A/N: Thank you to all the lovely folks that left comments, subscription and favs last chapter. I cannot thank you enough for your support. :D
I was gonna make the bathhouse one chapter, but as usual, my chapters got longer than anticipated, and its been a while since my last update, so I will give you half at the moment. Otherwise, this sucker wouldn't get done until 2021.
Enjoy!
Chapter 33
White Foxes
Part 3
Waltz of the Flowers
"A world of grief and pain, flowers bloom— even then.
-Kobayashi Issa
There were not many people she thought unredeemable and detestable, but her current patient, certainly was — at the top of her list.
Regardless, Mera, one of many healers for the Kahn's palace, retained her professional demeanor despite the Outworld-native woman wanting nothing more than to break the Edenian's bones rather than checking up on the ones she had set days earlier.
The room of the bathhouse, wall to wall with superfluous marble, bloodstone and accents of gold trim and blue labradorite, felt nothing more than a cage to her as soon as she walked through the door.
She would have much preferred to share an iron cell with one of the many vicious feline creatures used for executing criminals at the Coliseum; the company would certainly be preferable, and much like the feral cats, he studied her —always studying. He constantly looked for weaknesses to exploit against her very much like a predator on the hunt.
And he was one.
Most times, she did her best not to let it show, but it was difficult to keep up the placid act after mere minutes around him. Just being in his presence was enough to make the woman forget how to breathe properly; she felt nothing but hatred towards him.
And he knew it too.
Oh… how he knew…
Mera had seen and met many deplorable folks throughout her life, even treated some as patients, but there was never one person that she could recall that feigned being benign and mocked so seamlessly and simultaneously as well as he did.
What was debatable, was the fine line between sincerity and performance.
Sometimes, it was as if he honestly believed himself to be a victim; that he was forced to do the things he professed he didn't want to because of the cause and effect of others. That he was simply following suit with what was in his nature. And his nature was loathsome; twisted and perverse, but all he knew how to be due to his unbalanced brain and upbringing.
But there was another part other that saw it as nothing but an affectation; that he was fully aware of what he was doing and enjoyed every second of it. That it was all just a game; crafted skillfully by him to see what he could discover about his opponent and use it against them.
Mera had seen some of his handiwork from his profession and his talent for torture was as irrefutable as a stone in someone's shoe. Playing mind games would certainly be something he would excel in as well, just considering how good he was at his job; the two complimented each other like salt and pepper.
So, while her logical, physician brain, that had seen all sorts of manic and demented souls, wanted to say it was the first diagnosis (that he was just a functioning psychopath) her gut told her it was a medley of both speculations. That he was cognizant that he was different than others and didn't care— he wasn't ashamed and loved being the way he was. Which was why he put on the portrayal as someone auspicious. Very much the same way a poisonous, carnivorous flower attracted prey: knowing it should not approach, but did anyway, because something so prepossessing couldn't be dangerous.
But was…
"As always, you have a true gift for healing, my darling," Hulin cajoled from the ornate decorated chair, the Edenian grimacing as she placed his arm back into the white cloth sling for his broken arm.
Her eyes lifted to meet his and she couldn't stop the disgusted sneer that formed on her face as soon as he flashed her with the same saccharine visage, he always displayed to her.
Mera hated it when he gave her that look, and he knew she did; because it annoyed her that he wouldn't forgo the deception despite their well-versed history with each other. It was nothing more than to vaunt his achievement at her. He had a ransom over her head for her to comply and to treat him as cordial as a prince. And because of that reason, Mera could do nothing but swallow her pride and push aside her contemptuous, acidic thoughts and revenge-filled fantasies about her client, and how much she wanted to go through with them but couldn't…
"Your healer's touch is certainly a gift from the Elder Gods themselves," he praised, continuing to taunt her under a candied masquerade. "One I'm always delighted to be serviced by."
She inhaled deeply through her nose, reminding herself she was a healer first, a damn good one, that put her clients' needs first before the greediness of her own emotions on the job. Even if it was him.
Still… there was only so much she could take.
The hand from his uninjured arm came up, grasping her hand, to rub a smooth circle on the outside with his thumb. Mera stiffened immediately when his hand touched her, as if some venomous bug just landed on her. Despite his unwelcomed touch, she rose her chin at him, feigning indifference, as he spoke sweetly to her.
"I confess it has been a long time since I have seen you. I really should make more of an effort"— his eyes darkened pretentiously, while the rest of his face remained chivalrous— "I almost forgot just how identical you and your twin sister really are."
Mera sucked in a heated breath through her teeth— baring them at him at the same time— as she yanked her hand from him. Curtly, she grabbed his cane that leaned against the table beside him.
The healer, her brown eyes narrowed at his splinted leg and arm in the white-cloth sling, thrusted Hulin his walking cane rudely to him; one crooked and curved in shape and with various overgrown roots running like veins along the outside of the staff. It looked more like a macabre broken limb with muscle fibers than wood, and he used it to pull himself up to his feet; his eyes, as when he first walked into the bathhouse, never leaving her as he hobbled to full height.
"I shall see you again soon?" he questioned. "For another appointment? I apologize for having to drag you to the bathhouse. I know how much you do not like it here due to how much it reminds you of Sera."
The healer's hand drifted backwards towards the table behind her, placing her palm over the scalpel still in its slot in her leather tool kit. She wanted to slash his throat with a knife for the statement alone that was filled with nothing but arrogance hidden under a fictitious and kind etiquette.
But instead of reaching for the knife, her hand came forward, gripping the edge of the table instead.
She couldn't… no matter how much she wanted to.
Instead, Mera gave him a resolute glare; her venomous gaze conveying silently: We both know perfectly damn well it was your intention to drag me here when I could have seen you at the Healer's Den."
He smiled affably, his eyes going from the knife, to her hand, and then back to her. But his expression carried none of the charm or friendliness it was supposed to contain giving her such a smile; he used it instead to flout at her that they both knew she couldn't do what she really wanted.
"Do the other girls miss her— the other maids in the bathhouse? Do you miss your sister? It must be difficult to look in the mirror and see her face gazing back at you. You aremore than welcome to visit her if you wish to. My door is always open to you."
Mera said nothing, only responding by finally turning her back to him. Her eyes fixed downwards to the table next to the chair, immediately packing her slate-colored medical tools into a strapless leather satchel; her movements hurried so she could leave the room faster.
"Your leg and arm are healing quickly," she stated, forcing her words to be toneless. "So, I do not see any further need to come and see you—"
Mera heard the end of his cane land next to her foot with an audible 'clunk' against the stone floor, a warning. She heard him shuffle in closer to her, perhaps an inch of space between the two of them, and enough to effectively trap her despite his condition. Hulin at her back and the table in front.
He placed the cane against the table and balanced on his one good leg while he breathed down her neck behind her, and she grew more uncomfortable with each passing tense second. Regardless, she straightened her spine, not willing to budge so he could gloat any further.
"I will see you whenever I want to see you, darling sister-in-law," he hissed from behind her. "Or did you forget who I have as a wife? Waiting for me to return back to my room?"
"How could I forget?" Mera snapped. "You remind me every time. It makes me wonder who is the forgetful one. Especially considering how little she truly and always meant to you."
His hand came over her shoulder, fingers at the neckline of the banded-collar of the dark green work-shirt she wore and rested it at the top button. She could feel his eyes at the back of her head, scrutinizing and waiting — taunting her to react — but she didn't; not wanting to give him a single inch more. The only thing she did was place a hand over one of the pockets of her white healer's apron that hung over one side; protecting the small occupant nestled inside.
