It wasn't just the library that remained petrified in time, as Garrett was soon to discover. The horrid gaudy wallpaper and carpeting of the second training room remained, as did those rather clever star-cut windows which divided the two areas. But the carpets themselves were now frayed and moth-eaten, the windows blanketed in a thick layer of dust and cobwebs.
In the next hall, Gwenevere had to stop and peer through each of the windows lining her passage. Each time, the jovial girl would emit a series of childish sounds and giggles, before calling out hello to the nonexistent denizens of that place. After her third obnoxious exclamation in under a minute, Garrett lost his fleeting patience.
"Gwenevere!" he barked, "stay focused! You're gonna need it…"
Gwenevere's head snapped back from the window, her eyes wide and lustrous. The exuberant child did as she was told, tailing with jovial skips and hops behind her concentrated and silent mentor. Once close enough, she hustled to Garrett's side as the thief continued to walk down the hallway without even looking back at her. Gwenevere kept her gaze on his grumpy visage the remainder of their trek forward. When they reached the next training room, she watched his frown deepen.
"Ugh…I've always hated how gaudy this damned room is…" he murmured in a low, gravelly tone. "Reminds me of Lord Bafford's treasury."
Gwenevere finally tore her eyes from him so that she could examine the new area. The gilded saffron carpets felt plush beneath her feet, their intricate pattern pleasing to the eye. The walls were soft red mahogany, as was the ceiling above her. Various metal surfaces were intermingled with the golden carpeting, although Gwenevere was unsure just why this was. Across the room were another set of stairs and that curious insignia. It seemed to hold some grand significance to this place. The girl peered upward and cooed in awe at the masterfully crafted bit of artistry hanging over her head. Such a painting must have taken years to create.
"Well, I don't know who this Lord Bafford is, but I don't see anything wrong with this room," Gwenevere disagreed.
"You wouldn't…" the thief murmured, rolling his eyes. Gwenevere didn't seem to hear him, her head still craned skyward as she continued to admire the second training room.
"It's just so opulent and glorious. I mean, just look at that painting!"
Still dazed, Gwenevere began walking forward. As she neared the middle of the room, Garrett reached out his hand, halting her advancement.
"A thief needs to be silent. In this next room, you are going to try and approach me from behind without alerting me to your presence," he explained. Gwenevere felt her heart sink.
"Wha—" she gaped in absolute shock, "you want ME to sneak up on YOU?!"
"Yes," Garrett snapped bluntly, "don't worry, I won't subtract points for stating the obvious. Though you should work on that later."
The girl's eyes were as wide as a woeful puppy's.
"B-but Garrett, I can't…" she protested, tucking one of her legs behind the other and tapping her index fingers together.
Garrett felt only scorn in response to her flustered protests.
"This is the most basic training you can get," he growled, "every thief, assassin, or rogue has to learn to sneak up on their quarry. What kind of a vigilante do you intend to be, if you won't even try?"
"Okay, okay, I'll do it!" Gwenevere acquiesced with a whine.
"Good choice," Garrett groused, "Those excuses of yours nearly earned you another day of cleaning. Now, here's what's going to happen-"
"-Garrett?" Gwenevere interrupted.
"What?" the thief barked in frustration.
"Well, I was just sorta wondering why this room has such peculiar carpeting."
"You and me both," the moonlighter muttered.
"What I mean is, why are there metal areas mixed up with the carpeting? That seems a bit strange to me," the runaway commented.
"Looks like you get another cookie for stating the obvious, Gwenevere, "the criminal muttered, rolling his eyes.
"Huh? A cookie? But I thought you wanted me to STOP doing that," Gwenevere crooked her head to the side, baffled. Garrett rubbed his temples with a groan.
"Forget it. Just, figure it out, okay?"
"Do I still get the cookie?"
"No."
"Can't I at least have a hint about the floor?"
"No," he refused again, regardless of the fact that he had been given said hint by his own mentor, Artemus.
"But this makes no sense!" Gwenevere complained, with a stomp of her foot.
"Fine. Certain surfaces make more noise when stepped on," he snapped, giving in to what sparse hints of conscience he possessed, "hope you're satisfied with that, because it's the only hint you're getting."
Gwenevere smirked.
"'Kay, thanks!"
Garrett ground his teeth, resisting the urge to yell at her again.
"Alright. I'm going to have my back turned to you. Try to approach me without making a sound. Got it?"
"Oh!" Gwenevere's eyes grew playful, "so, it's like a game?"
"No, it's not a game, Gwenevere. It's training," the thief corrected, already walking away from her, "and I'd like to get it done before too much longer. I'm having dinner with Basso tonight."
"Huh? Basso?! Can I come?" Gwenevere was bouncing again.
"No."
"Awwww, why not?"
"Because I said so."
"But I—"
"Start sneaking, Gwenevere!"
His last command was so domineering and forceful, that it silenced the girl's protests outright. Without another word, Gwenevere's body reverted to a state of ardent determination and focus. Seeing this, Garrett made his way to the second stairway and turned his back to her. No sooner had he turned around, when Garrett heard the very distinct sound of shoes tapping against the floor. With a compressed sigh, he pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration.
"The idea is to try and stay on the carpeted areas, Gwenevere. Remember?"
"I am on the carpet!" his apprentice replied.
With an agitated grunt, Garrett whirled around expecting to catch Gwenevere in the act of lying. But to the hooded criminal's surprise, the girl was indeed standing on the carpet. She looked up at him, her eyes wide and her posture most precarious. Almost as though she were frozen by failure, awaiting his aid. Garrett's eyes narrowed.
"Take another step," he ordered.
"But I can't!" Gwenevere argued, sounding desperate.
"Why not?"
"Because your back isn't turned anymore," the redhead reasoned, "that would be cheating, Garrett! I couldn't possibly—"
"—do as I say already!" Garrett snapped. Gwenevere startled, but then did as she was told. Another loud disruption echoed throughout the training area. The thief glared down at his charge, his expression almost accusatory.
"Did you put something in your shoes?" he questioned.
"N-no," Gwenevere shook her head, "should I have? Oh, darn it! I knew I forgot something today!"
Garrett groaned again, covering the topmost portion of his face with his hand.
"Just…just take your shoes off. See if that helps," he instructed, rubbing his throbbing temples.
