Bloodthirst Part One: Trailing Crimson
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You’d think hopping from bumfuck nowhere to bumfuck somewhere else for years without pause would’a given Rhys some social skills. It hasn’t, if the look the woman manning the counter is giving him is anything to go by—like he’s shoved a lemon in her mouth and then pissed all over her parade.
Look, he doesn’t want’a be here either, but ya don’t see Rhys staring at others with eyes as big and round as the fist-sized marbles that lay decoratively in baskets on the aging countertop. The shop—a shoddy little space lined with the sort’a shit ya’d never gift yer worst enemy, yet somehow hiding enough rare finds to keep the doors open—wasn’t his intended destination when he set off for the day, either.
Nah, he never has a plan—not since he’d first started being on the run.
Every day goes like this: fuck around and see what happens; hope he doesn’t get caught, or worse, die; pat himself on the back for somehow surviving this bullshit. A city, a town, a night in the woods, always on the move, never stopping long enough to remember a face, let alone a name. The people he cares about are all back home—if he can even call it that anymore.
That’s why he’s in this stupid shop, being gaped at by a woman with shaved hair and bright, blonde brows that she furrowed into a frown when Rhys made no move to get rid of his mask upon entering. Hard to stay forgettable when fuckers know what yer face looks like, which is why the leather material is staying firmly in place for as long as he needs it to.
“Do ya have a mirror or not?” he asks for the second time, having thrown the question at her instead of a greeting when he came in the shop.
“It’s not cheap,” the woman warns, hands curling into fists behind her side of the counter, just at the edge of Rhys’ view. He’s gotten good at that—seeing things without making it look like he’s noticed. “I don’t do discounts.”
“Did I ask?” Rhys retorts, tone clipped. If he had time to have stupid conversations like this, he wouldn’t be in this town to begin with. Nah, he’d be somewhere much nicer, maybe even visit that one hostel in Brookmoss with the natural springs, enjoying a soak. Hells know the last time he bathed without rushing.
“Twenty gold pieces,” she bites out.
Nice to know the folk ‘round here are so friendly, Rhys notes with a frown. “Ah, so yer in the business of rippin’ people off.”
“If you can’t pay then—”
She bites back her words at the heavy clunk of Rhys’ coin pouch hitting the counter. There had been too many towns and cities without any mirrors so he’d swallow his desire to haggle down the cost, even if it meant sleeping rough for the night. Someone important is waiting on the other end of that mirror and he’d sleep rough as many times as he needs to if it meant getting to talk to him.
Counting out the coins, he lays them flat against the wooden surface, hiding his amusement at the woman’s disapproval of the action. Sure, he’ll pay, but he never said he’d be polite ‘bout it. With that, he shoves the pouch back under his cloak, clipping it to his belt and out of sight.
“Ya gonna show me where it is then, or what?” he presses, looking around once more. Still the same overfilled shelves and no mirror in view.
With a tsk, the owner steps away to head down the small corridor near the back, pulling a key from her pocket. It’s an idiotic place to put it, easily accessible. It would be as simple as bumping into her shoulder, making a show of trying to steady her with a false apology on ya lips and slipping a hand inside to grab the small scrap of metal. Rhys would know, pickpocketing has become one of his most useful hobbies.
The pair of them pass by a set of doors, each different in design, though Rhys isn’t sure if that’s part of the aesthetic or if she couldn’t afford to get a matching set. They only pause once they reach the end, this door a dark oak with mismatched carvings engraved in the middle of it, and an ornate door knob that’s discoloured where the woman’s palm meets it as she slides her key into the hole beneath.
“You have an hour, then you need to leave.”
Her words give no room for argument—not that Rhys would, an hour is more than he was expecting—as she starts for the counter again. Left alone, the rogue takes his time glancing around the glorified wardrobe.
It’s a square room, barely big enough to stretch ya limbs out, with a singular table pressed against one of the walls. The mirror he paid too fucking much for fills the surface, propped up precariously with heavy crystals to keep the rusting bronze frame from falling forward. Rhys isn’t one to scoff at a shabby setup, even if this one makes him want’a go and demand his coins back.
He’s here on a mission, after all.
Sitting in the lone, worn chair, Rhys pulls a tattered note from the waistband of his trousers. The paper tears as he tries to smooth it out carefully, years of the same repeated motion helping it fall apart. At this point, he doesn’t need to check what’s written on it, yet the familiar handwriting feels as good as a hug, ‘specially when he’s trying to contact the person who scribbled the misspelt words.
With a long sigh, he reads over the address a few more times and presses a palm to the foggy glass, inwardly chanting his brother’s name and hoping the mirror will connect. Magic like this, the kind that’s dependent on strong bonds and clear motives, is always a finicky fuck.
