When Blood Runs Cold - Chapter 262

“Tavern life,” Fangorn beams, taking a deep breath of air, inhaling the fumes of the alcohol and the cheap boozy foods. “I have missed this.”

In unison, all of us roll our eyes, each of us thinking the same thoughts that only Kal has the nerve to express. Fangorn is no stranger to a tavern, nor the occasional brawl whenever a drunken opportunity had slipped into his fingers. His time as an outcast in Sezeria left him to feel solace over the little things, mainly wine and loitering in the shadows of a well used pub for criminals, where the gossip was wild and the traces of my brothers activities became just a little more apparent.

It would seem in those hundreds of years he has become quite attached, for that glow in his eyes as he breathes in that tepid tavern air is one of sole admiration. Tugging at his arm to follow us, Kal pulls him with us as we dart our way past tables of customers, looking for an empty place to sit.

“You went to the Siren’s tavern every week back when you were living in the end,” Kal chirps in with a roll of his eyes, bringing himself level to his father now as he sneakily picks off a chip from a passing waitress’s plate so sneakily that she doesn’t bat an eye. Stuffing it in his mouth, he adds. “You make it sound like you are deprived.”

“I am,” Fangorn retorts, shooting a dark look to a passing table of slender, dark skinned faeries who eye us with a mixture of suspicion and wanton envy. For a few seconds over the roar of the tavern and the spitting of finely roasted meats, I catch the tremor of their hearts beneath their skin and that lusty sparkle that catches in their eyes as they observe the finery of our clothes. Then they return to their glasses of wine and fancy brimming cocktails as if they were never looking in the first place.

All sorts of people can be found loitering in taverns, and it would be naïve of me to figure that this one would be any different, especially considering we are halfway into the enchanted forest. It is always good custom to mind your belongings in such an enclosed space, for thieves are numerous, and quite enjoy preying on innocent travellers from distant regions of Faey. Though I have no doubt if those faeries attempted to steal anything of ours, they might just find themselves missing a finger in the morning.

“It is disgusting in here,” Ithuriel sighs, wrinkling his nose as his hair shimmers a dark, forest green, his two toned eyes sailing over the sea of drunken heads. A few women, (woodland faeries most likely from the pattern on their wings), lean over towards Ithuriel, giggling as they run their lengthened nails down his robes adoringly. Disgusted, he bats away their hands. “Do any of these people know how to contain themselves? Have they no scrap of dignity?”

Narrowing his eyes, Kal comes to sidle up beside Ithuriel, latching his fingers around his arm protectively.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Kal says, glaring at the women as he passes the very same table. Although the majority of them only laugh. “I do not like this place.”

“Well, we are staying here for the night,” I instruct, ushering both Ithuriel and Kal to the nearest empty table, and the one that is furthest from the kerfuffle and rabble of the drunken clouds of Folk. Although I can’t deny I do enjoy a good tavern every now and then, this one seems particularly rowdy: beer splashing with every guzzling gulp, drunken goblins stumbling their way around the room, and where there is the occasional plate of delectable looking food, most of the attendants can’t even keep it down with the amount of booze rolling around in their stomach.

Some people are so irresponsible. It’s like being with the drunken hordes of vampires all over again.

From the look on Kal and Ithuriel’s faces, I can tell they are thinking about the same thing.

“I know this may not be the most cleanly of places to stay the night, but unless you suggest we continue to walk another few hours in the dark then this is our best bet,” I explain, rubbing my face with exasperation. Neither Kal nor Ithuriel say anything to this, sinking down into their seats with a reluctant submission. It would seem that dispute is settled for the night.

“Personally, I like it here,” Fangorn grins, nodding his head as he inspects the tavern’s interior- the glowing fairy lights, the shields cast up for decoration on the wall, and the array of dried hop hanging from the ceiling. If there is one thing I can say about this place, it is that it has atmosphere.

“Fangorn, you are coming with me to order and get a room sorted for us. This place is huge, I am sure they will have a spare.” I say, slapping his arm jovially as the others settle down at the wide, oak table. Flashing me a toothy grin, Fangorn asks lowly:

“Are we getting food and drinks too?”

Rolling my eyes, I almost have it in me to give a little chuckle. Honestly, Fangorn has such a one track mind its almost humorous.

Practically bouncing in his seat, Kal’s formerly disgusted stance swiftly vanishes upon the mention of food and booze, his eyes gleaming with a ravenous delight as he sets his hands forwards on the table. Ithuriel merely sighs.

“What is it that you want, Kal,” I say with a roll of my eyes, allowing some time for the slender dragon to settle his excitement.

“Can I have an apple and honey cider-”

“Absolutely not,” Fangorn and I chime in unison, giving Kal a firm look of disapproval. Reluctantly, he sinks back into his seat, pouting. Perhaps it is in an effort to impress Ithuriel, to prove his metaphorical strength of will that he decided to attempt to order alcohol. But given his rather rocky path with the substance, and his complete lack of tolerance to it, it would only serve to put him at more of a disposition than an advantage. I am certain if he started vomiting all over the floor Ithuriel would be a long shot from being impressed- I can imagine the look on his haughty face now.

“You know very well you won’t be able to hold it, Kal,” Fangorn reminds him in a whisper through a cupped hand, as though somehow that would prevent Ithuriel from hearing it, that his ears would somehow not be attuned to those secrets that whisper over the rumble of the crowd. But the irritated twitch on the angel’s upper lip tells me that is not the case.

“Alright, so one elderflower for Kal,” I think aloud, knocking it off on my finger. “Fangorn?”

“A shot of venison blood will do fine for me, thank you,” Fangorn nods, rubbing his hands together greedily at the thought of tasting fresh blood. I suppose being locked away in the end for so long, one might become veiled to its taste, letting the remnants and delights of fresh blood wash into little more than a memory in the grain of the ocean. So while on an ordinary mission, a shot of blood would not be advisable, this time I let him have it. After all, they are my friends after all.

“I will have a blood wine, and Ithuriel, you will have…? I trail off, allowing him room to answer. Fluffing up his wings irritably, he allows his finger to spin circles on the table like a spinning top, drawing my attention to it. Blandly, he peers at the wood with a mild disinterest.

“Red wine, please. Just a drop. I need something to loosen my head.”

May I-” Kal buts in, but the look that Ithuriel shoots him is enough to quell any inappropriate or teasing comments from Kal’s part. The dragon settles back down reluctantly.

“Why does everyone else get to drink,” Kal sniffs, tucking his legs against his chest as he buries his face down into his knees. Surprisingly, a somewhat sympathetic look manages to worm its way onto Ithuriel’s face for a second, his hand hovering behind Kal’s back, before he tugs it away.

It would seem even after the revelation that the two of them are paired alike, Ithuriel still hasn’t quite got round the notion of physical touch.

Rehearsing all their orders swiftly in my head and tapping them all out on my fingers, I at last decide that my job at the table is finished.

With Fangorn in tow, we both manage to dart our way around the room towards the bar, edging past the prying hands of delirious men and women. At the bar, a woman in a corset runs around handing drinks to the noisy bar members, her face flushed from the monumental task of managing to keep herself standing despite the energy she has expended dealing with the drunkards. Waving past a puff of smoke from a scaly looking man, I rest my fingers against the bad, tapping patiently. It doesn’t take long for her to get around to us.