Gwenevere began to smile, her distress and helplessness from before now vanquished. She hustled back to the wooden starting gate and removed her shoes. Garrett turned his back to her once more. For a moment, he couldn't hear a thing. Then came the thud. The thief spun around, only to find Gwenevere facedown upon the floor. Her feet were mere inches from the iron panels. Garrett felt his blood begin to boil.
"Why did you walk on the metal plates?!" he demanded. Out of one eye, Gwenevere peered up at him through a sea of messy red hair.
"I thought I could sneak upon them and pass my test faster if I was just wearing my socks. But it turns out that metal is super slippery!"
Garrett's fingers tightened into two troubled fists, and his left eye began to twitch. Behind a taut sneer, he began to grind his teeth.
"This isn't a race, Gwenevere. Fall on your face during a real mission and you're dead."
Gwenevere's smile melted, her lip beginning to quiver in response to his harsh words. Garrett continued to glower down at her from atop his vantage point there in that ostentatious, opulent place. She looked positively ridiculous, sprawled across the floor like that. This room was intended for training children no older than perhaps ten or twelve. Yet Gwenevere-a young woman of eighteen-had just failed this test twice in less than ten minutes.
Scornful eyes of metal and misery met with those of a well-intentioned altruist, and the former of these juxtaposed souls realized something. Or perhaps, remembered something. A kindness once displayed by a wizened sentinel unto his would-be pickpocket. With a remorseful, tired sigh, the hardened misanthrope acquiesced to that curious sentimentality which so rarely seemed to visit him.
Garrett's expression softened just enough to cause Gwenevere slight confusion. She could tell he was still aggravated. But something else now teased the shadows of his face, drawing up the deep corners and rejuvenating the sharp features. But it was what he said next, that truly made the girl creature curious.
"A good criminal needs to pace themselves accordingly. You need to pay attention to your surroundings, and think before taking every step. Timing is a thief's best friend, Gwenevere. You'd be wise to remember that."
Upon trembling legs, Gwenevere got to her feet. She gave her teacher nothing more than a slow nod before returning to the wooden gate. Garrett turned around again for the third time, his breath strangely warm as it left his mouth. It took close to ten minutes, but this time, Gwenevere completed her test without incident.
"Good. I didn't hear you at all that time," the thief praised in his gravelly, discontented voice when Gwenevere ascended the stairs on his left.
And for the first time since he'd known her, Gwenevere responded with only her smile.
***
The final hallway made Gwenevere feel uneasy. The faded green wallpaper was peculiar in composition, with dark and imprecise patterns adorning it. They reminded the girl of lurking shadows, giving her the disquieting sensation of being watched. Gwenevere did not even think to exhibit childish nonsense this time. Cowering beneath the train of Garrett's cloak, she followed her mentor out into the training yard. Again, the harsh slam of a metal gate made her jump.
Garrett glared down at her, exhibiting a frightening sneer until his apprentice saw fit to extract herself from beneath his cloak. He then turned his gaze slowly to meet the overgrown training yard. Everything was exactly the way he'd left it over twenty years ago. The wooden tables, though decaying and splintered by the elements. That tacky training dummy that someone had crudely decorated with a ridiculous painted face. If Garrett's memory was correct, it was meant to be Orland. Not a bad likeness, he had to admit.
The training yard was overgrown with thick weeds. Snow and ice blanketed most of the unwanted foliage and several overturned tables. It was going to be quite the task to even locate the targets concealed beneath all that mess. For a moment, Garrett considered just leaving. The frigid cold, coupled with these festering greens was going to hinder the girl's progress. Archery was best learned in the warmer months.
But the misanthrope didn't want to wait that long to reclaim his tower. Preferably, Gwenevere would be a distant memory before the snow thawed. Not only was she an unnecessary burden, she was beginning to make him feel…odd. Garrett had always equated feelings with getting caught, and harboring a gregarious girl like her was almost certain to accomplish just that.
Even still, he found that he did enjoy her presence. Gwenevere could make him smile with her odd behavior and antics, and she was decent at cleaning. Releasing her into the city was beginning to sound just as cruel as releasing a zoo animal back into the wild. The complacent creature would have no idea how to survive, and would almost surely perish. Or worse, should Lord Simmons or his brutish henchmen get their claws into her.
Garrett squeezed his eyes shut. What DID he want? His tower and his privacy, or that mysterious girl and all the warmth and excitement she brought into his shadowy world. The former seemed much more practical in his methodical opinion. But, like a well-guarded treasure sparkling just out of reach, the latter possessed far more intrigue. The things Garrett was not allowed to have, always tended to be his favorites.
Before more conflicting questions could bombard his already troubled subconscious, the thief faced his eager little charge. In the low light, Gwenevere's eyes glistened like falling stars. She stood there, pensive and determined in that overgrown foyer. Awaiting her master's instructions. Garrett responded by opening his quiver and producing two shorter bows, an extra quiver, and a handful of various arrows which he then set down upon the rotting wooden table. Gwenevere admired the bejeweled weaponry for a moment before Garrett proceeded to start instructing her again.
"The first thing we need to do is identify which is your dominant eye," Garrett spoke in a focused tone as he began filling the spare quiver he'd brought for her with various types of arrows. He gazed into the young woman's savage green eyes, watching as they slowly closed before him.
"My dominant eye?"
"Is there an echo in here?" the criminal groused, "yes, your dominant eye."
"Why?"
"Because, although your dominant hand may seem more important, your dominant eye will determine how you perceive your target; therefore affecting your aim."
"I see," Gwenevere mumbled, tracing her long eyelashes with one of her fingertips. "Yes, that does indeed seem important. But how do I find out which of my eyes is the dominant one anyway?"
Suddenly, she appeared very nervous.
"This…this isn't gonna hurt, is it?"
Garrett watched as she awaited an answer, those glistening peridot eyes of hers now riddled with hesitation and fear. The master thief sighed.
"No, it isn't going to hurt. It's quite simple, actually," he replied.
"Well, how do I start?" Gwenevere asked.
Garrett responded by holding out his hands to her, fingers pointing towards their opposing digits. They overlapped as his two thumbs touched, creating a triangular shape. Garrett then raised the shape up to his face.
"Make a triangle with your hands and center it over that training dummy in the courtyard," he instructed, watching Gwenevere emulate his movements. "With your right eye closed, look at the dummy with your left."
