A Katharine Frost Production
Chapter FiveAmarant was quite rudely pushed into the dungeon. He rubbed his shoulder injuredly. Damn, that had hurt, but then again he'd rather kiss a Black Mage than say it to Freya. "Even if the machines they used are in this castle, what good it is to look at them?" he pressed. "It doesn't help any."
"I did not ask you to come with me. I seem to recall that you volunteered." She stepped up next to him, so that they were walking side-by-side. He noticed offhandedly that she was biting her lip, slow and repetitive. "Feel free to leave whenever you like."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"No, I don't suppose you would be – not unless a bar popped up next to the ironmaiden."
"Hey, you never know, what with Alexandria expanding the way it is."
It was unsurprisingly dark in the dungeon, but Freya remembered how to navigate it, and so she took the lead, Amarant stumbling after her. He had to squint to make out her form; she obviously didn't think to consider the fact that his eyes could not adjust to the dark as hers could. They were in the depths of the dungeon before he could make out anything but the shapes of things; he disliked it, having to forfeit his senses.
"Too damn quiet down here," he grumbled. Swinging over them was a cage he knew, and he glared up it for a moment, as though he could vaporize it purely through anger.
Freya seemed not to hear him. "There's a room over here," she muttered, and went off without even looking back at him. He had seen her this way before; when she became focused on something, it was as though everything else ceased to exist. He reckoned maybe that was why she was such a good fighter.
He followed her and was greeted with the sight of her touching a rack – the sort of machine used to stretch someone out until they died or talked or whatever else. Amarant was not a stupid man, and, even with a slight hangover, he knew when to shut up, so he leaned back against the stone wall, unconsciously folding his arms.
She seemed to have forgotten herself; she was tracing the lines of each foul instrument. "Amazing, isn't it?"
"What is?"
"That people can use these. These are ancient, Amarant – these were made in the times when Alexandria warred with my people almost daily. And they were the ones who called us brutal and savage – called us less than them, stupid little subbers with no mind to anything but spears and fighting. Yet there's nothing like this in Burmecia – wasn't anything like in Burmecia." Her voice was scarcely above a whisper; Amarant felt cold.
"Imagine stretching a man out."
"Imagine them stretching Fratley out," she spat.
He sighed. He really hated any sort of conversation that wasn't of the here's-your-gil-sir variety. "I'm sure Brahne wouldn't—"
"Ha," she said bitterly. "I'm sure she would."
He was, too, but somehow he wanted to knock the image of Sir Forgetful getting tortured out of her head. "You could bring him down here. See if he remembers anything."
"I can't do that," she said automatically.
"Why not?"
She spread out her claws. "You wouldn't understand."
"You're probably right. I am pretty thick."
Freya smiled – a small smile, but he caught it in the dark nonetheless. "For once, an honest word out of you."
"Don't get used to it, woman." He stood up straight and walked over to her. "You done with the dungeon crawling, then? I'd have thought you'd have had enough of it back in the travelling days."
"Yeah – fine. Let's go back up."
Silently, they crept back up into the castle, Amarant behind her again. He frowned under his hair, watching her; contrary to what she believed, he did understand (though whether or not he cared was an entirely different matter). He had seen how Freya treated Fratley – more like a child than a lover, more like someone to be taken care of than someone on equal ground. If it weren't impossible, he might have been inclined to feel sorry for old Sir Forgetful.
They parted near the kitchens.
"Get some sleep, Freya," he said quietly.
"Take your own advice," she shot back. He watched her walk down the corridor. She was a damn complicated woman – but, then again, all women were. He very much preferred the kind you paid for by the hour.
"Get some sleep, Freya," came a mimicking voice from behind him.
Amarant wheeled around and saw Eiko Carol sitting blithely on the base of a statue, her eyes alight with amusement. He groaned inwardly. He'd forgotten she was coming. "It's past midnight, brat."
Eiko sniffed. "That's no way to treat a princess."
"If you're a princess, I'm a stuffed Moogle."
She rose delicately, smoothing down her dress. "Same old grouchy act, eh, Coral? Gotta admit, I'm surprised to see you here. What with all the other people around."