His fingers tugged at the top button of her healer's uniform, pulling the brass button from the placket, and continuing downwards, agonizingly slowly, to the next one.
Her mouth twisted in disgust, eyes shutting tight, as she felt her composure and restraint shrivel away with each button that was loosened. She was about to stop him—violently— but he stopped unbuttoning her blouse just above her breasts.
"You are right, I will admit. I guess it is true I don't really need to see you," Hulin remarked into her ear, his fingers nudging apart the panels of her shirt to open them, exposing the skin of her neck and chest to him. She felt him dip his chin down, looking over her shoulder before giving a small appreciative smile and 'hmm' from his lips as he looked down the front of her shirt, admiring her cleavage.
Her other hand balled tightly, knuckles turning white, about to connect it with his face…
Mera balked, eyes shooting open, as a strangled gasp fell from her lips in surprise as she felt his palm flatten on the skin just under her neck. It wormed upwards until his hand stopped at her bare throat and wrapped his fingers around; not squeezing, but firm enough to remind her he could. She opened her fist, her nails digging into her thigh through the green long-skirt she wore while the other curled more protectively over the pocket of her apron.
The healer shivered, her form otherwise frozen and rooted where she stood like a tree in winter, as Hulin's fingers traced along her throat and then downwards like leeches crawling along her skin. Her eyes closed again, as his fingers fiddled with the gold chain with intersecting carnelian stones along the chain. His hand traveled further south, grasping the carnelian cabochon resting at the end of the chain; tracing a thumb over the smoothed stone of the necklace— the one that also shared an identical sibling.
"Afterall, why would I need to see one twin… when I already have the other?" he jeered— making her flinch when he leaned in and whispered in her ear.
His fingers finally pulled away, and as soon as they did, she let out a strained exhale; Mera not even realizing she had been holding it in. Despite her complete aversion to him, she turned to look at him and dropped her hand away from her apron pocket. Although he had taken a step back, his proximity was still close enough to her, and felt no relief when she took a step back to meet the table's edge from behind; feeling once again trapped.
"Give her back to me," Mera demanded through clenched teeth. "You've done enough to her. She may as well be dead after what you did."
Hulin's expression crimped into one of utmost —fake—confusion at her and Mera wanted to claw the look off his face with her nails the second he brandished it at her. Why? Why did he bother to keep up the ruse like everything was so surprising to him? Why?!
He is trying to get under your skin… stop letting him…
She inhaled deeply, trying to calm herself, even though he persisted.
"Oh, my darling, Sera is still very much alive. And incredibly happy with me," he paused, mulling over a thought. "Though, I will say it is hard to tell sometimes. I'm afraid her speech is a bit… garbled nowadays. Kytinn venom does interesting things to the mind as you know."
She hissed out a curse at him as she took a step forward, raising a hand to strike him— to charge and attack him— before the Edenian rose a finger— stopping her.
He waved it back and forth at her, 'tsking', before he gave her a pointed glare.
"Strike me and I'll shove my cock so far down her throat she vomits on the floor… and then I'll make her clean it up with her tongue," he warned, before he clicked his tongue and pouted mockingly at her. "You wouldn't want Sera to do that — would you, my darling?"
The healer felt bile creep up in her throat at the abhorrent threat of what he said. As much as she hated to do so, she lowered her hand back to her side, where it stayed, albeit in a tight fist as her chest rocked up and down with heated breaths; trying to reign in her anger for her sister's sake.
He nodded in satisfaction, his eyes still regarding her mirthfully. The healer faltered, a quivering breath escaping from her lips, as her chest tightened as if someone had pressed a crushing stone on it.
"Just let her go…" Mera pleaded, the words leaving more broken and emotional than she wanted. She swallowed, shaking her head at him, as she forced a more stoic inflection to come from her mouth. "She's nothing to you… we both know it."
He regarded her evenly, as if he was assessing something on a marketplace shelf for buying. "You know my terms: just trade places and I will unmarry her."
Mera shuddered with revulsion, her heart aching at the same time. "No… NEVER…"
He scoffed vainly, shrugging. "Then you don't love your sister as much as you say you do."
The Outworld healer shot him with an expression of pure malice, an angry tear falling over her cheek. "I know her and love her well enough to know that she would rather die, then have us both as your wife."
He shrugged and took a step towards her, limping due to his splinted leg. Hulin gave her a once over— studying… always studying— before his hand reached out to take back the cane he had set aside; leaning on it as soon as it returned to his hand.
"It's only a matter of time," the Edenian avowed to her unwaveringly, his brows suddenly furrowed in thought. "But which one will happen first I wonder? Her die… or you mine?"
Her eyes burned with malevolence at him, more angry tears falling from her face, as her form trembled with rage; Hulin doing nothing but observing her reaction with remorselessness.
Studying… ALWAYS studying…
The top point of this cane came up, stopping just under her chin so he could lift her eyes more to him. She showed her teeth at him as much as the cane allowed, her face knotting with hatred at him, as the misshapen wood dug uncomfortably into the skin of her jaw.
"You and Sera both remind me of those glass flowers they sell to children in the marketplace," he remarked, his eyes traveling over her form appreciatively. "So beautiful"— his eyes glinted with dark gratification as his eyes met hers again and lowered the cane back to his side— "yet so easy to break."
She scowled at him, her eyes landing on his splinted leg and then back to him with a contemptuous relish: "Says the cripple. It is a shame Ferra/Torr didn't break more of you."
His expression darkened instantly, anger eclipsing his previous ego at her, and took a step towards her—
A knock came at the door, causing both to fix their attention to it at the same time she backed more into the table.
Hulin curled his lip, annoyed that he was interrupted. "What?"
"Apologies, my lord," came a maid on the other side of the door. "But Mera has been requested to see another."
He huffed in response, as if scolding the maid for having the audacity to address him. Meanwhile, Mera, not willing to let the opportunity to remove herself from the room go by, turned, collected her things, and tried to walk to the door…
His cane shot out at an angle, stopping her path to the door like a barricade. She halted, the cane at the front of her shins as the healer frowned in irritation.
"She's busy, still," Hulin barked out.
"I apologize, but she has been requested by Minister Black," came the girl again. "I am afraid it is… nonnegotiable."
Mera caught the Edenian flash his teeth at the door before his demeanor instantly twist in hatred at the mention of Erron Black. His eyes darted to the side briefly, noting she was watching him, before he forced his expression back to his usual resolute but pompous mask; as if he didn't want Mera to see him display animosity towards Black, and give himself away.
It was… surprising to say the least. If any of the Kahn's Ministers deserved that look, she would have assumed it would have been Ferra/Torr for breaking his leg and arm. Not to say he wasn't angry with them as well, but she noticed that he seemed to have more resentment at the mere mention of the bounty hunter than the symbiotes.
So, what did Black do to warrant Hulin's animosity more than Ferra and Torr's?
Mera narrowed her eyes in skepticism at him, his eyes still on the door, and for once, she studied him.
Hulin noticed her gaze at him, and with a sigh, he pulled his cane back and allowed her to pass.
Her quick footsteps pulled her to the door, as if they were being directed by a strong magnet, and she wasted no time to swing the door open and exit out.
A tiny timid maid in a lavender dress met her, surprised at the door suddenly exploding open, while the healer slipped out and walked briskly down the hall with her leather toolkit gripped tight in her hand.
