Steeped in Bitterness

The whistle breaks the silence with its shrill cry. Taking care not to burn myself, I take the kettle from the heat and place it onto its metal stand before turning back to the device it was on, a small flat slate inscribed with runes of heat that warm the stone's surface as though it were a fire. Though the idea of keeping such a stone on a countertop, even a stone one, sounds dangerous, it is quite safe so long as one is not a fool who touches the top of the slate directly. The enchanters of the Isles had perfected crafting these slates over the last century. It is a frivolous use of magic, but since it allows me to enjoy my tea without needing a stove in my office, I will not complain. Besides, our enchanters need something to do with their skills and this is at least more practical than spending hours gazing into the skies in search of enlightenment.

I place my teapot on the table beside the kettle. For a moment, I admire the design glazed onto its polished surface. It is an intricate geometric pattern favored by the Isles' artisans; clean lines, perfectly symmetrical, woefully uninspired. These designs have long been mastered by many of the artisans on the Isles, but rather than push themselves to master something new, they all seem content to repeat what is desired by the masses again and again and again. If they wish to stagnate though, that is their concern, not mine.

From a cabinet behind my desk I retrieve a canister containing one of my favorite teas. It is made from a type of local flower, large as a man's hand and bright red in color, along with rosehips, lemon grass, licorice root, and dried orange peel. As the lid is opened, I breathe in the aroma of the fragrant blend, bitter, tart, and sweet all at once. I fill the infuser in the teapot and pour the water from the kettle over it. Now, all I must do is wait.

I give the lose assortment of petals a final look before returning the canister to its place. Despite the frequency with which I drink it, the canister never runs out. The other members of my order see to that. Anytime it begins to run low, I need but make a comment about it, simply suggest that I may need to leave the vaults to refill my stock, and the very next day, someone will inform me that another has gone to purchase some for me.

Oh, they will insist that it is because they don't want me to have to stop my work, it is such an important position after all, and that this is just a small way for them to thank me for all the hard work I put in to such a dangerous job. It is a kind sentiment and one that is completely false. Appeasement is perhaps a more accurate word for what this arrangement is.

They don't want me to leave the vaults, as if they were afraid that I be seen in public. One would think they were ashamed of me, but I cannot imagine why. Afraid of me? Oh, that I can completely understand, but ashamed? I have served this order diligently and have taken many of the more dangerous artifacts under my personal care.

What is there to be ashamed of in a job done methodically and efficiently? I suppose they would comment on how I go about my work, claiming I did so without any compassion or care for the others in the order. What of it? Compassion is the realm of healers, not those tasked with the containment of cursed items. Furthermore, I am concerned for my colleagues, deeply concerned what their carelessness will lead to. I thump my fingers on my table and let out a small, disappointed sigh.

By now the tea has had its time to steep and I pour myself a cup and take it to my desk. I sit, feeling a minuscule amount of the day's stress roll off my shoulders, and bring the cup up to take a deep breath. The tea is too hot to drink but the aroma, floral and rich, is almost more enjoyable than the flavor itself. It is a pleasant distraction from the stale air of the lower vaults. A sigh of contentment leaves my lips.

For a moment, I just sit and hold the cup, feeling the warmth seep through the ceramic. The warmth on my fingers is pleasant. I do not receive the amount of sunlight that a healthy man should, but there is still not so much one can do about that when their office is located underground.

Someday perhaps, I will be given an office high up in a lofty tower, enjoying the position I deserve, but until then, I will continue to labor in the shadows, doing the work that is needed but pitiful few are willing to do. Until then though, this office, these vaults, are my home.

Ah, the color of this tea stands out so boldly in the dimness of the room. Bright, harsh, red, this color is beautiful. How can someone not be drawn to the sanguine shade?

Idly, my eyes wander about the room and take in all the rest of the colors. Grey, grey, blue, grey, a little trim of gold, more grey, and just a hint of pale green whenever my lantern casts its light. But as dreary as my chambers may be, I know that I have earned this office. I have earned this position; Warden of Thresholds for the lower vaults, the one burdened with the great responsibility of looking over the most wretched of artifacts, keeping them out of unworthy hands, and the knowledge of their existence out of innocent, ignorant minds, and unflinching master of these dark passages. Yes, as dark and vile as it may be down here, it is my little domain and everything in it will be exactly as I demand it should be.

My lips pinch into the smallest smile at the thought and I allow myself to recline back into my chair and take a sip. The floral sweetness is tempered by the bitterness of the root and the orange peel adds a tart edge. It was blended with the intent that no one flavor should overpower the others, but in the end, I find that bitterness is usually is the boldest. I feel like there is something poetic about that.

Even if it is only to be for a few minutes, I close my eyes and, for the first time today, relax. Small indulgences should be savored. I let the thoughts of my order slip away so that my mind can focus on the tea alone. The warmth of the steam curling from the cup warms my cheeks, the scent of flowers and spice fills my mind and the heat of the bitter tea stings my tongue. Perhaps it was still too soon to drink, but nothing worthwhile happens without a little pain.

Soon however, I can feel my posture begin to slouch and I know it is time to refocus myself. The tea is placed to the side to make room for my ledger. A small amount of satisfaction fills me as I open it and behold my work laid out neatly before me; a chart displaying a list of my charges, when they were last inspected, and any special precautions that must be taken to uphold their containment. Names are printed in a clean script, lines are straight and proper, and not a single mark is straying from its cell. This ledger is kept in such an organized state that even a complete fool would be able to understand it.

It takes only a few minutes for me to review my records until my eyes come to rest on an item listed at the bottom of a page; the femur of some warlock who had chopped off his own leg and inscribed spells and vile curses all over the bones. It is a troublesome artifact. While most items in the lower vaults are dangerous, a few possess some semblance of intelligence. This bone is one such artifact, having retained a fraction of the warlock's will. It seeks at all times to tempt others into uttering its curses and bringing about all manner of annoyances such as a rain of frogs or plague of stinging insects.

I will not be shaken by such a trivial thing, but I grow weary of having this contest of wills with it every time I must check on it. I have begun to consider ways to make it lose interest in even attempting to challenge me.

I take another sip of my tea and its provocative color catches my eye once more.

If the bone has some semblance of intelligence, it stands to reason that it can fear. Even the lowliest of creatures can feel fear and learn to avoid situations that cause it. This method has worked before for the mirror and the book, why would it not be the same for the bone?

And this is where the entertaining part of my position begins; solve the puzzle of how to make a cursed femur fear you.

I believe that is something to ponder over a second cup of tea.