he could feel her watching him from the corner of one dark eye.
He folded his massive arms over his chest and walked away from her, not even looking as he easily stepped over certain tiles in the floor, which shimmered and moved in a strange way, imperceptible to those who did not know where to look.
He had lost more than one meddlesome servant to these traps. They all knew. They had all been warned. But some of the less intelligent servants were overly curious, and hungering to know what was hidden in what was known only as the "Mistress's Room." They had been caught, and punished. Yes, punished. Punishment was something that Jon Irenicus knew. Indeed, had elevated to a form of art.
He moved to a table, picked up a book. Opened it. Strange figures were painted on the pages, delicate, curving figures in stanzas that flowed over the parchment like water. High Elven poetry had always been her favorite. He would lie beside her in the grass and read to her for hours, the works of Illinfael, Aelfin, Rindar. She would watch him with eyes that mirrored the summer sky, lifting a white hand from time to time to brush an errant lock of hair from his eyes.
There had been a time where he could still feel her touch on his skin, see the smile in her eyes, the smile that in the end turned to….
He threw the book away angrily. It landed on one of the scintillating tiles and exploded in a burst of flame. He did not watch. He had turned to Bodhi, his voice echoing in the darkness. "What is it that you want, Bodhi?"
He took a step toward her, tilting his head slightly as the taut smile returned to his lips. "Certainly you do not expect me to believe that you came to this place merely to bask in the glow of my company?"
Bodhi stood to face him, no trace of feigned meekness in her inky eyes. Instead there was only a cold, black hunger that he knew all too well.
"I came to speak to you of our… guests."
She moved toward him, easily avoiding the traps in the floor. Her movements were graceful and dangerous, like the mesmerizing dance of a snake. Her eyes never left his, though when she finally reached him, she barely reached his shoulder and had to lift her face to maintain the gaze.
He remained silent, waiting. She paused for a long moment, and when she spoke again, her voice was nearly as hard and cold as his.
"One of them is mine."
Jon allowed himself a short laugh, watching her. "Are they?"
She said nothing, the hungry fire still smoldering in her eyes. He watched for another moment, not moving, not speaking.
He allowed himself another low chuckle. Indeed, she was bold. To come here and demand this of him, in this place. In this place. But then, he was not surprised, and had expected this, planned for it. He unfolded his arms and walked away, his boots echoing in the stillness.
"Patience, Bodhi. There is still much to be done."
Bodhi turned to watch him walk away, her expression unreadable. He crossed languidly to the fireplace and stood for several minutes watching the dying embers. Then he reached out a single hand and laid it on the polished white marble of the mantel. There was a whisper barely beyond breath, and the coals suddenly flared again to life, roaring with pleasure at sudden influx of power. He closed his eyes and stood, unmoving, allowing the warmth of the fire to wash over his face. To wash over the mask that had become his face.
"They have been taught a great deal, though there is much yet to be explored. Much yet to be learned. Their power is great, but their wills are strong." He paused for a moment in consideration, tracing his long fingers over the smooth marble. "Particularly the elder."
Bodhi was listening intently, but she said nothing. He knew that she had the time to wait, and he doubted that even she would wish to anger him further. She had learned that lesson long ago, though her memory of late had apparently grown as cold as his.
He turned to face her, his eyes as blue as ice and just as cold. "She resists. Imoen begins to understand, as reluctant as she is to accept the truth, but the other…." He frowned slightly, the shadows intensifying the shadows behind the masks's eyes. "The other is proving to be more… difficult."
He let his fingertips drum lightly over the mantle, then slapped the surface once with his palm before removing his hand. "Yes. There is much yet to be learned." He turned away from the fire, from Bodhi, and moved toward the door.
"Jon…."
He stopped momentarily in the doorway. He could feel her eyes still upon him, but he did not not turn as he spoke.
"When the time comes, dear sister, you shall have what you deserve. I promise you that. Until then, I suggest a modicum of control. And Bodhi...." He turned slowly to face her, his eyes narrowing dangerously behind the smooth leather mask. "Do not come here again."
Without waiting for her reply, he turned away and walked from the room, closing the door behind him with a wave of his hand. She would be able to make her own way out, and he had no time to wait.
It was time for more… experiments.
Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Bioware, Interplay, or the Baldur's Gate series other than copies of the games themselves and an overactive imagination. Thank you. :)