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Love Lost; Short Story: Love
Topic Started: Sun Sep 10, 2017 3:05 pm (40 Views)
Ioann
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He wished the screaming didn't still get to him, but the worst were the terrified wimpers, when there was just too much anguish and fear to form proper words at all. Like what was going on right now. Ioann Gregori mopped at his dripping forehead with an already sodden rag clutched in the involuntary claw of his hand. The mournful sounds echoed off the sweating, dank walls of the old sewers beneath Balefire's Morozhen District, nicknamed in derisive honor of its large Stribergian immigrant population. Two of Viskovien's thicknecks stood at either side of the door, faces a practiced and matching stone wall.

The whimpers bled into a few wet thumps. Then stopped altogether.

Ioann shifted uncomfortably and wiped away the cold sweat on his brow. He tried to keep his mind off what was happening in Viskovien's little cell, tried to direct his focus to what he would spend his stipend on tonight - the chilled bite of rovka, so cold that it brought fire to his belly, or maybe a few rounds at the Tarkka tables to test his luck and bleed out the tension building in his spine.

He couldn't help that his thoughts drifted to what he might've been doing, if they'd gone to visit his extended family in Striberg instead. Regret came back in a flood, nearly buckling him at the knees.

They'd come to Balefire on holiday, from Cascadia, even booked passage on a fancy luxury airship. The Future's Promise. The irony was not lost him, even after nearly two decades. Elena had been so excited to explore the City of Lanterns. Thought it would be romantic, exhilarating. They had been married a year prior, but his work at the Chamber had kept them from celebrating their union beforehand. He'd petitioned the Underchamberwoman for three weeks before she finally granted him leave, but when he showed Elena the tickets, it had been worth it.

Ioann felt his eyes well up, thinking of Elena again. The curve of her chin, sheen of her hair, and those long, long eyelashes tickling his cheek when she whispered in his ear. He used the rag to dab at his eyes, pretended it was sweat. Viskovien's thugs didn't seem to notice.

His job had been a good one - their home along the Black was comfortable, if modest, and his work in the Chamberwoman's office had taken advantage of his meticulous nature and gifted hand. Even got him up to the hustle and bustle of Cascadia Proper. This was before the press had become so widespread, so his work as a copyist was a secure choice, perfect for a man of middling class.

Elena had been right, of course, their first days on that holiday had been romantic and exhilarating and everything she'd promised. They'd walked along King's Cross by lanternlight, sampled the delicacies of Istan City, Norwood, and Striberg, all without crossing a block. They'd seen the old Clocktower, marveled at its precision, then kissed at its twelfth chime.

He'd known Balefire was dangerous. He'd known, at least on an academic level, that the rival lords and ladies and crime bosses chewed the city into a thousand tiny pieces and defended their districts with knife and cudgel. Known extortion and kidnapping were as common as honest trades. Even known that creatures worse than pickpockets and muggers lurked in Balefire's shadowy depths. He'd taken precautions, of course - three locks on the door, never stayed out past twelfth bell, hired a driver in the Narrows, and so forth. But he'd approached it like a Cascadian: crime could be avoided if one was logical, rational, and sensible. Balefire was none of those things.

It was early that morning, and their night had been late. Elena rose first, dressed, and with a quick peck on his cheek, said she'd be gone just a moment to fetch them pastries from the little shop across the way. Ioann, sleepy and in love, had murmured something short and sweet and then immediately fell back to dreaming. When he finally woke and dressed, she wasn't in the room. Even then, he had a sinking feeling in his gut. Or had that been a memory manufactured in the years since? Ioann went to the bellman downstairs, inquired after his wife, then headed to Sal's Delectables, across the street.

They'd seen her, certainly, but hadn't that been hours ago? Yes, she'd bought two pastries, cheese filled, with that soft, flaky, buttery crust that old Sal prided himself in. No, they hadn't seen her since, and if he wouldn't mind, we have customers waiting, so please either buy something or be on your way.

Ioann had returned to their hotel room, milled about in anxiety. Surely she'd just gone to find a bouquet of flowers? Perhaps scout out a little more of the city, find a spot of dinner that evening? By then he'd grown fearful. Elena knew not to travel alone in Balefire. Even at midday, the city was cloaked like Cascadia's dusk.

When he'd gone to the Constabulary, they'd been polite, if curt, and filed the report, taking down his every word. She'll turn up, they promised, but he saw the dead looks they gave him. They might as well have shouted that she was already...
gone. Ioann had been patient. Given them a week, then two, going to the constables every day until they told him not to come back. They would tell him when they had a lead. Don't you trust us? they'd asked

He didn't after the third week. After the money had run out and he'd been forced, with deepest apologies, to vacate the hotel they'd rented unless he could pay for it. It was a tragedy, sure, they'd said, but we need to have rooms for our paying customers. When he protested, they'd gone cold, then informed him they were no charity house. He'd had to live on the streets, haranguing passersby like a vagrant, searching anywhere, everywhere, for some sign of his sweet Elena.

When Yuri Viskovien finally found him, he'd been near insanity. Unwashed, unkempt, and hungry, but driven as though possessed. He'd lost count of how long it'd been since he'd slept, but it didn't matter. He would sleep when he found Elena. At that time Viskovien was little more than a thug enforcer himself, a mid-level thickneck with dreams of grandeur. It was before the nickname 'Red' had stuck. Before it'd been earned.

Ioann had needed food and shelter and most importantly, help, and Viskovien had needed a writ of seizure...


Ioann grimaced. It had seemed like a fair trade, at the time. He couldn't have known it would lead him to this. With effort he brought himself back to the present. Back to the sewers beneath the city he'd never left, even after 19 years. To the man he'd been bound to, since that day. Was this fate? Or just a series of unfortunate happenings and his own bad decisions played out in extreme?

Whatever Viskovien was doing now, it was near silent as the grave. Only a steady, metronomic drip echoed through the old sewers, and Ioann couldn't tell if it was coming from Viskovien's little cell, or somewhere further down the tunnels. He shook away the bitter memories. Elena was long gone now, and whatever life he'd had, whatever love he'd lost, was better off forgotten.

"Ioann! Come in, my little jarkman!" Viskovien's shout amplified in the unsettling stillness. One of the enforcers at the doorway looked directly at him, and Ioann gulped. He gave a short nod, wiped the rag over his face again, then opened the door to the chamber.
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