Mera breathed heavily, the air going into her lungs like it was being processed through a clogged filter as she marched down the hall. The healer refused to look behind her, but heard Hulin instruct the maid to bring him someone for a massage and a plate of food; at least that is what she thought she heard. It was all white noise, almost indiscernible, as she rounded the corner and headed as far as she could away from the door.
She didn't know which room Black was in, and Mera was fine with it. She needed the time searching to collect her thoughts and push down any that related to Hulin and her sister.
The healer paused, looking down at her empty hand— the one that was as shaky as the breath that left her lips. She swallowed, her throat indescribably tight and dry, as she tried to calm herself and lifted her hand to close her blouse. She fumbled to do so, and eventually tucked her satchel under the crook of one arm, so she could button up the rest of her shirt.
The inhabitant inside her apron pocket stirred, as if sensing her distress and she looked to her side, one of her fingers prying it open to gaze down into the slot.
To her relief, Moloth, her infant Venom-Eater, was fine; the blue and black fur-covered millipede, nestled into a tight circle inside her pocket as if nothing had happened. As usual, he slept, until he was needed for a patient. It chittered quietly, tightening into a spiral more, before she closed the pocket and proceeded to where Erron Black was in the Kahn's Springs.
Her brow furrowed…
Wondering just what in the realms the mercenary wanted with her now…
Norah wasn't supposed to be here, and she didn't deserve this. That was the firm conclusion that the ex-servant girl reached each time she was bombarded with something elegant and new.
And everything in the bathhouse was just that.
There was nothing familiar from her former life before the palace; nothing that reminded her of her social station, but at the same time did. She was a peasant, and the room she was in, was more suited to tend to the needs of some diplomat or bureaucrats' wife...
The baker inhaled a deep, anxious breath, looking about the posh marbled room with reticence.
… not for someone that had never known such exquisite indulgences.
Beauty and elegance were not common words Norah used to describe anything in her life; she had used those words perhaps a handful of times in the past. The destitute were only permissioned to witness the worst of the class system — and being poor in Outworld was not for the faint of heart.
Little did she know, always thinking she was on the bottom already until she came to the palace, did she find out she could sink even lower. Now she didn't even know what she was, but she certainly wasn't a free citizen. So, not only did she not belong here, surrounded by red-velvet furniture, bloodstone, gold, marble walls and amenities, but she truly did not belong here.
Every time her eyes darted around the room, going from the dressing room partition (also made of the dark, rich wood she kept encountering), to the overpriced decorative vases filled with flowers, and to the blue robe and towel Ramina had placed on the red cushioned chair, she felt lesser and lesser. These things were not supposed to be for her.
Never were they supposed to be for her.
The baker rubbed a palm over her bicep, soothing her thumb over the material of her dirty sleeve as she waited next to Ramina in the room for the maids to finish pouring water in her grandiose bathtub while another maid threw flowers into the pool.
She grimaced, bowing her head.
The stylish room, filled with lovely, over-the-top things, was no place for a slave girl — for a nobody — like her.
Nothing she had encountered growing up penniless had been as splendorous as the room she was in now. Everything in her life had been that way: all of it had been coarse and nothing soft like the things in the bathhouse. Everything. From the people, in a class higher looking down at her, to the clothes, to the food, and to the lodgings. It had all been persistently temperate, never luxurious, and always relentlessly glum.
So, when something did come into her life that was exclusively for the elite, each time she had used the word to describe it, it had been beautiful. Still... even then the word had always felt inadequate coming from her to name it as such. Mostly because she felt un-permissioned to even gaze upon whatever it was she was not accustomed to seeing. It was always the same few commodities; a dress from a stall she would never be able to afford, jewelry on a woman in passing, a rich and succulent sample of food she hadn't the coins for. And like any impoverished person, she had wanted all those things, but knew in her heart she'd never have them.
Coins were always an issue. They assigned the castes in the capital city, and because she never had enough in her pockets, could only purchase what was labeled the mundane; simple and boring things needed to survive. Certainly, things nobody would ever find opulent.
Norah had accepted long ago that the word 'beautiful' was something she would never be able to purchase; it was a golden word she could never afford to buy for herself. She was never worthy of it.
The girl tugged at the neckline of her dress; the material feeling as if it was choking her.
Now, she was surrounded by the word— consumed and suffocated by it. It was in the bloodstone walls, the glossy wooden furniture that had equally polished silver pitchers and plates holding wine, water and an array of fruits and expensive cheese that were so rare she had never seen or heard of before. Even the small sampling of honeycomb she was told by Ramina that was 'absolutely had to be paired with the Makeba goat cheese— it is divine together' was something she had never known existed. Her only experience with anything honey related was mined from the Kytinn hives and it had been so acidic and bitter that it gave her the worst stomach cramps.
However, what made her most uncomfortable and ineligible was the marbled bathtub that was a small private pool carved into the floor. It was also elegant, glaringly palatial and deluxe; not something an ex-servant girl should be stepping in despite the two maids in lavender —also frustratingly as beautiful as Ramina though the older host still outshined them— were finishing preparing for her by pouring water into it from buckets. She huffed in exasperation— even the Gods-damned buckets were immaculate.
Alongside the pool being attended to by another lavender-dressed maid, was a small bowl holding a mixture of pink pastel petals and whole white flowers sitting on leaves that she had never seen before.
She absentmindedly discarded the petals about, making sure to blanket the water, before she plucked her fingers into the bowl and let one of the larger white flowers fall from her hand to bob along the surface like a cork.
The baker's eyes narrowed…
Norah couldn't help but find the whole thing rather wasteful; it was so many flowers pried apart and their growth ended short for something as banal as a bath— especially a bath for her.
Flowers, like other expensive things, were not something Norah came across often. Outworld's flora in the desert was limited to what was strong enough to survive, cacti and poisonous but beautiful succulents. These on the other hand, were delicate, flimsy things that came from the palace gardens and were doted on by servants and reliant on them for survival. And much like the food on the plate she hadn't bothered to reach for (but wanted to) were from places she had probably never heard of.
Once again, it was another beautiful item the poor weren't allowed to have. The only circumstance was when a man gifted a woman, he was interested in with a magenta mailyea; it was a sign that he was pursuing a serious courtship, akin to a marriage engagement. They were common in the desert, a marigold from a cactus that bloomed quite often and was sold frequently in the marketplace, but for the underprivileged, cost as much as a fine gemstone and meant so much to poor women when gifted one.
Norah fidgeted her fingers together, lacing and un-lacing them as her slanted gaze looked to the floor again; anger and despondence mixing and churning in the pit of her stomach.
It was a flower nobody would ever give her. Especially now that she was forced to wear a gold band from a husband she never asked for.
Her eyes went back to the pool, watching the flower petals jounce lightly from the ripples of the poured water from the buckets. Seeing them— being junked as they were— sparked a sudden flicker of irrational annoyance through her.
They were nothing to the maids or Ramina. They meant more to her than the other women, who were probably gifted flowers daily from handsome palace men. Norah had never received any flowers from anyone and had wanted one for the longest time before she thought it to be nothing more than a ludicrous fantasy.
She felt her chest grow tight, her eyes nearly brimming with tears.
And now the first-time flowers were being given to her, was for a bath. Something so unimportant and forgetful when they were meant to be so much more.
She wiped a tear from her face, hoping they didn't see it.
It was such a silly thing to get so worked up about, she was completely aware it was, but it was still insulting— demeaning.
To both her and the flowers…
The baker shook her head, raising a hand towards the maid with the bowl. "Please stop… I don't need this many flowers."
