Chapter 22: Silver and White"Rise and shine, you degenerates!" Artie’s raspy voice drilled through the heavy oak door, grating against the morning silence, pounding his fist against the wood in an insistent rhythm. "The awful sun is up, the road is waiting, and Gourdy is threatening to eat your share of the bacon if you aren't downstairs in five minutes!"

  Miz’ri was already awake. In truth, she had been awake for an hour, lying in the grey pre-dawn light, watching the way Talisa breathed. She sat on the edge of the bed now, fully dressed in her dark travel leathers, buckling the st strap of her boot. She looked sharp, clear-eyed, and irritatingly functional.

  Talisa, on the other hand, was a tragedy. The pilgrim let out a groan that sounded less like a human noise and more like a dying badger. She tried to sit up, but the movement sent the room spinning. She colpsed back onto the pillow, throwing an arm over her eyes to shield them from the sliver of light peeking through the curtains.

  "Make it stop," Talisa whimpered. "The pounding. Please make him stop."

  "He stopped knocking ten seconds ago, Marshmallow," Miz’ri said, a smirk pying on her lips as she stood up and walked to the washbasin. "The pounding you hear is your own blood trying to escape your skull."

  Talisa cracked one eye open, squinted at the elf’s silhouette, and immediately regretted the action. "Ugh," she moaned, rolling onto her side. "I think I’m dying. Is this death? Is this the final judgment?"

  "It’s the Vandi Gold," Miz’ri corrected, dipping a cloth into the cool water. "Apricot wine is a deceitful lover. Sweet on the tongue, but she carries a dagger in her boot."

  She walked back to the bed and tossed the cold, wet cloth onto Talisa’s forehead.

  Talisa gasped at the shock, but then sighed as the cool moisture settled into her feverish skin. "I hate apricots," she muttered into the pillow. "I hate this feeling, oh Lord, I hate... oh, Saints..."

  The nausea hit her like a physical punch. Talisa scrambled up, abandoning dignity entirely, and lunged for the chamber pot Miz’ri had thoughtfully pced by the bedside. The sounds that followed were unholy—the violent, heaving rejection of a stomach that had been filled with too much sugar and not enough wisdom.

  Miz’ri leaned against the bedpost, arms crossed, watching the spectacle. Usually, human bodily functions disgusted her. Weakness in general repulsed her. But as she watched Talisa—hair a rat’s nest of warm amber-brown tangles, face pale and sweaty, clutching a porcein pot like a lifeline—Miz’ri didn't feel the usual sneer forming. Instead, she felt a strange, quiet pity.

  "Breathe," Miz’ri instructed, her voice losing its mocking edge. She reached out, gathering Talisa’s chaotic hair into one hand to keep it out of the mess. "Don't fight it. Just get it out."

  Talisa retched one st time, then slumped against the mattress, shivering. "I’m disgusting," she croaked, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "You shouldn't see me like this. I’m supposed to be clean, put together, at least composed."

  "You were plenty composed st night," Miz’ri murmured, her thumb brushing the nape of Talisa’s neck. "Loud, but composed."

  Talisa groaned, burying her face in the mattress. The memories of the night before were filtering back through the headache—fragmented, golden-hued images of skin and sweat and the taste of Miz’ri’s neck. She didn't regret the act. The starving girl was still humming with a satisfied glow deep in her bones. But the pious girl was awake now, too, and she was horrified by the hangover.

  "I can't go out there," Talisa whispered. "Artie knows. Baby knows. Everyone knows I’m a..."

  "A woman who had a good time, and maybe a little too much wine?" Miz’ri finished for her. She gave Talisa’s hair a gentle tug before letting go. "Get up, ser-...ste’kol. Wash your face. Drink some water. Shame is a luxury for people who aren't about to be left behind by their ride."

  Miz’ri walked to the door and unlocked it, pulling it open to reveal Artie, who had his fist raised for another round of pounding. "We're coming," Miz’ri snapped, stepping out into the hall and blocking his view of the room. "Go tell your mountain of a man to not touch our food, or I’ll cut his other tusk off."