"Okay," Gwenevere responded, struggling to maintain the shape of her hands. Garrett moved in behind her and reached forward around her shoulders. He slid her hands closer together, essentially shrinking her triangle.
"There," he spoke in a hushed raspy voice that tickled Gwenevere's ear, "is the dummy still centered?"
"No," she flushed, trying to remain focused. Sensing her unease, Garrett quickly backed away from her.
"Try the other eye," he ordered.
Gwenevere nodded, closing her left eye and peering through the triangle with her right. This time, the dummy did not shift its position.
"It stayed put this time," she informed Garrett in a voice so monotone and serious, that it almost caused him to chuckle outright. He wondered if she honestly thought the training dummy was moving around.
"Good. Now we know which is your dominant eye. This is important because bows are designed specifically to be held by either a left or a right hand."
"Oh, so that's why there are two here!" Gwenevere trilled merrily at this new discovery.
"Right," Garrett confirmed, reaching for the appropriate bow. "So, now that we know that your left eye is dominant…"
"B-but Garrett! I'm right-handed!" Gwenevere cried, mildly concerned. The thief blinked.
"Right. You'll still be aiming with that hand, Gwenevere."
"B-but…"
"Holding something in your other hand shouldn't be this big of an issue for you," he scolded, "your dominant hand and eye will be doing most of the work. Now come here."
Gwenevere trotted up to her mentor, watching as he produced more items from his knapsack. A pair of fingerless gloves and a pair of leather armguards. Gwenevere fawned over these handsome objects, her fingers itching just to touch them. They were similar to the ones Garrett always wore, but much lighter in color. The gloves were a soft tan, and the armguards were a warm sandy color. They weren't very fancy, but all the same, they made eager young Gwenevere giddy. That was until Garrett practically tossed them at her.
"Go ahead and put these on. Believe me when I say that you'll want the protection."
"Huh? Protection?" Gwenevere spoke through a mouthful of glove, as she used her teeth to tug the article of clothing over her hand.
"Let's just say you don't want to be snapped by a bowstring. It hurts. A lot," the thief clarified unceremoniously.
Gwenevere went back to preparing herself, a visible look of unease upon her face. Garrett watched through disinterested, bored eyes. That was, until she proceeded to try and put her armguards on backwards.
"Stop," he groaned, stepping in to assist, "can't you feel that something is wrong?"
"No," Gwenevere shook her head.
Garrett looked down at her arm and the girl's pitiful attempt at protecting it. The wider part of the armguard was around her wrist, while the narrower portion was shoved so tightly around her arm, that the skin was pinched and turning red.
"Just…how?" he asked, pulling the thing off of her. Garrett made a rather derisive point of turning the armguard around in front of her, before sliding it over her wrist and arm correctly this time. "See? Doesn't that fit better?" He looked up to observe Gwenevere's face. But the girl's attention was focused somewhere else.
She felt frozen, her entire body hot and red as she felt his hands around her arm. He had touched her again, but this time, there was no passion—angry or otherwise. So why then, did she suddenly feel so lightheaded?
Watching as her face lit up with a soft pink blush, Garrett immediately tore his hands away from her arm. It was only then that he realized how late it was getting. The sunset was waning now, but soft rays of its fiery red luster still played upon Gwenevere's unkempt tresses. Against that waning sky, her cheeks seemed to congeal with the impending twilight; her eyes like two green fireflies dancing amidst the ruins of a forgotten day. His eyes grew intense, as though focused upon some inconceivable treasure which altogether rendered him breathless. Overwhelmed, Garrett jerked away from her and withdrew into the shadows.
"Okay, put the other one on now," he barked, flustered by what had just transpired. And still blushing, Gwenevere did just that.
"Pick up the bow," Garrett continued to relay his instruction. After the girl did so, he continued. "Good. Take this extra quiver too. It's got a few different arrows in there for you to practice with. I'll try to explain the fundamentals of each type before this courtyard gets completely dark."
Gwenevere took the quiver from him and slung it over her shoulder. Garrett approached her from behind again.
"Alright. Now, the first step is to create consistency of form. Ultimately, you want to train your body to recreate the same motion every time you shoot. Stand with your feet about a shoulder's width apart, and with your non-dominant leg slightly forward."
"Non-dominant?" Gwenevere looked up at her mentor, unsure what that meant.
"Your left," Garrett articulated dryly.
"Oh yeah! Right!" the girl gave a brisk nod and did as she was instructed.
"Take your bow and grip it with your left hand. When the proper grip is obtained, the wrist, arm, and finger should all be in alignment. This positioning might feel odd at first, but if you start shooting this way regularly, it will get more comfortable with time."
The thief watched his charge fumble with the bow for several minutes. Eventually, she had a somewhat steady grip on the thing.
"Good. Once you've got the grip down, you won't need to keep your pointer finger extended, and can wrap it around the bow handle. It only needs to be re-extended if you feel the need to check your grip, or to make sure that everything is still in alignment."
"Uh-huh. So when can I shoot?" Gwenevere asked eagerly, bouncing in place.
"Once you achieve the proper grip, you can set an arrow. The arrow should be rested on the same side of the bow as the back of your hand."
Struggling with her quiver, she followed her teachers' instructions as best she could. The bow wobbled considerably, as Gwenevere reached behind her for one of the arrows Garrett had given her to practice with. The first one was a beautiful deep green. Gwenevere took a moment to fawn over the soothing earthy hues before setting the arrow against her bowstring.
"Like this?" she asked, hopeful. Gwenevere would have looked over at the thief, had she not been thoroughly convinced that the bow would wobble again if she took her eyes off of it.
"Very good. That's a moss arrow. It can be used to cushion surfaces that are normally loud when stepped upon, such as metal or tile," Garrett explained, "they can also be used to temporarily choke your enemies, giving you an opportunity to flee the scene if need be."
"Ooh! Like the spore grenades?" Gwenevere asked with a small smirk. Garrett frowned at the memory of the other day.
"No," he answered sharply. "I don't quite know the exact logistics of how they work, but one thing is evident: They don't incapacitate for extended periods of time. Personally, I recommend flash bombs if you ever need to escape a tense situation. I'll teach you more about those later on."
"Okay," Gwenevere confirmed, and turned her focus back to her training.