"You've grown a smart mouth."
"Thank you," she said with a grin.
His mouth twitched, but he clamped it shut before he could actually smile. Damn kid was a brat, but she could be funny. "I guess I'd better leave in the morning if you're here and all. You know how I hate children."
Eiko rolled her eyes. "Oh, shut up, you big idiot. You missed me, and you know you like being here with everybody. I can tell."
"Free room and board. What's not to like?"
"You're staying a few more days, then?"
"Yeah, brat." Amarant was already walking away from her; knowing she couldn't see, he screwed his face up into a cringe. "I think I'm a masochist." Hell, he added mentally. I know I am.
*
The morning found Freya sitting out on of the castle's many balconies, the one outside her room, reading one of the heavy tomes Doctor Tot had given her. Burmecians had never put much stock in any sort of science, preferring instead to live provincially, and spiritually. She forced herself to focus.
One can improve one's memory simply by performing associations; memory is fundamentally associative. A gift, for example, might cause a subject to remember a time when he received other gifts, perhaps a birthday, or Yuletide. Consequently, focusing on small details is important. If one wants to remember a event very well, one need only think on one thing, and remember each aspect of it – not just the visual, but the tactile—
"How is it?" Fratley asked.
"Dreadfully boring," Freya answered, and snapped the book shut. She blinked rapidly and scowled down at the book. She had always like reading, but only for pleasure, and only if it was something interesting. "How people can devote their lives to studying rubbish like this is beyond me."
"But is it useful?"
"I don't know." She sat silent and thoughtful for a moment, letting the sun shine on her face. Then she turned and plucked the ribbon from her tail, rose, and pressed it into his claw. "Do you remember when you gave this to me?" There was an edge to her voice that she tried to swallow, not liking the rawness of it.
"You know I don't—"
"No, I mean – close your eyes and hold it and think about it."
"Close my eyes?" he said doubtfully.
"Here, I'll do it, too, so you don't feel stupid." She shut her eyes, feeling his claws in hers and the little snippet of ribbon in between.
It's so ridiculous! So – so old-fashioned of you!But I would like you to have it.
Why?
It's customary for a knight to give to his lady.
I'm a knight, too, Sir Fratley Irontail. I'm not some maiden who'll sigh over a trinket and wait for you to come home and dance a sorrow-dance every day until you do. I suppose that's not my style, really. Too damsel-in-distress.
Freya—
Would you wear a ribbon for me?
Men don't wear them, Freya.
Oh, so you won't take your knight's favour? Should I be affronted? Should I run from the kingdom, scorned and alone, like in a fairy story? I suppose I could live in the wilds, free of all ribbons.
You're making fun of me.
You're so easy to make fun of. So serious. But really.
But really?
Would you wear it? I'll wear yours, I promise, even if I don't sigh over it and pine for you. And I know you'd feel like an idiot. But you know me. I'd get my silly pleasure out of it.
Fine.
Fine? You mean it?
Of course I do.
She broke away from him suddenly. "Do you remember anything?" she asked, and she was shocked at how odd her voice sounded, how hoarse. She was also unprepared for how angry she felt.
He looked down at her, eyes giving an apology neither of them wanted. "No."
Freya nodded, and then pushed past him, back into the castle.
"Freya?"
She turned. He was holding the scrap of ribbon out to her.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"Don't be." She took it from him gingerly, unconsciously avoiding the brush of his skin. She felt sick to her stomach, and sat on the edge of the bed, looking at the ribbon. Would it be so terrible not to put it back on? She had grown so accustomed to it being there that she had nearly forgotten its meaning, and now it seemed a gross disrespect to wear it still, when she had him but still yearned for him.
Freya shook her head, as though this would clear it of thoughts, and retied the little ribbon. She didn't want to hurt his feelings.
He came to sit beside her. "Listen, Freya," he began uneasily. "I think you might need a day off – from this, and from me. You're trying to help me, and I – I love you for it, but I don't want you to hurt yourself in the process."
He really was too serious, even now. How she wanted to be able to tease him, like she had before! But he would react differently – not with knowing humour, but with hurt, childlike confusion. "I think you're right," she said after a pause. "I'll go into Alexandria."