The maid, a demure and fragile thing, younger than her in appearance, held a fistful of petals above the water, ready to drop them, before she heard her. The Outworld girl's eyes drifted from Norah to Ramina, wondering whose word to pay more head to, as her hand hovered over the water's surface.
Norah felt a hand placed on her shoulder, Ramina smiling unpresumptuous at her. "It is quite alright. It is necessary to use so many to get the water to the right aromatic—"
She balled her fists; her voice as polite as she could muster through clenched teeth.
"It's enough. You do not need to waste them like this," Norah's eyes landed once again to the plate of food, her stomach twisting and longing for it, as she threw a hand in its direction. "You don't need to waste any of this!"
The air, already humid and dense, became even more compressed as a tense silence shadowed behind her sentence. Norah could feel their eyes on her, judging her with bewilderment at her rigid request— possibly not something they were used to, or at least, watching someone get as sentimental about flower petals.
She couldn't help it… she didn't want something beautiful wasted on someone so undeserving. They weren't supposed to be for her, and she felt devoured by guilt letting them rain them in the bath water for as long as they had. Norah hadn't earned a single petal from any flower, let alone a whole lovely cluster of different arrays.
"Its… its too many…" she whispered, feeling a need to keep explaining but unsure of how to properly articulate her emotions. Not that they would understand anyway, and that was what she assumed, as she looked at the other maids in the room.
Even the maids pouring the buckets had stopped what they were doing at her outburst, and she sighed; feeling enclosed on all sides by the women that couldn't relate to her as they stared at her in uncomfortable silence.
However, she noticed they didn't look at her as so many highborn folks had to her, passing by her in the streets of the marketplace. They stared at her with confusion, but with empathy as if they were sorry for not heeding some unvoiced transgression they should have detected from her obvious discomfort.
They… they just stared at her as if she had equal or as much worth than they did. Her: a grime-covered slave not befitting of such compassion from anyone because she was lower than everybody else in the room.
To make matters worse, their sympathy was genuine. It wasn't a phony performance from servant to master (one she had done quite often around Black and his fellow Kahn's guards) but as if… as if she was their friend and they understood her.
"Please…" the baker beseeched. "You… you don't have to do any of this… it's not worth the waste."
The ex-cupbearer could feel Ramina's eyes soften at her, as well as the other women, as she lowered her eyes to the stone at her feet and sagged her shoulders with embarrassment.
Perhaps she was being stupid— too oversensitive about the entire thing— but she couldn't help herself. It was so alien to be treated this way that it had to be a transgression despite they played along that it was nothing.
But she had to say something. To let them know so it didn't stay unvoiced and poisoned her thoughts. But what good did it do anyway? She made everything worse as she always did. She should have just kept her mouth shut. Now all she felt was confliction about feeling confident that she had spoken up, and humiliated that she had let them peek in on her woes.
It was not like they could relate to her anyway… not fully.
Ramina looked to the women, giving them a cool instruction: "Please leave us be girls. Go check to see if assistance is needed in the natatorium and then return."
The lavender-dressed maids said nothing, merely leaving the buckets and the bowl of flowers behind as they stood, gave a quick curtesy, and then departed the room; closing the door behind them after the last girl had filed out.
Norah shook her head, feeling humiliated— so much that she wasn't even sure of the source of why she felt so. But then, she spoke, muttering out her apology as to why. "I'm sorry… I am not trying to be difficult or make your maids feel uncomfortable. I just… just…"
Ramina's chin tilted towards her, the woman lifting Norah's chin with her fingers to look at her. She smiled reassuringly, though it was difficult to tell as her vision fogged over with ashamed tears.
The receptionist left her, walking towards the red velvet cabriole couch against the wall and next to the table where the platter of food rested untouched. Ramina sank into it and patted the seat next to her. "Sit with me for a moment."
Even though she shuffled over timidly after a moment's pause, Norah didn't make a move to sit down; the fabric of the couch looking like it cost more than her own life did.
Ramina nodded her heads towards the vacant section. "It is alright."
The baker shook her head dejectedly, looking down at her tattered dress. "I'll… I will dirty it. My clothes are so disgusting…"
"Norah. It is fine, I assure you. No one here will behead you for dirtying a couch. Please sit next to me. I just wish to talk with you," Ramina asserted, her voice a soothing as a melody yet direct.
Norah sighed, lowering her head, before she turned to sit down—seating as far on the edge as she could without losing balance; still feeling as if she was a trespasser on the couch. The other woman said nothing, understanding and accepting it would be the best she could get from her for now, before she reached over and grasped the tray of food from the table to present to the baker.
Again, Norah shook her head; politely refusing even though both Outworld women heard her stomach growl.
Ramina sat the tray in her lap, looking over her and wondering if she could address what was clearly on her mind. "It is not just the number of flowers is it?"
She blinked, tears threatening to spill, and before they did, she wiped and cleared her eyes before placing her fidgeting fingers into a ball on her lap. "No…"
Ramina picked up a dark grain cracker from the plate with her fingers and the cheese knife, smearing the goat cheese on to it. "And it is not the type of food is it?" she asked, topping the cracker and cheese with a small sampling of honeycomb before she placed it on the tray for later.
Norah shook her head.
Her expression softened. "You have never had any of these things, but have always wanted them, yes?"
The baker sighed, her eyes to her lap, as she ran a nail underneath another to clean the dirt from under it. "... Yes. But I am not allowed."
The lavender-dressed woman placed a compassionate hand over Norah's, stopping her nervous hands in her lap. "By whose decree? None of us have said you cannot have these things. So, who is it that has told you not to?"
The baker blinked, looking up at the posh receptionist in confusion, unsure how to relay such a redundant explanation to her. "It… it's just not done… for someone like me."
"Who is someone like you?" Ramina inquired, raising a single eyebrow.
"Someone… who doesn't have coins," Norah confirmed quietly.
The bathhouse woman soothed a thumb over the top of her hand, running it back and forth along her skin in a maternal and comforting gesture. "What is your opinion when you look at me or the other maids?"
The former cupbearer glanced up at her, dubious if it was wise to be honest or if she should tell her a lie for the sake of pleasantries. She didn't want to be rude to her; the receptionist had shown her nothing but non-judgmental kindness since she had stepped foot through the door, and she did not want to reward it back by being disrespectful. She didn't know what to tell her, feeling anything, she told Ramina would be inadequate anyway to help her understand Norah's reluctance. There was no way the beautiful woman could understand…
She was wrong.
"I do not have a coin to my name either. I cannot even purchase the crackers on this plate," Ramina divulged candidly, her head nodding towards the door. "And neither do any of the other woman that work here. We're servants, Norah."
The baker paused, Ramina's admission leaving her even more perplexed and guilty for falsely assuming than before. She… she truly didn't know what to say in response. It seemed honest and obvious, yet so far-fetched, that anyone like Ramina could be like her.
The receptionist's hands left, picking up the sidelined cracker with the cheese and honey on top, and took a bite. She chewed, a demure smile spreading on her face at the puzzled baker before she swallowed and continued: "Still… it does not mean I should deny myself luxuries because of how many coins I have or don't have. Life is about enjoying what we have available in front of us. And you should as well."
Her eyes landed on the plate of food before glancing around the room. "But I did not buy any of this for myself."
"But Minister Black paid for all this already— overpaid, quite honestly. You should enjoy it. He does not condone his money going unused."
The baker's mouth opened and closed; unsure what to say in response to hearing Black had overpaid for her. It honestly made her feel more guilty, though still touched by the kind gesture unexpected from the mercenary. He wanted her to be comfortable, but she pressed on the subject, putting Erron Black at the back of her thoughts for now.