"Alright, Gwenevere. Grip the string with your left hand. Proper string grip is paramount when learning how to shoot a bow accurately," the criminal began his lesson again, watching his pupil with careful eyes, "Generally, the first three fingers are used to grip the string. Most archers shoot with their pointer finger gripping the string above the arrow, with their middle and ring fingers below. Once you are ready to shoot, aim for that training dummy down there, and let your arrow fly. Remember to breathe, as this assists with your focus."
"Affirmative," Gwenevere replied, trying to sound serious. She narrowed her eyes and stuck out her tongue. She took a second to steady her aim, then fired.
But Gwenevere couldn't notch the arrow, while pulling back the bowstring, WHILE holding the bow. It was all just too new and overwhelming for her. With a loud gasp, she felt as the moss arrow slid out between her fingers. The magical glass shattered upon impact, creeping greens snaking and coiling outward from the impact site. Garrett quickly brought up his facial covering in order to block out any of the spores. When the moss had settled, and only a soft green carpet remained, he pulled his mask down and glowered vehemently at his bumbling apprentice. Gwenevere gave him a nervous grin.
"Oops," she forced herself to chuckle. Her mentor appeared anything but amused.
Gwenevere winced. This was it. She had messed up yet again, and the lesson for today would be dubbed another failure. Garrett would go have dinner with Basso, and probably rant about how much of a klutz she was. Yep. That was going to happen for sure. Unless…
"Ooh! Ooh! Wait a minute! I got this, Garrett!" the girl proclaimed, reaching back into her quiver and retrieving another arrow. Garrett frowned.
"Stop, Gwenevere. First, let's discuss what—"
The thief barely had time to speak, before another arrow was sent flying. A gas arrow, judging by the color. Gwenevere's arm slipped and the shot went wide. It soared skyward over the walls of the Keeper Compound, before plummeting out of sight into the crowded city streets on the other side. Garrett heard about five bodies collapse simultaneously, and another three women scream in unison. He turned his attention back to the unruly little archer responsible.
"Gwenevere!"
"Hold on! I can do better, Garrett. Watch!" she spoke quickly, hastening to prepare another arrow.
When he saw her notch the searing amber arrowhead, something caused Garrett's insides to twist with unspeakable terror.
"No, stop! Not that one!" he commanded, running forward to grab the weapon from her. But it was too late.
Gwenevere fired without hesitation, the resulting explosion sending her backward onto her rump as a blinding, searing golden flare erupted throughout the courtyard.
As the flames undulated and danced within her green eyes, the girl creature felt her heart begin to race. An ancient, primordial dread overtook her, as instinct and memory played in tandem to create the purest form of terror within her young mind. Incapacitated by the sight of fire, she cowered there in the corner with her eyes squeezed shut. Only to open them again when she felt something dart out in front of her. It was Garrett, his own bow at the ready.
In spellbound awe, she watched as he produced a shimmering blue arrow from his quiver and aimed it at the burning yard. A burst of cool water drenched the raging fire. The thief rapidly shot several more water arrows into the inferno, until he'd succeeded in snuffing out the blaze completely. Shadows and golden sky at his back, Garrett whirled around and sneered at the upstart redhead huddled in the corner.
"Put. The bow. Down," he growled.
Gwenevere startled, looking down at the wooden weapon she'd been unwittingly clutching during the aftermath of her horrible mistake. She released it immediately, watching as it scuttled to the stony tile. It made a soft hollow thud as it hit. Gwenevere brushed a strand of her ruby hair out of her eyes and stared upward at Garrett from between her knees. All she could think to do at that moment, was apologize.
"I'm sorry, Garrett. Believe me when I say that I didn't want that to happen! I didn't know there was fire in that thing! I-I—"
Before her frightened mind could process his maneuvers or proximity, Garrett was before her. Without another word, the thief gripped her by the arm and hoisted her violently to her feet. Gwenevere squeaked when he grabbed her cheeks with his gloved hand. He forced her to make eye contact with him. Gwenevere really wished he hadn't. She already found the thief's eyes imposing. But in the low light, augmented by deep umbrage, they were downright terrifying.
"When I say stop, you stop. Understand?" he snarled, and those terrifying eyes of his began to narrow.
Gwenevere gulped, nodding as many times as she could. Begrudgingly, Garrett let her go. She slid down the rock wall, rubbing at her sore face. He turned around, watching as wisps of smoke rose from the charred grass and weeds below. Dirty water that had only recently been icicles dripped down from the edges of the courtyard roof. At least he could see the targets and the rest of the training yard now. However, he wasn't about to let this show of reckless defiance go unpunished.
Moss and poor aim were simple problems to fix. Garrett could ignore such mediocre performances from a neophyte such as she. But this was beyond anything comparable to skill or accidental mishaps. Gwenevere had deliberately ignored instruction—and she could have been hurt or killed as a result. Her claims of unorthodox lineage mattered not. Gwenevere did not have to be a wood nymph for fire to kill her in one of the worst ways imaginable.
When the Keeper courtyard burst into flames at the feeble and inexperienced hands of his own apprentice, Garrett was reunited with an abnormal desire he hadn't experienced in over a decade. The need to safeguard someone other than himself from harm. To protect someone whom at that moment, he genuinely hated.
He hated her for acting so reckless, hated her for nearly burning down one of the few reminders he had of his early years. But most of all, Garrett hated her for endangering herself. And he hated himself for feeling something akin to relief now that she was alright. After all the trouble she'd caused him, why on earth did he even care?!
Uncomfortable questions aside, only one thing mattered: Gwenevere needed to obey him, and he needed to know that he could trust her. There was no room for levity in that regard. Especially, if she did turn out to be part wood nymph.
"Lesson's over. Grab your stuff," he ordered, his back still turned.
"But I—"
"Move it!" he snapped bluntly.
Garrett proceeded towards the back door on the opposite side of the smoking compound. He didn't bother to look at Gwenevere the entire trip back to the clocktower. He didn't even bother to tell her goodbye when he left. It had been an exhausting, arduous week of training. A week of nonstop banter and a cacophony of wild giggling. Of conflicting emotions and insomnia-inducing questions. A night off sounded like paradise, even if Garrett had to spend it in the drunken company of Basso the Boxman.
