| Subject: Looking for Eremis |
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Tristan
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Date Posted: 21:52:17 08/20/02 Tue
“One quarter?”
Tristan nodded solemnly at the elven healer who stood before him, a perplexed look on the man’s handsome face. “That was Valhorek’s suggestion,” he added helpfully. “I’m not human, you know. I’m not even mortal! Your silly mortal medicines don’t mesh well with my superior constitution.”
Foran finally gave a tight nod before indicating that the dragon should take a seat on one of the hospice beds. After awhile, he came forward with a salve that didn’t smell quite as strongly as the stuff Val usually used. When the healer coated the wound on his shoulder with it, it only prickled against his skin, soothing the tight, damaged muscle while deadening the area at the same time. Tristan warily accepted a mug of herbal tea once the injury was bandaged properly, but after a few careful sips, he grew more relaxed. When he didn’t feel like giggling hysterically or throwing up his dinner immediately afterward, he decided that the tavern’s senior healer had finally discovered the trick to treating a dragon properly.
It was Marz’s turn next, since the stubborn ex-gang leader had insisted his lover be taken care of first. The gash in his arm was carefully and skillfully stitched up, even as it was already beginning to heal on its own. Marz now bore a bandage of his own, stretching from the top of his thumb up to the tip of his elbow, but the injury didn’t seem to bother him as he slipped his shirt back on. Tristan did the same, suppressing a wince as he flexed his shoulder muscle a little too roughly. They should both feel better in the morning, but hopefully they wouldn’t meet up with anymore threatening circumstances before the night was over.
Because of course now that Tristan knew where Eremis lived, nothing short of a worldwide cataclysm could stop him from hunting down his friend. As they made their way back to the table they’d left Corum and Tia at, he curled his arm around Marz’s to pull him closer so he could whisper into his ear.
“That woman thinks we’re going out for whores now, thanks to you!” he hissed, ignoring Marz’s cocky answering grin. “Maybe next time you could be a little more discreet about blurting out our personal plans in front of complete strangers?”
He made the statement a question, since he wasn’t the type of guy to directly order somebody to do something, not even the person he loved. But hopefully Marz would get the picture; it was much too fruitless to ever hope the ex-gang leader would acquire the gift of prudence, but Tristan would never give up trying to teach him to think before opening his mouth. Unless, of course, he intended to use it in a way that had nothing to do with forming words. In which case, Tristan encouraged him to use his mouth as often and as quickly as possible, so long as they were in the privacy of their own room, that is.
Corum jumped up from his seat to join them when they arrived, although Tia remained where she was. Tristan flushed when the copper-haired woman gave them a disgusted look, and hastened to make an excuse for his lover’s blithely stated proposal to visit a whorehouse.
“We’re going to visit my friend,” he explained, “He’s a whore, or at least we think he might be.”
His blush only deepened when she continued to look at them as if they were lust-driven animals unable to handle the rigors of abstinence—which he supposed he really was, but only with Marz, naturally. The other two bid their friends good-bye while he tried to silently recover from his embarrassment. Of course it was absolutely absurd for anyone who knew him to even THINK he’d visit a brothel. But he’d never met this woman before in his life, so she had no idea what a proper, modestly behaved young dragon he really was. (Not counting all the hot sex he and Marz engaged in together, but that was beside the point. He was in a steady, meaningful relationship now, so having hot sex with the one he loved was perfectly respectable.)
They were only halfway to the door when he startled Marz by suddenly looping his arm around his waist and pulling him close for a gentle kiss. The ex-gang leader looked a little surprised by such a public display of affection, and Tristan did his best not to seem as shy as he felt when he smiled back at him.
“I said I’d forgive you later,” he prompted, “For breaking your promise. Remember?” He kissed him again, nipping playfully at his lip. “Well? It's later now, and that was me forgiving you.”
He smiled again and lowered his eyes, pulling his lover along by the hand to meet up with Corum, who was waiting for them by the door. From there, they made their way to the stables to “borrow” three riding horses to take into town. The fact that they’d be riding instead of walking made Tristan feel privately better about the whole thing; Marz didn’t resemble his old persona half as much sitting tall in the saddle as he did when skulking about the streets on foot. In any case, they’d be less likely to be noticed by the ruffians that Heinz guy had hired.
Once he convinced his skittish mount that he had no intentions of devouring it at the moment, Tristan and the others made their way back into the city of Bizmar. He was so nervous about meeting Eremis again that he found himself lighting another cigarette before he could stop himself. Was his friend really still living as a prostitute? What if they walked in on him while he was with a client? And did he really rely so heavily on drugs and alcohol?
That brought a thousand more questions springing up into his head. How was he, a recovering drug addict himself, supposed to deal with a doped up friend? What if Eremis were too fried to even recognize them? What if…what if he’d actually overindulged on something and had in reality been dead for days?
And how am I going to act, seeing him on drugs? he wondered, unconsciously worrying the cigarette between his teeth while pushing that other, much too disturbing thought aside. What would I do if he offered me some? I mean, of course I’d say no, especially if Marz were there… Marz HAD given him that warning, after all. But his lover probably didn’t remember that Tristan had once messed himself up with drugs so badly at one point that he could barely stand up again. He didn’t know how much the withdrawal process had hurt, or how it had created an even bigger rift between father and son. And he definitely didn’t know how much his lover sometimes craved that old feeling the way most men craved sleep after a hard day’s work.
He was too wrapped up his thoughts to really pay attention to where they were going; thus he didn’t immediately realize that for all intensive purposes, Marz appeared to be leading them on a wild goose chase. After awhile, though, he started to recognize the surrounding buildings, as well as the same group of whores calling out to them for the third time (all offering to “give the three lovely gents a real ride if they’s lookin’ fer a good time”). Tristan was about to say something when Marz abruptly pulled his horse up, however, and indicated that this was it.