"It is hard for me to enjoy what I know I could never afford on my own," Norah impugned lightly. "I… I should only be given what I can have… because of my station."
"I do understand. You are prideful, but you have a false perception of valuation and beauty, I think, and it is not your fault," the woman stressed, frank but benevolent. "Because you and I, like so many poor folks in Outworld, have been force-fed a truth, when nothing could be farther from it. That we will be executed for enjoying something not meant for our class. That we shouldn't be happy because we are not highborn. And having us believe we are undeserving of the same luxuries when they readily come our way. It nothing more than a tactic to keep us obedient to them. The truth is, we are better than they are. We can live without these things, but they cannot."
Ramina held up the rest of the cracker to her in display, balancing it in the middle of her palm. "These are just pretty things and nothing more. They are tools to inflate the privileged ego's and remind us that we are inferior because we cannot hope to possess them when in fact, they are nothing but useless to us anyway. But we put their worth beyond our own lives because we are told coins dictate the rules. Gold is beautiful. Gold is worth more than us because of the fleeting luxuries it buys. Gold is flawless."
The receptionist crushed the cracker, cheese and honey in her hand, mashing it between her digits hard enough for remnants to come through the space between her tight-pressed fingers. Her hand opened, revealing the mess made; the once fine, expensive food reduced to mush.
"Do you still value the goat cheese over yourself?" Ramina asked, "Even in this state? Do you think if I presented this to a palace nobleman, they would give me the same number of coins for it as before?"
"No, I do not think so," Norah agreed, furrowing her eyebrows.
"But why not?" Ramina prodded forcefully, raising an eyebrow, and shrugging at the cheese. "It is still the same thing, isn't it? Same Makeba goat-cheese, honey and crackers. It still all tastes the same. Even if it was not as pretty as before, what makes it so different? What makes its worth less now than seconds before?"
Norah hesitated, pleasantly caught off-guard. "Nothing."
"Exactly. Which is why coins are not always the best judge of something's, or someone's, true worth. The cheese is still worth the same, just like you and I are the same. But… I am willing to guess, because of the way this place looks and how we are dressed, you thought differently, didn't you? You thought of us differently."
"Yes," Norah affirmed with remorse. "I did… I thought you were all… different."
"Do not be persuaded so quickly by appearances; the conclusions you reach will most often be wrong," Ramina said picking up a small washcloth from the table next to the couch and cleaning her hand.
"Our worth is not dictated by the number of coins we have in our pockets. And while my opinion may never take flight as dogma for others like us. My theory is subjective, and I know that, but I want your opinion to change about yourself. You do deserve to indulge a little— you are worth it, no matter how many coins you do or do not have compared to others. You deserve to be happy and feel no guilt about it."
The baker's eyes welled up, shaking her head. "I do not know how to do that, I'm afraid…"
Ramina patted her hand with her own. "Well, let's start with an exercise today"—the woman indicated to the room, waving her hand around—" Like I told you. Minister Black has overpaid your visit with us, and also like I said, he doesn't like his money to go wasted. So… do you think you can help me make sure that we use every coin he has given with what we have in the room? You would be doing me quite a favor by helping out."
Norah gave a timid, yet affectionate smile. The woman was such a rarity; there were not many servants that the baker felt she could develop such a quick kinship with. And despite the inspiring confidence the woman gave her, Norah couldn't help but be reminded of another that conveyed the same doctrine to her weeks prior…
You deserve some happiness. And you cannot find it sulking in this house. Go out into the world and find it…
Abigail…
She had said something so similar to her after, coincidentally, they had cleaned themselves up after arriving at Guang's house. The older Earthrealm woman had opened to the girl in a way that she had never once done before— now that she was free of Tama's overbearing eyes and scrutiny.
The old woman had written to her everything that she had wanted to convey to Norah when they first met. It had pained her finding out how much Abigail had wanted to warn her but couldn't; fearing that everything would come upon her and Bao's head if she wrote a single word in warning to her.
Her confession of how much Tama had truly been watching had sent such guilt flood through Norah; that Abigail had been so scared to make a move because simply of her introduction into her life. And it only made the baker appreciate the woman more for finally getting up the courage to write in Carver's book… when nobody else had bothered to even say a word…
You need to live your life. Forget about what happened. Do something that brings you joy.
Everybody wanted her to find joy for herself: Ramina, Abigail— even Black wanted her to be comfortable.
So, if everybody else was putting forth the effort to tell her to do so, why couldn't she tell herself to do the same? They made it sound so easy, and maybe it was… or maybe it wasn't at all. But the result in pursuit of it was the same— she would be better off and walk away with a new knowledge that not everything was terrible.
Thinking briefly, reflecting on her time in the palace and before it, she couldn't really remember the last time she ever did anything nice for herself.
Norah never did take the opportunity to spoil herself with anything. Mostly because she couldn't afford it, but even she knew that there had been opportunities to have fun: she could have joined Bert and Carver to go meet with the other cooks after hours— to discuss their days— she had been invited sometimes, but never did; choosing to go back to her room in solitude. Servants didn't have any luxuries, but even still, they found ways to partake in merriment that she shied away from almost all the time— stopping herself each time because she thought she was undeserving of any moments of optimism in her life.
The baker never knew the taste of prolonged happiness, just small fleeting moments; good memories, meant to be preserved and kept in a figurative glass jar like fireflies. Never meant to do anything else with it except look in on it from time to time. And her collection of happy moments was scant.
The poor were not allowed prolonged happiness, that was what she had been brought up all her life to follow as nonnegotiable law… but she realized now, she seemed to be the only one following that rule in her station. And for who and for what? She was doing herself no favors it seemed, and only demoralizing her own self-worth for a faceless oppressor.
After everything that the baker had gone through, she deserved more than that… and that Ramina was right: she did need a new opinion…
The baker nodded in agreement, smiling more genuinely than before, as she reached over to the platter and picked up a single cracker before dipping the corner into the cheese.
And now was as good a time as any…
"I would be happy to help," the ex-cupbearer said, taking a bite. Norah sighed with contentment before greedily sinking the cracker back into her mouth again; the baker's words mumbled as she chewed and placed a hand over her mouth to be polite "Oh… that does taste good."
Ramina let out a soft laugh, her cheese knife gathering more and a small bit of honeycomb to place on Norah's cracker. "I told you it was. It's even better with the honey."
Norah regarded her reverently, truly marveled at the woman's benevolence and utmost generosity towards her. She wasn't sure how to pay her for her philanthropy and wanted to do so with not just with the 'exercise' she had suggested before. It needed to be voiced.
"Thank you… for this…" the baker smiled, eating the cracker. "I never had anyone"— Norah paused, seeing Abigail's face and recalling her words. She swallowed, resubmitting her statement—" I needed to be reminded I can have good days…"
The receptionist tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear before placing a tender hand on her cheek. "That is the purpose of the bathhouse, Norah: to come out more refreshed then how we came in."
She grinned, nodding her thanks, as Ramina's hand dropped from her face. The receptionist stood, walking over to the wooden vanity on the opposite of the room while the cupbearer finished off the rest of the cracker; savoring it to the last miniscule morsel; it was so good with the honey.
Ramina walked back, kneeling in front of her with two decorative glass bottles that had clear oil inside both. "Now, I know you said no more flowers, so I left the Edenia Gardenia oil behind. These are both remarkable for your hair. These bathing oils have been preserved in the bottles for nearly 40 years before opening and have no flower scent to them, but the end result is quite nice, and you do not need much of it. It will make you feel as if your hair itself was blessed by the Gods."
