***
It was an uncommon occurrence that anything would be able to rouse her that was not the silent whisper of bloodlust. Blue eyes opened to dark surroundings. Confusion hovered like a second layer in her hazy mind but it soon retreated, taking some of the uncertainty with it.
The soft and smooth fabric beneath her reminded her -assured her- that she was still in bed. The familiar cold of her room touched already chilled skin, and the silence told her that no other soul had trespassed while she slumbered.
But something certainly had stirred her from sleep.
She bit her lip, a light sneer making its way onto her face. Ah. “So this is the confounded wake up call.”
A heavy feeling had settled in her chest. A feeling crossed between anxiety and excitement, of a deep and howling emptiness that made her feel suddenly wary. Wary? Indeed. But wary of what? The silence did not grace her with an answer.
Claiomh Solais, through all the trials she had gone through in her relatively short life, had never felt a more ominous and sorrowful chill run down her spine.
Slowly she untangled herself from the blanket around her, slipped away from her bed without so much as a creak of the floorboards beneath her feet. Her shaggy, golden hair fell about her face like a lion’s mane, mussed up from her sleep. It was still deep in the night, judging from the darkness of the sky but she didn’t feel like returning to sleep anymore. Rather she felt restless. She knew what to blame for it.
“Hell’s bells, this isn’t turning out to be a good night.” She groaned. A walk would ease the tension that found its way into her muscles. Perhaps. Maybe. That, or dragging a certain sniper out of bed and using him as a sparring partner. He wouldn’t appreciate it of course, but his opinion was of little concern to her most days. Fortunately, she wasn’t in the mood to barge into his room this night.
She walked to the dresser across from the bed and took the light blue scarf sitting on the top surface, wrapping it around her neck comfortably before walking out into the darkened hallway. The not-quite-humble abode belonged to Kia, and was in fact one of many that the woman apparently owned. This house stood on the tail-end of the southern residential quarters near Mercurim, half-nestled in the mountainous back of the city.
She recalled Rio asking why she had extended such a generous offer to them. Back then, it was so out of the blue.
‘Because I need live-in house help.’ The deceptively youthful-looking weapons specialist had answered without missing a beat. But that sort of answer was expected from someone like her. Sola, for the most part, understood the true message of that reply.
Two months later and she was deigned to wonder just how did the house managed to stay mostly intact. Among the residents, it was rocky semi-apathy at the very least. There wasn’t an improvement since Sidhe had wittingly manoeuvred them all into having high noon tea in the kitchen.
Or that could simply be her. She didn’t like making friends.
Back in the present, Sola made her way through the empty hallway towards the common room. The hallway was sparsely decorated. No light shone from underneath the doors she passed by. It seemed like everyone else in the house was fast asleep.
Her footfalls barely made a sound against the marble tiled floor, a testament to her training as an assassin. The magical sconces that hung against the walls were surprisingly dark and void of their permanent glow. For a moment, she felt her shoulders stiffening. Had their home been compromised?
She shook her head. That notion was improbable. She lived in this house. Not to mention there were others who could cause enough noise to alert the more battle able warriors. The hallway opened up to the spacious common room, which the ragtag residents had taken to decorating with their own unique tastes. While she maintained a certain detachment from involving herself in such things, she has heard of many an argument that happened because there was too much blue or too much green, or something like that.
“Can’t sleep?” A vaguely amused voice rose from the silence. Blinking in alarmed surprise, she turned to a man lounging lazily in the armchair to her right. Her hand flew to where she would have knives strapped, only then did she remember she didn’t bother equipping herself with any.
Green eyes twinkled with barely veiled amusement, his lips quirked upward as one hand twirled a half-filled glass. He wore a loose dark shirt and a pair of dark cotton pants. Glossy black hair fell rumpled and messily around his fair face, giving him a rather childish appearance despite him being her senior by a handful of years.
“Saint.”