Maybe that’s why half the nation stopped supplying mirrors in common spaces, why it’s such a hassle to try to find one that works. Who needs a mirror when ya’ve got calling spells and letters to keep in contact with loved ones? Fucking criminals who don’t want’a be tracked down, that’s who.
“Whyyyys!” crackles brokenly from where Rhys’ hand is pressed against the glass, as eloquent as the first time he heard it as a kid. If he hadn’t gotten used to the noise over the years, he’d jump at how loud Lexie’s voice comes through. As it is, he doesn’t get a chance to react before the man reflected in the mirror is rushing to keep talking. “It’s been so long, I thought you forgot about me! Hehe, you wouldn’t forget about me, I know. But I was training earlier and I thought of you because there was this one dude here who’s been trying to get better with blocking, and I wanted to ask you for advice but duh, I couldn’t ask you until you called me, so—”
With a smile settling across his features, Rhys relaxes back in his seat, folding his arms over his chest. It’s one of the few comforts he has, how Lexie never changes regardless of how long they’ve been apart. Even now, he starts every conversation as if the pair of them had been talking only yesterday, like there was never any break to begin with. His brother’s unruly curls bobbing over his forehead and canines protruding into his bottom lip are all the context Rhys would need to know what Lexie is yapping about, it seems.
Any information Rhys might ask for to fill in the gaps is ignored in favour of hearing about Lexie’s adventures, and in turn, he answers all the unasked questions Lexie tries to sneak in between his wording.
Yes, he’s fine. He can afford food. He’s not injured. He’s alive. No, he isn’t allowed to come back yet. Or ever, but Lexie won’t listen to him whenever he tries to make that part clear.
“Oh, and you know how they have the, uh— Gods above, what is it called? The thing with the medals and lots of people?” Lexie starts mumbling to himself, his image shaking as he most likely vibrates on the other end.
“An awards ceremony?” Rhys suggests, hands curling into fists as he fights the need to reach out and poke at the wrinkle between Lexie’s brows. It doesn’t get easier being out of reach, even if he’s used to it. Some nights he lets himself get angry that he has to be used to it at all.
“That’s the one! Well, there’s going to be a ceremony soon and I’m getting a promotion! So, I was thinking…and I know what you want to say but please, pleasepleaseplease hear me out first, but…would you…maybe…want to come?” his brother continues, voice getting smaller with each word.
Rhys wants to be angry right now. Angry because he has to say no and break Lexie’s heart, that it isn’t something he has a say in. That even if the ceremony was tomorrow, if he was allowed in Solport, he’d find a way to reduce the week-long journey into twelve hours to be there in time. But he can’t.
“Lex, I—” he starts, throat thick with emotion he rarely lets himself express, only to be interrupted by a commotion outside. Multiple loud sets of footsteps, hushed voices, and the panicked shrill of the owner of the shop are all Rhys needs to know he’s been fucking set up. “Fuck, Lex, I’ll call ya as soon as I can, ‘kay?”
That’s the only warning he gives before he’s cutting off the connection, standing swiftly and pulling his dagger from its holster. There’s not much he can do considering the room is fucking tiny, but he squeezes his back against the wall just out of sight of the door, ready to strike if this goes the way he’s expecting it to.
The owner obviously saw the posters with his poorly-drawn face on them. The further south ya get, the harder they are to miss, littering every notice board. It’s why he’s so far from home—from his brother—where they’re rare enough he can mostly escape them.
“Here’s in here,” the owner’s voice slips through the crack under the door. Fucking idiot, Rhys cusses in her direction. The extortionate price wasn’t enough, she had to grass him up too? Not like he’s gonna get the chance to confront her about it. Nah, he’s got one shot to get the fuck outta here and he’s not wasting it giving her a piece of his mind.
The door opens with a bang, slamming into the opposite wall as two guards try to rush in the too-small entryway. With practised silence, Rhys slips behind them, in the little space they leave open as they turn to each other, fumbling to search the room in a panic when they see the chair is empty.
One swift kick to the back later, Guard Number One is falling into Guard Number Two with varying sounds of surprise as Rhys forces the door shut behind them. Already on the move, he heads to the exit with a singular glare and glint of his blade in the woman’s direction, enjoying the way she stumbles back. Not like he’s close enough to use the fucker, but that doesn’t make her fear less rewarding.
It doesn’t stop her from trying to let the guards free as quick as her shaking hands allow, either. All it does is buy Rhys enough time to get outside without needing to fight in a cramped shop. Nah, if they want to catch him that bad, they can chase him.
He’s been doing this song and dance for as long as he can remember, after all. Hells, he’s cocky enough to throw a middle finger over his shoulder when he hears their voices shouting for him to stop running, barely audible over the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears.
Running is all he knows how to do now. Running and trying to survive. He isn’t gonna stop for anything.