Norah chuckled, half-genuinely and half with disbelief. Ramina would need the entire bottle for her hair. "Will it help me get closer to what Erron Black paid for?"
Ramina gave a wink. "Almost. But mostly I offer it to you because you need it more than any vain noblewoman in this palace needs it."
The younger girl smirked, grabbing a strand of greasy hair, and pinching it between her fingers; grimacing slightly at the oil transferred to the pads. "Yes… I suppose their hair never looks in such desperate need than mine does."
The lavender dressed Outworlder laughed. "I'm afraid not. Nor are any of the palace women in more need of a bath," she hinted, nodding towards the flower-scented tub.
"Then— for everyone's sake— I should probably take one then?" the servant asked, shrugging playfully.
"For yourself, remember?" Ramina corrected tactfully. "But yes, that would be nice. And since I have a feeling you will want privacy, I will go find you something else to wear after you are done. There is a bell you can ring in the vanity drawer. Simply ring it and one of the other girls will come by if you need any assistance."
Norah blinked. "Oh… well, I wouldn't mind that you stayed. You are nice to talk to— only if you want to. And what do you mean… something else to wear?"
The woman smiled kindly, seemingly surprised that Norah requested her to remain in the room, but happy to. "I would love to stay, Norah. It would be my honor. I find you much more agreeable to talk to then any bloated palace lady that thinks herself a Kahnum and demands tea and goat cheese from me as soon as the plate runs out. And it will help me understand what your likes and dislikes are more," Ramina's brow furrowed, her expression firm suddenly. "Especially since you are not wearing these clothes a second longer. Unless you truly want them back, we can have them laundered, but I think we have something you will like more— and that fits you better."
The ex-servant's forehead creased as she babbled. "I do not have anything else to wear—"
The corner of the older Outworld woman's mouth lifted. "You would be surprised how many dresses and how much jewelry gets left behind and forgotten as nothing. There are things still here from thousands of years ago. They will not be remembered or missed and could use a wearer that will appreciate them— and our closet is getting full and could use the purge," she vowed before her eyes glinted, handing over both of the bottles to Norah to take. "Besides, it will help you get closer to meeting your goal with Minister Black's coins."
The baker's eyes glinted in amusement at the woman's indication, before mulling over the bottles in her hand, trying to decide which nearly identical bottle to use. The bathhouse receptionist pointed to the one on the left with her finger. "This one smells of the rare wild oranges found only in the Kuatan Jungle and is far more expensive than the other."
Norah bit her lip, almost reconsidering, but remembering the receptionist's words as well as Abigail's, before she handed it to Ramina. "I will take it then. Does that bring my debt up to level?"
Ramina shook her head, grinning: "Oh no… you are just making up for what the coins didn't buy before for the bath and everything that went along with it"— the receptionist stood, placing her hands on her hips and surveyed her. "We still have much more we can do to you."
It wasn't just because she needed a bath— she did, absolutely— but there was another reason why Erron had chosen the Kahn's Springs.
It was not just to visit the grand tepidarium inside; full of rich marbles and mosaics around the watery amphitheater where politics and social discussions were often carried out. It wasn't his cup of tea; too many corrupt louses to share a pool with, and besides, the gunslinger didn't usually care to hear grunting and moaning echoing about the natatorium from men fucking their slaves they brought in with them— male and female— despite the rule that it was supposed to be gender separated. But any rule could be overturned in the palace based on how many coins there were in your pocket. Which he had sometimes in the past, but not to such a lewd degree as the others. If he fucked, he didn't do it in public. He had some integrity.
So, he preferred much more private accommodations, and especially today, with what he called Mera about. The marksman had waited until the male servants left, the ones dressed in a richer purple than what the women maids wore, before he took off his shirt and waited for the healer to come by. For now, he simply sat on the blue carpeted couch, an arm laid lazily atop the back while he tapped a finger to an absent beat he played in his head. One that was failing to distract him from what he was going to say to Mera.
It had been a while since he had seen the healer… or her sister. It had been such an awkward fling between all three of them, though he wasn't necessarily apologetic about what had happened. He felt bad sure, but at the end of the day, it wasn't something he went back to his room to cry about like one twin he knew did.
He had them both, Mera after getting her assigned to him after a bad altercation with a bounty, and then Sera when he sought a chase in the bathhouse. How was he supposed to know they'd be pissed about him having each sibling? It wasn't anything— the sex meant nothing— but only one sister was aware of that. Sera hated his guts and wanted nothing to do with him after finding out he slept with Mera as well, which was too bad; Sera was his go-to maid in the bathhouse. Mera also didn't care too much for him after that, though they were still cordial acquaintances— and only that after she refused to become intimate any longer with him for Sera's sake. Which was also unfortunate… he liked Mera's perfect brand of healing more than Sera's.
Still, Mera was the best, and discrete physician he knew, and it was what he needed now for his back.
He sighed tiredly through his nose. It wasn't healing as fast as he would have hoped he would and was still painful. Every time he moved, a scab opened. Every time he moved, pain flared along his back. Every time he moved, he was reminded of the Coliseum.
His eyes landed on the vanity across the room, scented oils for bathing and shampooing in girly-glass perfume bottles sitting on the wooden surface staring back at him… but his eyes lifted to the mirror; his reflection gazing at him in judgement…
Every time he moved… he was reminded of what he did for her and what it had cost him. A cost and further repercussions done to his job and name, that she wasn't even aware of and couldn't tell her about.
So, he had to pretend it didn't bother him more than it actually did.
Erron didn't have a clue on how to go about it, but he knew that he had to comply with Chaeomi's demands if he had any hope in getting his life back together. He couldn't spout a word to Norah about anything, and it made him feel like a hypocrite for it— especially considering what happened outside of the door of the bathhouse. He had asked her to trust him when he was the one keeping secrets from her.
Usually, he didn't mind refraining from telling anyone what was going on in his life; he relished in his privacy. In a way, it was a necessity, a habit, that contributed to his anonymity and job. Something that had always gone along with his life as a bounty hunter. Erron couldn't afford to let others know what his tells were. Spilling secrets meant spilling possible weaknesses about him. And this… arrangement that he made, made him weaker. She was tied to him— she would be for a while— whether he liked it or not. And there was nothing he could do about it.
His hand, the one resting on top of his thigh, tightened into a fist as his fingers stopped drumming along the edge of the couch.
And she had no idea of her worth to him. Erron wanted to simply tell her, as another way to get her on his side and be a bit more cooperative with him. But infuriatingly, he couldn't do that either. His kindness to her had to be snaky, secret and calculated, much like the creator of the clandestine contract his hand was forced to sign.
The only method he could see that would keep her alive, was to get her to be more complacent and comfortable around him. But how? He still had no love for her and still thought of her as irritating and bullheaded, despite her being more agreeable towards him now. For the moment, he rewarded it, reciprocating it awkwardly but genuinely and that seemed to be working. Still, he hadn't the faintest idea how to even keep the woman on his side more— to keep her alive— and away from her husband so she would eventually lead him to Rain as promised by the blue-eyed phantasm.
He shook his head. She was like some little foreign potted and fragile plant he was forced to take care of that he didn't ask for.
His eyes narrowed at himself in the mirror…
But had no choice but to be a gardener for. And he was an ignorant one.