***
Despite it being mid-week, the Crippled Burrick remained a raucous and lively place. The thick scent of pipe smoke intertwined itself around that of burnt food and whisky, dim candlelight augmenting the sharp corners of Garrett's face. The thief released a gracious sigh from his nostrils as he mulled over the tavern's meager menu. He never thought he'd be this elated to find himself in a well-lit public place, partaking in burnt soup and tasteless swill. But if it granted him even a short respite from that carmine-haired pixie, Garrett would take it with a healthy dose of reserved gratitude.
The hooded rogue scratched his nose, before looking across the table at Basso. The boxman looked almost cramped with his short, rotund frame shoved into the pinewood booth. He'd just finished downing his third ale, while the shaded misanthrope was still on his first. And it was still quite full, at that. Garrett watched in mute astonishment as his fence proceeded to happily shove handful after handful of bar nuts into his mouth. It was then that he suddenly remembered why he didn't dine with Basso very often.
"Hey, keep putting them away like that and you're not gonna have any room left for the burnt soup, Basso," Garrett grinned.
Basso smirked up at his mate, his eyes sparkling at the jest.
"Oh, Builder forgive me if THAT happened," he responded, his mouth still somewhat full. Basso swallowed, wiping stray bits of salt and shell from his scraggly beard before continuing, "and oh! Ta miss out on the rock-hard rolls—now that would be a real tragedy."
"At least the meatloaf's passible," Garrett added. Basso shot him a perplexed stare.
"Meatloaf?"
Garrett sat up straight, his mouth ajar. He was about to put forth his follow-up question, when an assertive and warm voice rang out from behind him.
"There's a hood I recognize!" the same voice chuckled, as its owner stepped into view.
In some ways, it would be apparent to anyone that she was related to Basso. She had the same stocky, overweight stature; though she carried herself well, giving her the appearance of a noble and voluptuous beauty. Her nose was smaller than his, but they had the same hair, both in color and texture. She wore hers long—always had, for as long as Garrett had known her at least. But over the last few years, she'd taken to wearing it up. Thick strands of rich, chocolate colored hair dangled down either side of her round face, the rest pulled back into a tight bun. Her periwinkle eyes glistened with a mature luster, as she smiled down at the seated thief.
"Hello, stranger," she winked. Garrett slouched forward uncomfortably in the booth, running his finger around the rim of his ale mug.
"Hey, Sophie…" he grumbled.
'Stranger', was nothing short of a grievous lie and they both knew it. In truth, the two knew each other better than most. Garrett had been acquainted with Sophie for near as long as he'd known Basso. But unlike her bumbling older brother, she knew to be discrete when addressing the most wanted man in the City.
Despite being the youngest in their tight group of misfit vagabonds, Sophie had always been the matriarch; taking care of her brother and Garrett almost like a doting mother. It was tiresome and downright frustrating at times, but the moonlighter would be lying if he deigned to accredit just how helpful she'd been over the years. Garrett smirked at his reflection in the clear amber brew, watching as his false eye gyrated within its socket. It was hard to believe she was the youngest.
"It's been quite a while," Sophie added, sounding almost as wistful as he felt in that moment, "I miss getting the chance to serve my two favorite boys their dinners! Usually, it's just this big lummox over here," she laughed, playfully punching her brother in the shoulder.
"Oi, lay off, sis!" Basso smirked, shoving her back with an equally spirited gesture.
"You know you ain't gonna find yourself a nice woman if you never even leave the tavern, brother," the motherly bar wench reprimanded thoughtfully.
"Hey, I leave the tavern," Basso defended, before shoving another handful of bar nuts into his mouth, "I'm goin' out wiff you tado that thing tammarow, remempher?"
"Yes, dearest brother, I know," her mouth twitched at the corners, "I just wish you'd go out on your own more often."
Basso swallowed his bar nuts and frowned.
"Aww, I'll get around to it, sis," he grumbled.
Sophie smiled lovingly down at him for a moment, before turning her attention back onto Garrett. Placing her hands upon her hips, she huffed; partially out of exhaustion from a long and tiring day, and partially to contain her pent-up excitement.
"So, when am I going to finally get to meet the new trainee? Basso tells me she's a cutie."
"Depends on what you call 'cute'," Garrett groused, leering at the overweight pauper across from him. The boxman released an embarrassed laugh and shrugged, his cheeks beaming crimson.
Sophie looked down at Garrett, raising one of her eyebrows as she smiled sympathetically at his blunt rejection of the girl. She knew the thief well enough to discern that intriguing little nugget of duplicity within his voice.
"I suppose cute isn't really your thing anyway, now is it?" she commented, careful to emote just enough doubt within her words to elicit Garrett's suspicion.
When he reacted by immediately turning his head away from her in favor of the window, Sophie tried to suppress her smug grin. But she felt the corners of her mouth draw upward, regardless.
"Well, what can I get you blokes for dinner, eh?" she asked, changing the subject as she reached for her small stained parchment and scraggly brown quill. She bit her bottom lip and tapped the quill against the side of the parchment, as she eagerly awaited their decisions.
Garrett buried his nose in the tavern's menu again, mulling over all of its less-than-appetizing possibilities, while Basso eagerly held his index finger aloft. His expression jovial and animated, he proceeded to order his usual.
"Get me the spicy burrick wings, extra sauce, and a side order of fried pickles."
"No fruit or vegetable with that?" Sophie prompted, raising her eyebrow.
"Pickles is a vegetable," Basso defended. His sister rolled her eyes, releasing a low groan as she did so.
"Basso, I swear... You're gonna give yourself a heart attack one of these days, eating like that all the time," she muttered, hastily scribbling down the boxman's order. She then turned to his shadowy companion. "And for you?"
Garrett stared at the menu for a few seconds more, his eyes narrowing in contemplation.
"How's the apple pie here?" the thief inquired, never taking his eyes off of his menu.
"Very sweet and tangy. It's one of our best dishes," Sophie replied.
"I'll take a slice for the road then," Garrett muttered, "a rack of venison and a side of roast potatoes for now."
Sophie jotted down his order and nodded.
"Right. So I have an order for the, 'Basso Special', one rack of venison with a side of roast potato slices, and a slice of apple pie to go. I'll be right back with those plates, and I'll tell cook to box up an extra juicy slice of pie for you, hun," Sophie winked at him, then turned and headed back towards the kitchen, her hips swaying as she walked. Basso shook his head as he watched her go.
"Basso special…pah! Can you believe that sister of mine?"
