Andre's Visit

"You look a little more tired than usual, Andre..." prompted Charese.

The older Castillian smiled distantly. He sat on his customary stool in the Hidden Stag, his hood dripping slightly from the afternoon drizzle he had just walked in from minutes before. "Just getting old, Charese..."

"The usual?"

Andre answered by tightening his smile.

"The usual, then."

She grabbed a thick bottle from underneath the counter. A potent vintage from Castille, it wasn't much appreciated by anyone else. As far as she could determine, the Castillian was the only one that could drink it. Its texture was thick and its taste beyond bitter. As a result, it's resting place never drifted from under where the Castillian sat.

Charese often reflected on the man's person after his customary departure. She often wondered about the prominent scar he possessed. A scar that went across the forehead and touched the hairline, usually covered by his hood or his parted uncut hair. She had asked once and he had only answered cryptically. The statement was so said that she never asked again. Underneath the cloak was a tired frame that would have been strong and broad years ago; a face that, except the scar, would have been ordinarily handsome; and a swordless scabbard that hung from his belt. The cloak itself was well worn and in good repair, as were his pants and and traveling boots.

But his repetitive conversation with her was starting to wear. He never told anyone else but her and it was not so much that it wasn't something that she couldn't do, and it was, but it was that it appealed to her. And that was hard to do. But his questions revolved around her boy, Talen. He had told her a heartbreaking story about 'his son', and how he was trying to find him. Andre also understood something that most of the people around here did not perceive, that most of the information legal or otherwise went through her. Just wondering about how he found that out sent up a red flag in her mind. Talen had gotten himself in some jams before, and had had people looking for him. High profile people, people with money...

That meant that they could hire themselves some expensive bounty hunters, and that's what she was sure that that was who Andre was. A top dollar bounty hunter. Luckily, for Talen, he had never been here in the first visits. And after they seemed that they were going to be regular, Charese told him that someone was regularly coming in to try and find him. That had been enough for Talen, she didn't even need to tell him his name or nationality.

But after the first regular visits were over, something began to erode that belief. One of the things that she was proud of was her neutrality. A calculating coldness that underlined most of what she did. It was her single most successful quality that had kept her and the Hidden Stag from disaster's door. Be it debt, authorities, or her own criminal element, she wasn't above sacrificing others or using their weaknesses to further her gains. Even the few that she cared about, and called friends or family, rarely got in the way of this ruthlessness. But this Castillian...

Something in her the last few visits wanted to cry out 'he's here,' or 'your search is over', but her fear that if he was what she had thought him to be it would be Talen's head in a noose. Although she worried for him on a strictly business sense, she did consider him one of her 'friends.' There would be nowhere that her little thief could run. It would be too close...

But...

The few remnants of humanity that she only used for understanding and manipulating others were pulled into something resembling empathy and heartache. And the topic always came, no matter what she would do to delay or guide it.

"So..." she said, putting down the glass in front of him, corking the bottle as she did it. Might as well get it out of the way, she thought...

"How are you, Charese?" He asked right before he took the shot glass and downed it in a swift motion.

She opened and closed her mouth soundlessly, stupefied.

"How's business?" he looked around at a fairly substantial lunch crowd, "looks busy..."

She had been preparing for this visit for weeks, bracing her for the day that this man would come in, drink his drink, and pull her few heartstrings. And then leave. But now, to her disbelief, it was spiraling out of control... Her own formidable self control it seemed.

"Are you alright, Charese? Charese?" She had almost sketched every move and sound that he would make. But now...

"Charese?" Andre reached over the bar and grabbed her gently. "Charese?" She blinked and abruptly spoke, "Yes, I'm fine... I'm just... I'm just fine..."

But she dropped the heavy bottle from her newly sweat-slicked hands... Surprisingly, it didn't shatter. It just connected, and with appalling force, with her sandaled foot. Her eyes bulged and her mouth opened wide, proving unbelievably elastic. Her color drained. And the scream. The scream that should have erupted from her quivering lips, the scream that would have brought the entirety of the bar to her side, the scream that would have been heard from Trabe's perch in the Eisen sky...