Black had no idea how to handle women aside from just wanting to and fucking them. He didn't now how to go about any of this. First example being that he had thought he was doing good bringing her here, and she had reacted the opposite of how he thought she would. Perhaps it was his fault for not connecting the pieces; that she wouldn't like the bathhouse considering what happened in the Vaults— she had briefly told him, but he had forgotten about it.
So, he felt even less confident than before, and in honesty it surprised him. It was ironic, he was usually very confident around women, but Norah… she was such an enigma to him. He had no idea how to get such a stubborn, introverted woman like her to trust him and it was the other reason why he wanted to have Mera see him…
A knock came, and he called out to them to come in without turning to the door. Dressed in green, her usual attire and with a leather satchel and white apron hanging to the side, Mera offered an amiable smile to greet him.
He needed a second opinion… a woman's opinion.
"Mera…" was all he said, tipping his hat and greeting her back without looking in her direction.
The Outworld woman's brown eyes browsed over him, assessing him from head to toe as she closed the door behind her. "You look like you've seen better days, Erron."
The gunslinger's eyes finally glanced over to her and he frowned, the first thing he noticed was her red, puffy eyes despite that the rest of her demeanor was composed; she looked like she just collected herself from crying. "Same could be said of you."
"It is nothing to worry about," she waved off with her hand holding a brown satchel, though he didn't necessarily believe her; the words departing from her mouth more despondent than she probably wanted him to catch. "What was it you wanted to see me about?"
Black chewed the inside of his cheek, almost wanting to prod into her affairs; he never had seen Mera as downtrodden as she was but decided to leave it be. He stood and turned slowly, showing her his back.
He heard her suck in her breath at the sight, which was a bit unexpected from her. She had seen much worse in her time as a healer, but then caught her sighing with sadness at him. "So, it is true… you were at the Coliseum."
He looked over his shoulder. "That all you heard?"
"Yes…" Mera answered. "Everybody thinks it's just a rumor though."
"You don't have to lie," he accused.
"You know I would not lie to you about that," Mera attested stoically, giving him a half-shrug. "Nobody knows why you did it, and because of it, most don't believe you did. Those that do, believe the Kahn was angry with you and sent you to the Coliseum to pay amends for your transgression."
Erron related nothing, yet she still called it.
"But that's not the full truth, is it?" Mera speculated. "There was another reason?"
He hesitated, his eyes sternly to the wall in front of him. "Yeah…" he saw green; shapeless and with a name he refused to acknowledge. "...there was…"
Erron finally turned to her, the healer assessing him once again; arms at her side and with an imperturbable expression as she ran her eyes slowly over him. As if the answer was hidden somewhere on him, but after a moment, she gave up and met his eyes. "Would you like to talk about it?"
The gunslinger considered, mulling over it in silence to make certain he could trust Mera to keep a secret. The last thing he needed was word getting out that it was because of a woman, he had volunteered to be whipped. Black already had enough to deal with, and the rumor that was circling around his head like a kettle of vultures, was plenty.
He placed a hand on his hip, looking over her as she nodded minutely; acknowledging in silence to the Kahn's Guard that he could trust her… and he could. Like every reason for coming to the bathhouse, it was for Norah, and he needed to talk to Mera about it.
"Lie on the stone, face-down," the healer instructed him as she placed her satchel on the table before reaching into her white apron.
He obliged, taking off his hat, and walking back to the couch where he exchanged it; leaving it on the seat and picked up one of the decorative blue pillows before he turned and tossed it to the ground in front of him. Grimacing, he got on his knees before lying prone on the stone; the cold floor making him clear his throat uncomfortably.
Black placed his head on the pillow and bent his arms around his head, turning to face her direction as he heard her footsteps draw closer to him. She got on her knees next to him, holding the item she had pulled from her apron eye-level to him.
"I am going to administer Liquid Souls for your back," she briefed, the small emerald glass vial only a few inches tall pinched between her pointer finger and thumb. "It will close the wounds quickly and I have a friend that will clean up the rest of the hanging scabs and dead tissue that will remain after they close."
"Your friend?" the bounty hunter questioned, raising an eyebrow.
Mera smiled, placing the tiny glass bottle next to him, to reach into her apron pocket once more. He watched her in silence… and then frowned hard when she brought her friend out of her apron.
A large, electric blue fur-covered millipede, unraveled from its tight circle in her palm, and chittered like an angry cicada at its owner; the thing looking like it just woke up and was protesting about it.
"Shh… shh… it is alright…" Mera soothed, running her fingers along its fuzzy back. Its caterwauls tapered off, the bug flexing and lifting its back into her fingers like a cat, as it started to relax and squeaked rhythmically and sharply. Black curled up his lip in disgust, watching as the bug stretched out on Mera's hand and looked down at him with giant black eyes.
Erron looked at her, blinking in repulsed bewilderment at her. "You keep a bug the size of a rat snake in your pocket this whole time?"
"Yes. He is my assistant, Erron. Meet Moloth," Mera smirked, as the large millipede balanced on her palm using its middle legs, while the rest of its bumblebee-like blue fur body wrapped around her wrist like a tree vine. The rest of its torso stood upright, as its front two legs, larger than its tinier, multiple legs, combed over the two large fluffy antennas, akin to a moth, it had protruding on each side of its head as it gazed back at him with the oversized eyes. It chittered again at him, sharp like a door opening and closing quickly on rusty hinges, and despite the shrill sound, adorably. It stared at him with a tame, but strange curious disposition, while its ant-like mandibles clicked together as if the thing was as smart as a dog rather than an insect.
He had no fear of bugs, especially considering how much time he had spent around D'Vorah when she was on the Emperor's payroll, but the last thing he wanted after having countless bugs pulled from inside his flesh was to have another one crawling around on him.
"No," Black protested out with a snarl. "It can go back in your pocket. Looked like he was happy till you woke it up anyway."
"Don't tell me you are afraid of him," Mera teased softly. "He is harmless. He's a Venom-Eater and a very handy assistant for a healer. He can consume any venom a patient meets— even Kytinn. But he is just a baby right now, so he is not ready for that just yet," Mera continued, ignoring him as if she didn't even hear him. She placed a finger between the bug's torso and stroked it, the millipede/moth hybrid placing its fuzzy legs over her digit as its feelers bounced along the top.
"He grows bigger based on the potency of the poison or venom he consumes— I cannot wait until he eats enough to cocoon— but he is also good for removing dead skin and cleaning up a patient. It's kind of a delicacy for him. Like you and your Earthrealm drinks that you gripe about because they are in such short supply in Outworld."
Regardless of it being unintentional, her last sentence reminded him of his earlier treatment of Norah at the tavern and fouled his mood instantly.
"I didn't ask about the life story of your goddamn bug, Mera. I don't want it on me."
"Be nice, Erron," Mera reprimanded sharply before she flashed him with a purposeful, persuasive grin. "After all, he is also good for preventing scars, too. The Liquid Souls will close your wounds, but the saliva of a Venom-Eater can help reduce the appearance of scar tissue that may linger. It will be like you never even went to the Coliseum."
"Well, ain't he a talented little shit. I still don't give a rats ass—it's not going on me," Black scolded, staring at the bug as it moved over the top of her hand; slithering along the back before her other came up and made a platform for him as the bug walked from hand to hand.
"Moloth already is eager to help you, Erron and yet you were so mean to him," the healer jested, still handling the millipede, and smiling as she watched it. "I think you owe him an apology, otherwise, he might choose not to help you."
"Good," he snarked back with a growl.