It didn’t look all that impressive. Tristan frowned for a moment before dismounting, tying his horse to a post with the others. He supposed he’d never really seen a real brothel, though, so how should he know what the things were supposed to look like? He started to wonder why the building seemed so quiet, but then he remembered the whore saying that the place had been shut down after Tegol’s death.
I put her out of a job, he thought, smiling slightly at the irony of how his killing Tegol Denair could affect one prostitute’s current state of employment. Once the horses were tied, Marz led the way to the front of the brothel, Corum and Tristan flanking his sides. A heavy knock soon brought the shuffling sound of feet as someone hurried to see who could be calling at an empty whorehouse so late at night.
The door opened to reveal the face of a middle-aged man, his expression set in an irritated frown. “Yes?” he asked, cracking the door open so that only half his body was visible.
“We’re looking for Eremis,” Tristan said, startling himself by speaking up. “Do you know anyone by that name?”
Now that his eyes had adjusted to the light coming from within the building, he could see that the man’s face was slightly puckered and swollen with old bruises, as if he’d gotten into a bad fight. He also wheezed a little when he spoke, indicating that it hurt to use his lungs, probably on account of a broken rib or ribs.
The older man nodded slowly after eyeing the weapons his three late-night visitors carried. “Yes, I knew him. He used to work here, but I’ve not seen him in days. Sorry.”
When he would have closed the door again, Marz stuck his hand out, preventing it from shutting completely. Tristan stepped forward and narrowed his eyes at the man, making him take a step back.
“Are you called Hans?” he asked quietly, his voice half growl and half spoken words.
Sebastian’s oldest servant swallowed, suddenly looking more than a little nervous. “I am. Young sirs, if you have business here, perhaps you’d best come back in the morn—
He yelped when Tristan’s hand shot out to grab him by the collar, yanking him outside and away from the safety of the building. “You will tell us where he lives,” the dragon said, his teeth beginning to show in the beginnings of a snarl.
Hans spluttered and gasped until Tristan’s grip around his neck loosened. “Yes…”, he wheezed, “Hafta…get the address. In…Sebastian’s…office. Please…excuse me.”
Marz, Tristan, and Corum all exchanged a look; then Tristan shook his head. “No good. We follow.” He gave the shorter man a rough push in the chest with his hand. “Well? Hurry up. We haven’t got all night.”
They followed Hans into a small room branching off from the main hall—Sebastian’s office, apparently. The man muttered to himself the whole time about the worst deal they’d ever made, and how it hadn’t been worth it, no matter how good the boy had been with those sweet lips of his. Tristan felt his hand tighten around his sword as they watched him mess around in the desk before pulling out a strip of paper on which the supposed address was printed in hastily scrawled ink.
“Here, this is the one, I think,” he said, handing it to Marz. Tristan continued to stare at him, so hard and so silently that Hans began to look nervous again.
“You work here while Eremis did?” he finally asked, earning a nod from Hans. “You knew him well, then.”
Another nod.
“How well?”
Hans looked momentarily stumped, but then he turned clever, or at least thought he was turning clever. “Not very. He was a new worker; we’d barely managed to share a conversation or two with one another before the crime war broke out.”
“That’s funny,” Tristan said, his quiet voice not matching the growing color flickering in his dark eyes. “I’d heard that you’d shared more than a conversation.”
Hans took a step back, probably without realizing it. “Perhaps,” he agreed, speaking carefully. “Perhaps we did. What business of it is yours?”
“You fucked him.”
Something about the certainty in his voice made the other man opt to simply nod stiffly instead of reply aloud.
“Not just once, either. Many times.”
Hans nodded again.
Very slowly, Tristan gripped his fingers around his collar once more, pulling him closer. “And did he want it? Did he ask you to do it? Or did you force yourself on him?”
The servant’s face had gone deathly pale. “I…promised him…more customers if he’d…let me…”
Tristan sighed, dropping his hand to his side again. “I see,” he said, lowering his eyes momentarily. Then, without warning, his hand shot up again, balling into a fist and slamming into Hans’ face, sending him sprawling on his back, completely unconscious.
He left the brothel at a stiff walk, untying his horse and mounting it in complete silence. His mouth was drawn into a thin frown, but he couldn’t think of anything to say at the moment. He wanted to kill that man in there, but something had stopped him. Both his teacher and his lover would probably have agreed wholeheartedly with that sentiment, but he knew his father at least would have been proud to see him stay his hand. He shook his head and kicked the horse into a brisk walk, not knowing what to think.
Eremis’ apartment proved to only be a few blocks away, in an even shabbier part of town, if that were possible. The landlord actually leered at them as they passed, the fat old man’s eyes lingering on Tristan’s finer features and slightly slimmer build the longest. Hastily, he grabbed Marz’s hand and dragged him up the stairs, away from that prying look. Murders, he could handle; crimelords, gang members, Nerombian zombies—but not that look, apparently.
The place was located on the fourth floor of the dilapidated structure. When they knocked, no one answered, so they entered anyway. The room was empty, though the unmade bed and smoking embers in the fireplace indicated it was a home to someone. They moved further inside, shutting the door behind them, noticing the curtain flapping over the open window—
Then immediately, Eremis’s wonderfully familiar scent began to fill his senses. This WAS his room. Tristan smiled happily and took a seat on the end of the bed, his hands rubbing absently over the sheets.
“He’s definitely been here,” he said, still smiling while looking from Marz to Corum and back to his lover. “I can smell him. I can feel him. I guess we just wait here for him to return, however long that might be.”
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