The addressed man lifted the goblet in greeting before downing the bronze liquid in it.
From first introductions, she knew he would be complicated. He did not live to disappoint her. After catching him countless times sneaking bottles of cherries from the pantry and somehow getting his hands on her stash of biscuits, she learned to stop warning him and just throttle him right then and there. That was provided he didn’t cheat and used his magic to escape before she could get a punch in. That annoyed her more than him always figuring out where she hid her snacks.
Not to mention he claimed to be a priest. Well, to be fair, she did have a fair share of experiences with priests who were out of the ordinary. But Saint was a different sort of odd altogether, and not entirely in a good way. The only one who could keep him under control was the crusader he was introduced with. His wife, she later found out with rising suspicion and confusion.
Yet another reason why she questioned his credibility as a priest.
Putting all that aside however, no one could ever say that Saint and herself never got along. Once in a while.
Sola watched him for a moment, unsure of how to properly start a conversation with the dark-haired man. Eventually, she decided to simply go for the first thing in her mind. “The hell are you doing getting drunk at this hour?”
Saint coughed at the end of his drink, then chuckled as he proceeded to let his body sprawl all over the armchair like a lazy cat. “Decided to check out Kia’s liquor cabinet. ‘Sides, was planning to try something that wasn’t sake. You know, it’s getting old and I think I’ve built an immunity to getting drunk on them.” He replied with an air of mirth.
The blonde rolled her eyes. “Or getting into trouble with Kiara again.” She crossed her arms over her chest, watching the man laugh at her retort. He didn’t, as far as she could tell, look close to being plastered. Or maybe he was. Saint was hardly any different when drunk or sober. A shame, really.
“How drunk are you?”
“About half a bottle down on this whiskey.” He got up and poured himself another glass. “Single malt. I’ll admit I’m feeling a good buzz right now.”
“Remind me how old are you again? You seriously want to kill your liver before you even have kids?”
Saint shook his head, grinning from ear to ear. He lifted a finger, ticking off his reasons as he spoke, “First one, no plans.” A second finger flicked up. “Second one... depends totally on the variables involved.” Sola chose to ignore how Saint practically whined at the end.
Instead, she stalked over to the couch across from where he sat and sank into it, putting her legs on top of the coffee table in front of it. Saint had gone back to pouring himself another glass.
“You want a go?” He offered.
Sola waved a hand. “I’ll pass.” There was no way she was going to risk a hangover in the morning.
“Hel, why not? You’re... what, something like an Irish right? I know you could handle your alcohol.”
The assassin rolled her eyes, crossing a leg over the other. “Yes, I’m aware I’m something like an Irish. Yes, I can handle my alcohol but I’m not stupid enough to attempt getting drunk at this hour.”
Saint ran a hand through his hair, looking every bit thoughtful. After a moment, he let out a noncommittal grunt then tossed back the fresh glass. She watched him cough on the slight after burn, her scarf thankfully concealing the lower half of her face as she could barely keep a grin from her face.
Stupid, she thought. No self-respecting drinker would simply toss back a whole glass –let alone down a whole bottle in one sitting- without some ulterior negative mood goading the self-destructive tendencies on. Then again, she’d already seen him putting away sake like it was water during happy hour. She didn’t believe Saint to be suicidal. Idiotic? Yes, but not suicidal.
“Had the same feeling too huh?” The light tone shook her from her reverie.
Sola’s head shot up, fixing him with a puzzled glare. “What are you talking about?”
Saint leaned forward, a knowing grin growing on his face. “You know... that thing that woke you up and made you come all the way out here to sulk and be my impromptu company.”
“I don’t know about that feeling.” Denial was certainly not a mere river.
That infuriating smirk was back. “Really?”
“Don’t make me repeat myself.”
“Repeat your lie, you mean.”
“I wasn’t lying, priest.” She didn’t like the way he was staring at her. It made her remember feelings of being stared upon by pale blue eyes, slowly peeling away the numerous layers to her being, to expose what lay within the closely guarded center. After a world of hurt, she taught herself to hate that vulnerable feeling.