"I can't believe she's aged so well," the thief smirked, giving his old friend a knowing grin. Basso grinned back.
"Ya still got the hots for her?"
"That ship sailed over a decade ago, Basso," Garrett replied with a scoff, taking a sip of his drink. Basso did the same and released a loud, satisfied sigh upon sating his thirst.
"Yeah, suppose so. Would've been nice ta call you 'brother', though…" the boxman reminisced.
"I like to think we're closer than brothers, to be honest," Garrett retorted, raising his glass, "blood doesn't dictate whether or not you'll storm Pavelock Prison to free a man, because said man took the rap for a crime just to save you. We've done more for one another in the twenty-five years I've known you, than most brothers do in a lifetime. Give me a loyal comrade over a brother any day."
Basso stared at his mate, his expression awestruck and emotional. Unsure how to respond to such an unexpected and profound statement, he simply raised his cup and toasted his most loyal comrade.
"You can be real insightful when ya choose ta be, Garrett," he remarked, delighting in the soft clink of metal as their mugs came into contact.
"So I've been told," Garrett closed his eyes and drank.
"Anyhow, Sophie'd be a real pain ta live with, lemme tell ya!" Basso followed suit. He wiped his mouth, and pointed a finger into Garrett's face. "Yer much better off with the gal you've got now."
Garrett's solemn expression crumbled into a ruthless snarl. He pulled his hood tighter around his face, until the resulting shadows all but swallowed his discomfort.
"There is no 'girl'," he groused, voice muddled by the dark fabric.
"Yeah, yeah. And I'm an effeminate Hammerite," Basso instigated.
"Well, with the way you swoon over that Jack Diddly, and prattle on and on about the Builder…" Garrett countered, peeking one eye out from his dark nook.
"That's Jack DANGER," Basso corrected sharply, "and I only prattle like that on Sundays!"
"That's not what Gwenevere told me," the thief responded, finally emerging to crack his knuckles upon the table.
"Ah, well speaking of the kid," the boxman acquired a goofy grin, "how was training this week?"
Garrett locked eyes with his accomplice, already dreading the impending conversation.
"Well, she almost killed me today, Basso," he remarked bluntly.
"Hmm, but you're still alive? Looks like the kid needs more practice," Basso joked. He then did a double take, and noticed something he hadn't before. "You got a little, something there on yer…" he trailed off, motioning to his own face while making eye contact with his dinner guest.
Garrett glowered up at him, dramatically flicking a stray piece of moss from his cheek.
"We didn't even get to the climbing exercise today. After she gassed several people and set the training yard on fire, I decided to just stop for the day…"
Basso, who had been in the process of swallowing when Garrett regaled him with this news, lurched forward abruptly, shooting ale from his mouth and nostrils. The thief watched on in irate disgust, as the boxman began coughing and laughing.
"Taffing hell, that shit burns!" Basso cursed. He then wiped his lips and nose and smiled at Garrett. "She gassed several people today? How?! And what's this about a fire?!"
"The only way Gwenevere can…" he smiled a bit, then added, "did make it easier to sneak back to the tower, though. At least three of them were city watch."
"Well why did you let her use real arrows, Garrett? Taff, ya can't blame the kid for this one."
"What else was I supposed to use, Basso?"
"Blunts. Most novice archers train with blunt heads so they don't end up killin' nobody," Basso informed with a knowing nod.
"All of my other apprentices didn't have a problem using the real thing. That's how I learned."
"Well, maybe Gwennie's different."
"Tch, you got that right…" Garrett groused. "I was hoping to teach her the fundamentals and various uses for the different arrow types, while covering basic marksmanship and such. So much for killing two birds with one stone…"
Out of nowhere, the boxman grabbed his mate by the neck of his cloak.
"You shut yer dirty mouth!" Basso seethed. Garrett pulled away with a hiss, nearly punching the dirty old pauper in the process.
"The hell's your problem?!" he demanded, outraged.
Basso sat back in the booth, propping his elbow up on the table. Resting his cheek upon his fist, he stared out the window and began to pout.
"Nothing. I just really, REALLY hate that saying is all…"
The ambiance of busy bar wenches scampering about with burnt food, and loud, unsavory patrons filled the space between the two old friends for several moments. Finally, and seemingly out of nowhere, Garrett began to speak.
"Just like curiosity killed the cat," he commented. Basso looked at him with a blank expression.
"Huh?"
"I'm not so fond of that one, myself. Cats are smart animals. Even if their curiosity did lead them astray, they'd be able to get out of any mess. Now curiosity killed the dog, I can understand. Dogs are morons. Still smarter than your average bluecoat, though."
"Heh-heh, I'll drink ta that, my friend!" Basso laughed, raising his glass. Garrett rolled his eyes.
"Basso, you'll drink to anything…"
***
Within the hour, Sophie returned with their fare. It was just as overcooked and greasy as Garrett remembered. Basso, by comparison, was wolfing down his food with gusto and satisfaction. The thief did his best to cut away the salvageable bits from his roast, picking at the blackened potato slices with his fork. After his pickles were gone, Basso looked up and noticed that Garrett seemed to be lost in thought.
"Hey, Garrett? Something wrong?" he asked, pointing to his fellow criminal's mug. "You've been nursing that same cuppa ale all night."
"The ale isn't the best here," Garrett mumbled. "Besides, I'm not feeling very thirsty."
"Huh? Not thirsty? Why?" Basso appeared mortified at the very notion.
Garrett wrapped his long fingers around his glass, taking some small pleasure in its smooth texture. It reminded him of a pair of pewter goblets he'd recently procured for a fence in the Old Quarter. That had been exactly one month before she came into his life.
"Basso? About Gwenevere…she's been, acting weird lately…"
"Weird?" Basso raised an eyebrow. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but ain't that part of the gal's charm? Gwennie's always been a bit moonstruck."
"Not like this," the thief shook his head. "On Monday she attacked the training dummies in my tower, and before that, she asked if I thought she was pretty."
Basso's expression remained unimpressed.
"Well, have ya ever thought that maybe she likes you back?" he asked.
"How many times do I have to reiterate? I do not LIKE Gwenevere," the hooded man sneered.
"Uh-huh, sure..." Basso murmured, dipping some of his burrick wings into the rich seasoned gravy provided.