It took her a while to actually stand up and leave. She curled her claws into his once more, not touching any other part of him, no head to shoulder or knee to knee, and tried to remember that she had loved him in the first place. He was warm and cold at all once; like everything else to do with him, it was opposite.
*
I will never, ever learn, Amarant thought heatedly. Ever. He looked at the faces of the men around him, and curled a protective claw around his pile of chips. The largest of the men was watching him closely, with a mean glint in his eyes. "I think I recognize you," he drawled. "Ye're that cheat I heard about t'other night."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure yeh do – it's him, ain't it? Takin' all our gil like that – nobody's that good a gambler. And 'twas like they said – shock o' the weirdest hair. Haven't got the Queen's pretty-boy backin' yeh this time."
"I don't need him," Amarant said evenly.
"We want our gil back."
"No."
"No?"
"No. You see, you've made a mistake. It's no longer your gil. It's now my gil." He was almost bored by it all – people were all the same, all too caught up with their money. He flicked a bit of dirt across the table at them, feeling reckless.
"Amarant?"
He turned in his chair and looked up, although he recognized the voice. What the hell was Freya doing? She was no stranger to dingy establishments, of course – but there was something about her seeing him at work that he didn't like. He watched her as she surveyed the men around the table, her clear green eyes widening. Damn it all – wasn't there a bar in Alexandria where he could go without running into one of his former traveling companions? She wasn't supposed to be there. He wanted her out.
"You never learn," she said softly.
"I know."
She leaned down to whisper to him. "We have to get out of here. They're about to turn on you."
"You aren't armed," he hissed into her ear.
"I always am," she whispered coolly. "Anyone who thinks he's a cheat has to take it up with me," she said calmly to the men. A small crowd was beginning to form around them. "I do not recommend it," she added.
"Yeh, sure." The burly man stepped forward. "Pair o' subbers. Always stick together, ye know. Probably off makin' more mutants when they ain't cheating honest folk at cards."
Freya reacted instantly. She grabbed his arm and twisted it so far than even Amarant gaped. The man's eyes bulged out, and he shrieked so loudly that several of the spectators had to cover their eyes. Freya's teeth were gritted, but she spoke through them. "Do not make me claw you," she enunciated clearly.
"Gerroff!" he shouted. "Get 'er off of me!"
Freya let him go and shot him an icy glare, then surveyed the rest of the room. "Anyone else?"
Nobody said a thing.
"That's what I thought."
Freya grabbed Amarant's arm and led him out of the bar, out into the daylight. She was breathing heavily when she turned back towards him, her eyes glowing furiously. "You all right?"
"I could have handled that myself."
"How dare they! Saying those things!" she fumed.
"Freya, that's what they do, they're always like that—"
"And you put up with it?" She rounded on him. "How dare you! You probably were cheating them! This is the second time in twice that many days, Amarant! Is this what you do with your life? Play gil-ante with ruffians? No wonder you're so—"
"So what?" he challenged, suddenly angry himself. It was of no concern to her. "So what, Freya?"
"Never mind."
"Why are you even out here? Shouldn't you still be in mourning?" he snapped. "Or were you just hungry for a fight? You lost me that goddamn money!"
"I thought I would sit and have time alone. Without having to babysit."
"Ha! So that's what you really think of Fratley, is it?"
"Watch it. I won't defend you next time."
"Why? Why should I watch it, Freya?" He grabbed her arm. "How dare you make your snide comments about me – as if your life is so perfect! So what if I play some cards to make money? So what if I drink some? You're so wrapped up in Sir Forgetful! You've forgotten who you are! Just now, when you were threatening those men – I haven't seen you that alive – well, I can't remember the last time, really!
"Don't strain yourself," she spat. "This is the most I've heard out of you – ever."
"You're nothing but a fool chasing some ridiculous fantasy, trying to recreate a past that's already over, dammit—"
She slapped him. Hard. "Go to hell," she snarled, and stalked off before he could even think to reply.
He stood there, slightly dazed, with his claw pressed to the stinging spot where she'd struck him. "Goddamn," he muttered.
*