“Stop staring at me, bastard.” Sola spat out.
Thankfully, Saint didn’t look offended. But at the same time, he didn’t look apologetic. The priest sprawled back into his armchair, idly swirling the glass in one hand as the amused expression never left his face.
“Then how about a drink? Surely it would help you rid yourself of my company faster. I can try looking for some chocolate mudslide one if it’s more of your taste.”
Sola pinched the bridge of her nose, sighing loudly. By Nuada’s grave, this man is incorrigible. “I already told you I’ll pass.”
“So just water? Or do you want some milk? I think we have some tea leaves leftover too.” Scratch that. This laughable farce of a holy man was annoying as hell.
A loud smack resounded in the room, followed shortly by a muffled yelp and the shatter of glass on the wooden floor. Sola had an arm outstretched, slowly lowering it back to her side. She looked away dispassionately while Saint dumped the firm but fluffy projectile on the floor.
“Hey, ow? You know you have a good throwing arm there. Even a pillow to the face smarts.” He rubbed his sore nose with a hand. She felt herself slipping her grip on her anger upon seeing him so unfazed by her light threat.
He sniffed, looking down at the shattered glass. He muttered, “What a waste of good wine.”
“Don’t you ever shut up?”
“Ah, but it’s fun getting a rise out of you.” Came the jovial answer.
Getting a rise... well wasn’t that just peachy. “You really have a death wish you know that?” Sola spoke, forcing herself to stay seated and not reach for one of the throwing knives she kept under the furniture. “Kiara mauls you every other day. Your attempts at riling me up always come close to having a blade in your back. You take every opportunity to be a flea on every person you’ve ever met. Not to mention that the few Visitors you do know end up traumatized or pissed off to the high heavens.”
“Well I have to say that is a rather wonderful talent that I have. Charisma, I mean.”
“That’s not the point. Your whole existence seems to have the purpose of trying to make our lives miserable.” That, at least, earned her a reaction that wasn’t another playful comeback.
“Not my fault you all couldn’t understand me any better.” He griped.
Sola countered it mercilessly. “You’re not making it any easy for us. I doubt making a show of your presence with your tongue– which many would probably want to cut off to be honest, counts as trying to make anyone understand you better. Not to mention you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself.” Now she questioned Kiara’s apparent aloofness to his attitude. She must know perfectly well how Saint was with people, but why allow him to do what he wanted? She didn’t understand the first thing about those two and the crazy relationship they shared.
The assassin rubbed her head. It was too late in the night to psychoanalysis either of them. “Just what I needed, a migraine. Thank you so much.” Sarcasm practically dripped on her words.
Saint opened his mouth as if to retort, but quickly shut it, looking pensive again. The assassin didn’t want to wait for another word from his mouth. Much as killing him would probably be beneficial, she didn’t want to deal with a grieving and unpredictable crusader. And to be very honest, the priest hadn’t done anything wrong to merit the death sentence.
So much for trying to appease the restlessness. Arguing with the priest only served to calm it for a while, only because his loquaciousness demanded the full use of her half-asleep mind. She stood, making her way back to her room.
“You felt it.” Saint’s voice stopped her in her tracks. “It’s a sign. Quoting a popular show, ‘Winter is coming’. I suggest you prepare for whatever is coming, because it won’t be pretty.”
Sola scoffed at him without turning around. “You think I would be caught without my wits and my weapon? You sorely misunderstand me.”
“No.” The tone was very sober and serious. Vaguely, she could see him with an expression reflecting that tone. It disturbed her to think about it. “I didn’t misunderstand. Knowing the world? Expect something unexpected. Your weapons and wit may not be enough to save you.”
She left then, paying no attention at all to the last words that followed. Whatever, she knew what a warning was, she didn’t need him explaining it further.
End entry.
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