The sound of his lips smacking was beginning to cause Garrett to lose his appetite; not that the thief had much of one to begin with. After spending most of his life raiding the kitchens and pantries of nobles, tavern fare just didn't seem to satisfy him anymore. But at least it was better than Keeper cooking.
"She was just being vain, Basso," Garrett argued with a snort. "All of her kind are vain. They know perfectly well how attractive they are. They just want to hear you say it…"
"Ah! So you admit she's attractive, eh?" Basso's eyes twinkled, as his grin contorted wider across his grease-covered face.
"Doesn't mean I want to bed her…" Garrett retorted, wiping his lips upon his sleeve, "like I said—they ALL are. At least the ones I've met…"
"What? Nobles, ya mean?" Basso shot his best friend an incredulous, almost concerned glare.
"No! Of course not them!" Garrett looked almost disgusted, "nymphs!"
Basso leaned forward on the table, and slowly raised an eyebrow as he stared worriedly at his mate.
"Nymphs?" he asked in a deadpan voice.
"I know it sounds crazy," Garrett began with a loud sigh.
"Not the best pitch there, buddy," Basso frowned.
"She knows the forest, says she's drawn there. She knew the Trickster, Basso! She knew that sword I used to carry around was his," the thief explained, trying to relay as many of his suspicions as possible without sounding like a lunatic. It did not work.
Basso's eyes widened, his brows precariously arched as he leaned back in the booth.
"You feelin' alright?"
"Yes, of course I am! Look, she didn't pass out from a direct spore grenade assault the other day, but I did!"
"You know as well as I do that sometimes them nobles like to train their bodies against poisons," Basso argued. "How do ya think Lord Ramirez was able to keep and play with his burricks without dying?"
"Basso, this is a serious possibility. Nymphs aren't pure fantasy like dragons and unicorns. They exist in our real world. I've seen them. Hell, I was taffing disfigured by one."
"So you say," Basso teased. "You sure it wasn't just an extra prickly rose bush?"
"Yes. I'm sure." Garrett leaned forward with a snarl. His mechanical eye seemed to hiss in agreement.
"Look, Garrett. I really don't want to re-hash this old fight, okay?" Basso stated, motioning downward with his hands in hopes of placating the furious rogue across from him. "I know you've got yer own shit to deal with, and who am I to say what is or isn't within this big world of ours?"
"Who indeed…" Garrett groused.
"But what I do know is this: You, gotta stop worrying so damn much! All these twisted theories you've been spouting…yer starting to seriously worry me there, mate."
Garrett's bi-colored eyes narrowed in mild betrayal.
"You acted like you believed my theory regarding Gwenevere before."
"Right, and I do," Basso nodded. "And if we're both correct—if Gwenevere WAS kidnapped and Lord Simmons wants her back by any means necessary, to do who knows what ungodly things to her…isn't that enough for anyone to worry over?"
For a moment, Garrett pondered this. He was almost sure that Gwenevere was at least part wood nymph and possibly quite deadly. But Basso had a point. The master thief had entirely too much on his plate already. Stressing over her lineage wasn't going to change that. Garrett needed to prepare for any contingency; from keeping Simmons and his ruthless bounty hunters away from the girl, to keeping a pair of ligneous talons from eviscerating him while he slept. Rubbing his forehead, the thief accepted what his oldest companion had said.
"I can't argue with that," he chuckled weakly. "I'm far too exhausted to anyway…"
Basso leaned forward in his seat, nudging Garrett in the arm with his fist.
"Hey, Garrett? Let me take the kid off yer hands tomorrow," he offered.
Garrett looked up, a visage of slight paranoia glinting within his stalwart features.
"I thought you said she would be safer with me. That the barkeep wouldn't let her live with you."
"She won't BE living with me, mate. It's only for half a day," Basso explained, his eyes glistening with concern for his exhausted friend, "I'll be with Sophie most of tomorrow anyhow. The kid can sleep over at her apartment."
Garrett frowned, his insides screaming at him to just take the boxman up on his offer of precious solace. In all honesty, he wasn't entirely certain what was stopping him. Perhaps it was that voice; the one he'd spent a lifetime repressing. Constricted and crushed beneath all the unbearable pressures of a man who'd been forced to abstain from selflessness for survival purposes alone. Like compressed charcoal, it couldn't be entirely destroyed. Although he often rebuked its call, it still beckoned to him occasionally with the same mesmerizing seduction of a magnificent diamond.
Conscience now paired with instinct to create a crescendo that was impossible for even Garrett to ignore. It was foolish to go into a mission unprepared, just as it was brash and careless to allow that strange maiden to prance about the city streets without proper guardianship or preparation. The thief rubbed his throbbing temples. He hadn't slept well in days, perhaps weeks, following Gwenevere's arrival into his life. But even still, he remained hesitant to put either the girl or his two oldest friends in possible danger, just for the sake of some much-needed rest.
"I'm just not sure that's a good idea," he declared.
Basso's jaw unhinged in blatant disapproval, but before he could attempt to argue against his mate, Sophie returned with Garrett's apple pie slice. She set the confectionary down upon the table and smiled.
"Best piece I could find," she commented, patting the tied package lovingly. She glanced from Garrett to her brother, "you boys ready to pay?"
Basso drummed his chubby fingers against the table for a moment, glowering at the thief. Then, a most devious grin curled its way across his cheeks.
"Hey, Soph. Good news," he began. "Looks like yer finally gonna get to meet the kiddo tomorrow."
Garrett's eyes widened in outrage.
"Basso!" he hissed, louder than he would have liked. Sophie's eyes lit up with delight.
"Oh, that's splendid! I can't wait! She can come help us!"
"Help you?" Garrett leered from sibling to sibling, "no. Listen, Sophie. There's been a misunderstanding. Gwenevere can't—"
"Oh, now don't you worry yer moody little head none," Basso chuckled, waggling his index finger at Garrett. He then winked. "We won't let any harm come to her. Will we, sis?"
"Of course not!" Sophie gave a sincere nod, "Basso told me everything about Lord Simmons and the bounty hunters. Rest assured, she'll be safe with us."
"Great…" the thief groused.
Sophie cleared her throat, prompting the two men to reach into their coin purses.
"I got us, Garrett," Basso offered, retrieving the appropriate amount of coin for both their meals. Garrett sat up in the booth. He wasn't sure why, but something prompted him to finally ask the boxman a question he'd been holding onto for years.
