Notations:
To
): I promise to shut up next chapter and have a real
dialogue between the characters.
To Piraticaly-Insane:
D: His sword-combos in game were amazing, and I think that kind of
gets brushed aside when you're the hero of skill. Everyone likes to
focus on his gun and it makes me sad. Thanks for the review.
I've never been sure quite what did it. The people, though dirty and uncouth, have always been charming in their own rights. They are more earthly and practical than the frivolous occupants of Bowerstone, not even half as pompous and at least twice as entertaining, and they retain a warped bit of truth, chipped around the edges, but decent and whole, thuggish, though not at all like the thugs of Westcliff.
The scenery is an added bonus. Though the houses are dilapidated, beginning to show their age in their seams, they still inspire a familiar content. They look quaint, despite the cracking paint, as if they should all own white picket fences, but they don't. The houses, like the people, are alarmingly realistic, grounding and solid. They stand tall in the weathering air of the ocean, beaten and bruised, but still here.
I like them.
Bloodstone Manor, of course, is the pièce de résistance. It's constructed of the same board as the rest of the city, it's been beaten by the same harsh winds, but there's something unique about it. The way the boards swell outward in the center before tapering up to the roof, it's like a little boy trying to puff out his chest. The mechanics of its construction elude me, though I have the distinct impression the blueprints must be similar to the hull of a ship. There's a very fantastical quality to the shape, as if the Pirate King had dragged his prized vessel ashore and transformed it into this castle.
Even so, you'd never guess at the insides, the rich tapestries and velvet carpets. The heavy darkwood furniture escapes even the most clever imagination, and the rubies and diamonds, silks and exotic dyes hiding inside are even further from the mind. It's heaven for the average pickpocket, and I fear I'm a good deal more magpie than sparrow.
It's a special house.
And I'm going to miss it.
Because, although I've retained ownership of my private palace by the sea for the better part of two years, though I've stowed and sold more rocks here than I can count, though I've pieced together all of the secrets hiding in the bookshelves, I'm going to have to give it up.
And it has nothing to do with Reaver shooting me, or the note on the door. It's just a quiet footnote, a polite political gesture. It's an act of good will, if you will, to give the Hero of Skill back his house, pretending I've been housesitting in his stead, pretend it couldn't make a difference to me whether the tiniest sliver of happiness I've found in the world actually belongs to him.
In the long run, it shouldn't matter. I ought to have the Spire to do as I please with. I'll be too preoccupied to even thing of Bloodstone, or my mansion, or my endearing scoundrel-servants. I'll be doing...
Things.
It's been three hours I've been sitting in the study, drinking myself to bitterness, and staring at the unlit fireplace, and this is still the best I've got. Reaver's been standing in the open doorway behind me for at least ten minutes. He must think I haven't noticed, a master of stealth and skill, but the scent of triumph is just radiating off him. Ego and arrogance.
I think we enjoy each other a good deal more than either of us let on. There's a thin line I've traced between diary entries and private performances in front of fireplaces. I think I remind the selfish bastard of himself, and it pleases him in a sick way.
He finally steps forward, eyes roaming over the untouched walls, the restocked bookshelves, the newly installed finery and flippantry, the too-expensive alcohol. "It's good to see you haven't let he place go completely to Hell."
I'm a little miffed I don't have to tell him he can have it back, but I suppose it saves time.
He's pouring himself a glass by time I find voice. "I want to undo it."
"What?" Reaver asks in a disinterested tone, mouth quickly refocusing onto the amber liquid he's claimed.
"You asked what I wanted to do with it, and I want to undo it."
His brow furrows, face contorts, and I can't tell if it's from the taste of the words or the liquor. "The wish?"
I don't ask him to specify which one. I just smile and tell him, "Everything."