The movement of her hands paused, the bug reaching out towards his back with its front legs moving in the air, trying to find something to latch on to without falling, and continue its course. Its fuzzy antennas flicked, its front to legs outreaching as the backside of its body clung on to Mera's hand and chittered again; the bug resembling a toddler outreaching for a toy it was not allowed to have.
"I don't got a problem with scars," Black retorted, eyeballing the bug as it reached for him. His eyes darted to his tally-marked biceps. "As you can see."
The Outworld healer placed a hand in front of Moloth's front; its larger legs wrapping around one of her fingers like a monkey clinging to a tree. "Erron, I know you don't have a problem with scars— and you act like you have a choice. He is going on your back whether you like it or not."
His eyes narrowed in warning at her. "Put it on me and it's getting crushed under a boot-heel," he shot back with a growl.
Mera's eyes narrowed at him sternly. "You are getting both. No Venom-Eater, no Liquid Souls. You cannot have one without the other."
"I'll find another healer," Erron countered. "One that doesn't carry bugs in her pocket."
"Almost every healer in the palace has one, you imbecile," the woman scoffed. "You would get a bug on you, no matter who you traded me with. They must eat something when they are not consuming venom. You would be doing me a favor by feeding him— and I will return it by listening and offering my advice for whatever it is you want off your chest. I know you well enough that you didn't see me just for your back."
His expression soured at her, unhappy about his lack of choices on the matter, as the bug's big eyes stared at him, waiting for his answer just the same as its heartless owner. He curled his lip at the annoyingly cute, blue-furred bug, finding it still repulsive despite its overly adorable appearance. However, Erron didn't have much choice. He did need Mera's help with both things he came to the bathhouse for, and once again, felt a small twinge of annoyance flow through him, hating the idea of relenting to the healer's demands. Once again, he was doing more than what was asked for him for Norah's sake, and it was yet another thing she would never know.
"Fine…" Black grumbled out in allowance before he shot her a sharp look. "But if he burrows inside of me, it's dead."
Mera said nothing as she placed Moloth on the ground, the millipedes many legs already working in tandem to work its way to him. It lifted and propped its larger, fluffy pronged legs on the outside of his forearm, its antennas lightly tapping his skin with almost undetectable touches; he barely felt a thing from it—the bug was lighter than it looked and obnoxiously soft.
Still, he glowered at it. "Fuck off."
Surprisingly, it did nothing but click its mandibles at him, climbing off and returning back to Mera; as if the thing understood him.
The healer repositioned her posture, sinking from her knees to sit on the floor with her legs crossed as the Venom-Eater climbed up and on the fabric of her skirt and nestled into a ball in her lap once more like a housecat; forming a tight spiral, its head still in his direction and attentive, as she uncorked the Liquid Souls with her fingertips.
"Drink— and I would plug your nose," she advised as she handed the bottle to him.
Erron only followed the first part of her order, tipping the delicate glass bottle like a shot into his mouth and swallowing as well as he could with his chest flat on the ground.
The gunslinger's features immediately twisted in displeasure as soon as he gulped it down, and he heard himself gagging on the horrendous dense liquid that traveled down his throat as his eyes squeezed tight. Still, he managed to keep it down—barely. "Feel like I just ate one of your bug's liquified family member's."
The woman chuckled at him, petting the bug's back with a fingertip lightly as its antennas twitched. "I did warn you, Erron. It has never been the most pleasant of medicines I have. But it works fast and resolves ailments quickly."
Black smacked his lips, still tasting the repugnant liquid on his lips. "How quickly?"
Mera bit her lip, her expression cryptically sympathetic. "Very quickly, I'm afraid…"
His back buckled in with an abrupt, sharp twinge and he grunted. Then pain ambushed him, the gunslinger feeling as if he had just been punched in the back by a hot branding iron, as he felt the liquid pool into the lowest part of his stomach and gnawed it apart like a knife had just plunged into his gut and was spooning out his entrails.
"And very painfully," the healer added, her words littered with a subtle apology.
He breathed through his nose, fighting back the dull pain that twisted and folded his stomach as if someone was using it to tie a sailor's knot with it. His forehead dipped into the cradle he made with his forearms, the skin of his back feeling as if someone was taking a filet knife to peel it away before placing the flap of flesh back on him again. He hissed, clenching his teeth tightly, as his hands tightened into fists.
He felt a hand in his hair— Mera's— offer him comfort, as he tried to keep himself from letting out any more noise as he felt his back and stomach ignite on fire.
"It doesn't last long…" she said, smoothing his hair.
Erron moaned in pain, moments feeling like eternity, as his breaths came out heavy and strained while he tried to fight through the pain; his body feeling as if someone was dumping hot coals on it and then walking on him without care.
"You're almost done, Erron," she consoled, removing her hand from his hair to place on his shoulder-blade— one that no longer had a mark from the whip on it.
Sweat rolled along the back of his neck and brow, the mercenary huffing into the floor, as his back arched into the healer's palm. She pressed down on it, encouraging him to remain where he was despite all he wanted to do was thrash in pain on the stone…
Then, as quickly it had come, it all subsided; the pain tapering off as gradually as he was able to catch his breath and felt his muscles relax. Black panted into the floor, the rest of his body untensing as he felt the healer's hand smooth over the small patch of skin she had her palm resting on. The mercenary's eyes opened, his vision foggy, as he lifted his chin to look around the room; sweat dripping off his face and landing on the skin of his exposed arms.
"Your borrowed magic made it go quickly for you," he heard Mera's voice float around the space above his head; a bit discombobulated as all his senses returned back to normal.
Black felt something run over his back, ghosting like a feather duster over his skin before it paused and began to tug gently at a small inch of his back; not painful, just enough to feel. He went to look over his shoulder before he felt Mera's hand push him back down.
"It's just Moloth," she told him before giving his shoulder blade a gentle pat. "Hungry little thing got impatient."
The gunslinger stiffened at the thought of the bug already on him, working away without care about the animosity the occupant felt towards it, but ultimately relented; it wasn't going to go anywhere now. For the most part he barely even felt the thing; the bug as light and soft as a feather despite the fact he could hear it click and eat at his dead skin on his back.
He felt the healer's eyes shift over to him, redirecting her attention from her insect to him once again. Mera's countenance regarded him warmly yet patiently; his acquaintance still seeking an explanation for his visit to the Coliseum in silence. She gave him a listless smile that faded as quickly as it stretched on her face.
"So why?" she asked softly.
Erron sighed, planting the point of his chin into the meat of one of his forearms as his eyes looked straight ahead. The corner of his mouth pulled bitterly to the side, the mercenary contemplating and sorting out what he should and could tell her; filtering out unnecessary details and things about his past that Norah reminded him off that he never wanted to relate to anyone.
He turned to her, lifting a brief eyebrow towards the woman when he outlined and settled on a quick synopsis of events that he felt comfortable telling. "It's a long story…"
Mera patted him on the back gently. "I do not have anywhere else to be now. Unless your tale bores me, then I might come up with something to leave the room early."
Black let out a brief, airy chuckle at her small joke before the woman regarded him more understandingly; her head tilting down before giving him a quick nod.
"It will be between us," Mera said, "it will not leave this room."
"I know…" Black accepted; questionless about trusting her word. She really was one of the few women he could tell anything to. "I don't even know where to begin…"
"Usually at the very beginning is a good place to start," Mera smirked, patting his back; pandering to him lightly as was her custom towards him. He abstained from firing back a quip, so, after a final pause, he told her the truth about what happened.
Well… his version of it.
The only one he felt comfortable telling for now…
A/N: Hoped you enjoyed. Feel free to leave feedback and as always, see you next chapter.