"Basso, where are you getting all this money?"
Basso grew visibly unsettled by the question.
"Umm…" he stalled, looking around the tavern for something that could serve as a decent distraction. And as they tended to do in times of hardship, his brown eyes registered upon Sophie. Noticing this, she shot her big brother a disapproving frown. But then she rolled her shoulders and complied.
"Dear," she smiled back at the thief. "Did you ever track down that thing I wanted you to find for me?"
"Tch, which one?" the rogue quipped.
"Oh, the silver one, of course! That'll do nicely," she smirked. Garrett appeared dumbfounded.
"What are you talking about?"
Sophie deigned to answer him, instead looking over at her brother and winking.
"See you tomorrow, Basso. By the way, it was good to see you again, hun," she wiggled her fingertips at the two men, before sauntering off into the raucous sea of patrons and fellow bar wenches alike.
As Garrett reached for his pie and attempted to vacate the wooden booth, Basso tapped his elbow.
"Hey. You'll thank me later, mate," he offered. Garrett's brows furrowed, his eyes intense and burning.
"I don't need another girl's blood on my hands, Basso," he growled. "And I don't need either you or Sophie getting strung up for harboring her."
"Aw, why thank ya! That's awfully sweet and all, but we'll be just fine," the boxman reassured. "It's just one little day."
"I'm not being sweet. I'm being realistic," the thief corrected. "A lot can happen in just one day…"
"Yeah, well…" Basso fiddled with his remaining copper coin, balancing the object upon the table before giving it a spin. "Maybe, with part of this day off I'm givin' ya, you should take some time to reconsider your current training method."
Garrett watched the coin twirl, mesmerized like a crow as it glinted and teased him. In one quick motion, he swiped it up without a second thought.
"There's nothing wrong with my method," he stated coldly, flipping the coin in the air before snatching it up again. Basso shook his head.
"That may be. But there IS a problem with the way Gwennie's responding to it," the pauper countered.
"Yeah," Garrett scoffed, examining the coin beneath the low light. "The problem is, she's terrible."
"Everyone learns differently. What worked for Perry's kid, or Saul, or even Erin, might not necessarily work well for Gwenevere. I think you need to figure out a method she responds to, and then go from there," Basso explained. "Maybe you could offer rewards for a job well done. What does she like?"
Garrett glanced at him, staring him down for a moment before retrieving his boxed pie.
"The arrangement was that I train her, not coddle her. If she gets it into her head that there's always going to be rewards waiting for her, she'll be dead within a year. The streets are tough, Basso. No amount of candy or teddy bears is gonna change that."
"Just think about it, please?" Basso replied. "This isn't just about training a new thief anymore. It's about helping an abused girl get a foothold so she can turn her life around down here!"
Garrett turned to leave, taking the time to ponder the boxman's words as he did so. He knew Basso was right, but he didn't want to admit it. Gwenevere needed to learn how to survive on her own, without him. Not just as a vigilante, but as a person. Just before he left, the master thief looked over his shoulder and tossed the coin back to Basso.
"I'll think about it," he grumbled, and promptly exited the tavern.
Basso smiled down at the tarnished copper currency within his palm.
"Ya know something? I bet I'm startin' ta get through to that miserable old taffer," he spoke to the stoic baron emblazoned upon the coin.
Looking through the frosted glass window, the boxman finished his brew. The snow was just beginning to fall, as he watched Garrett slink off into the abounding caress of midnight.
"Ya know? I can't rightly think of anything sadder than a man walking alone in the snow…"
***
The snow was falling heavily by the time Garrett made it back to the clocktower. It was dark within, and no living creature was about. As he traversed the large, hollow expanse of urban decay, the thief began to notice evidence of Gwenevere's evening activities. There was a damaged light flickering in one of the hallways, shards of broken glass decorating the floor like discarded gemstones. She'd also taken the soot from the fire pit and smeared it about upon the walls.
"Damn it, Gwenevere…" he cursed, shaking his head.
As he began to question what sort of grown woman would do such a thing, the thief chanced a closer inspection of her crude artwork. Flowers with cat's eyes instead of pistols. Large trees with stick figures dancing beneath their boughs. A doglike creature howling upward at a grinning moon, a smear of darkness receding from its paws. The creature's shadow, Garrett imagined. While each of these drawings was comparable to the talents of a small girl, in the hungry light of the moon, they were almost eerie. Gut wrenching, in how familiar they seemed. As he examined the last drawing again, his subconscious began to shiver.
He looked behind him, towards the Hammerite dormitories. The suspense was just too oppressive now. He had to know. Setting down the pie, Garrett reached into a nearby drawer and retrieved a small steel dagger. Then, silent as the falling snow outside, he opened the door to where a sleeping Gwenevere lay.
He stared down at her, his eyes intense and frightening. She looked so peaceful, so innocent. The slumbering girl was wearing that gaudy blue corset of hers; that insidious garment that always plagued the thief with so many disquieting emotions and urges. As he watched her body rise and fall in time to her gentle breathing, the hooded criminal withdrew his weapon.
Garrett summoned his courage, positioning the tip of his dagger against the supple portion of her upper arm. His eyes narrowed in concentration, as he prepared to make the incision. But the thief's hand was unyielding. Garrett must have readied himself five or six times, but for some inexplicable reason, he couldn't bring himself to harm her.
It was ridiculous, he told himself. He wasn't trying to slit her throat, as he'd originally intended in the event that her bodily secretions were anything but common crimson. This was a small cut that she wouldn't even feel. Knowing Gwenevere, she wouldn't even notice it upon waking; being far too preoccupied with playing hopscotch, or collecting stray gears around the tower. So why did he suddenly feel more like an assassin than a thief at that moment?
With an inaudible groan, Garrett inwardly chastised himself. Then, he noticed something. Something he'd overlooked between his latest torrent of mixed emotions and questioning his own morality. His mechanical eye zoomed in closer, glinting with a soft blue luster in the low light. There was a minuscule piece of glass sticking out of Gwenevere's cheek. Judging from the mess he'd encountered earlier, Garrett deduced that it must have gotten lodged in there when she shattered the light. Tucking away his dagger, the thief readied himself before pulling out the shard. With bated breath, he stood there in the darkness as her blood began to trickle out from the liberated wound.
It was green.