Never happened.

Charese controlled it that much. Willed it to stay just so in her throat. By the simple implement of not breathing.

The bottle rolled along the floor. The color began to return to Charese's face. But it wasn't the healthy flush caused by the pain, but the blues and indigos of asphyxiation.

Andre looked around and saw that no one was paying attention. He looked back at Charese. She was purple now, the bones in her face outlined white. He looked again to see if anyone was seeing Charese in this condition. No one did. And then he reached across the bar and slapped her.

It had the desired effect. The scream that she was holding was sucked down to her toes in a great gasp. And several more after that. She grasped his outstretched hand with one of hers and squeezed the circulation from it.

"Charese?" he asked gingerly.

She was looking down at her ruined foot, but with her free hand, she held up a single finger. She then bent down and picked up the bottle from the floor, setting it solidly on the bar.

"I'm fine..."

"Really... That was a rather delightful blue you turned, reminded me of a Montaigne doublet I've seen..."

"Andre..."

"Speaking of blue... Can you release my hand?"

She did that. She then pulled another liquor bottle from her keep, popped the top off with her thumb, and doused her injured foot with it. She moaned tight-lipped.

"Do you need a doctor?"

"No."

"Are you sure?" He looked over the bar. "You're bleeding all over the floor," he observed.

"There have been worse things on this floor other than blood..."

"Still... That looks bad..."

She smiled with a charm that she didn't feel, "It'll grow back..."

"I see. And what are you exactly?"

"An overworked business-minded whore with a broken foot..." She moaned.

"I thought as much. If you're not going to go to a doctor, at least sit down..."

"All the stools are on your side..."

"That means that you're just going to have to sit over here then, doesn't it?"

"I usually don't sit by a customer unless they've..." she paused slightly, appraising him, "paid for certain services..."

He rolled his eyes, "Never mind that bit, then..."

"Dammit, I don't want anyone to see this."

"I wouldn't worry about that, Charese. No one's been paying attention to us in the first place. Not even your formidable muscle in the corner there." He nodded to the aforementioned man, "Who should have thrown me out the minute I grabbed you and beat me the minute I slapped you..."

"Alright, alright..." She limped over around the bar, nearly knocking into one of her girls, who smiled an apology and headed off with a tray of drinks. The bar regulars were passed out and the other patrons were too busy eating and drinking to notice her unbalanced gait. She noticed Andre getting off his chair and froze him with a stare. To prove her point, she chatted up a not so drunk patron for a minute or two before sitting next to the Castillian.

"See? I'm fine."

"Right. Let me see your leg."

She batted her eyes, "Why, Andre..."

"Your foot, Charese. Give me your foot."

"Alright," She carefully put it on his leg.

He moved his cloak so that it covered her leg. The drunk beside her roused and looked at her and the Castillian questioningly.

Charese's face rapidly took on a bored look, "He's one of those, Tymer," she nodded in the direction of her covered foot, "Finish your drink, dear." She offered Tymer his half-filled glass. He took it, grinned, and tossed it back. He leaned far enough back that the stool slipped from beneath him. He hit the floor and laid there blissfully. Charese let out a quick laugh along with some of the more observant patrons. Then her attention turned back to Andre,

"What are you..." She felt the chill of steel under the entirety of her radiating foot. Before she could say anything, there was a quick jerk. She gasped.

He showed her bloody sandal from his cloak. He eased her foot down as a previous unfelt pressure was released. After he did that he placed the sandal on the bar, she heard the sound of a blade sheathing.

"Find yourself a doctor to fix that pretty foot of yours, Charese..."

He took the whole bottle from the bar and left a large note under his empty glass, "I'll be taking this up."

He got up off the stool, "It'll be a while till I return..."

A distant look came into his eyes. "You... You haven't heard anything about my boy... Have you?"

And there it was. Charese felt the pangs of guilt in her chest, and she wavered for a moment. But just a moment.

"I'm sorry. No, I haven't, Andre..." He nodded, smiled his distant smile, and left.