  Artie grinned, leaning against the doorframe. "Rough night?"

  "The best," Miz’ri lied smoothly, though the glint in her red eyes suggested it wasn't entirely a lie. "She'll be down in ten. Don't let Herkel wander off; he scares the maids."

  Miz’ri closed the door on Artie’s grin and engaged the tch. She turned back to the room, leaning against the heavy wood, arms crossed. "You have ten minutes before they leave us behind," she announced. "And before Artie makes another joke about stamina."

  Talisa was sitting on the edge of the bed, her boots still unced. She wasn't moving. She was staring at her left hand, where the morning light caught the thin, silver band on her ring finger. It was a simple thing—a promise made of metal—but the way Talisa looked at it, it might as well have been a shackle.

  "I've worn this for two years," Talisa whispered, her voice raspy from the heaving. She twisted the ring, the metal biting into her skin. "Two years of being 'Theodore's Intended.' I don't even know if I like silver. I just wear it all day and night because he said it would help me think of him. I don't want him!'"

  She wants you. The kind but firm voice whispered in Miz’ri’s mind, no longer feeling so traitorous. Miz’ri didn't rush her but instead walked over to the window, pulling the curtain back slightly to check the street, but her ears were swiveled toward the girl on the bed. "Metal is just metal, Talisa. It only has the weight you give it."

  "It feels so heavy today," Talisa murmured. She stood up, her legs wobbling slightly, and walked to the washbasin mirror. She had removed her tunic to wash up, standing in just her breeches and breastband. Her reflection stared back—pale, disheveled, with the red mark of Miz’ri’s cim from the night before fading on her neck.

  But Talisa wasn't looking at her neck. Her eyes dropped to her stomach. The bck ink seemed starker against her pale skin in the morning light. It was an ugly, geometric knot of runes that spelled out a date she had been taught to fear. Talisa’s hand drifted down, her fingernails digging into the skin around the mark. She began to scratch. Iit was a rhythmic, frantic cwing, as if she could peel the ink off if she just dug deep enough.

  Miz’ri couldn’t just watch, her hands shot forward and grabbed Talisa’s wrists, pulling them away from the bloody scars she was creating in her flesh. "Talisa ,stop it!” She saw the red welts rising on the girl’s soft stomach, framing the bck tattoo. You're hurting yourself," Miz’ri said quietly.

  "I know…I hate it so much," Talisa hissed at the mirror, trying to resume her violent scratching, thrashing helplessly against Miz’ri’s powerful grip.. “Look at the scar, you can see I’ve been cwing at this for years! I hate looking at it. I hate knowing that everyone who sees me naked sees an expiration date before they see a person. Theodore... my parents...They don't see me at all."

  She turned to look at Miz’ri, her eyes wet with angry tears. "Even you. When you saw it... you stopped. You hesitated."

  "I hesitated because I didn't want to break something that was already marked for the trash heap," Miz’ri admitted, her voice losing its usual edge. She walked over, reaching out to gently catch Talisa’s wrist, stopping the self-destructive scratching. "But I learned better. You aren't trash, Talisa. And that ink doesn't decide when you die. Your owner, me, decides everything for you, your end included. And I say not today or any day soon."

  Talisa smiled a bit at Miz’ri in appreciation of the assurance in her elf companion’s voice. She looked at the hand holding hers—obsidian against white, strength holding back panic. She took a deep breath, looking down at the silver ring one st time. Gently tugging her arms away from Miz’ri and to her chest, holding them as if hiding a secret against her breast. After a beat she spoke again, "I don't want to be modest anymore," Talisa whispered. “I'm not sure what it's ever done for me…”

  With a sudden, sharp tug, she pulled the ring off. At least, she began to pull at it. The stubborn band didn't slide easily; her fingers were swollen from the wine and the heat. But she forced it over the knuckle. When it finally popped free, she held it in her palm for a second, staring at the empty silver circle. Then, she tossed it onto the bedside table. It nded with a tiny, insignificant clink.

  "There," Talisa breathed, rubbing the indentation left on her finger. "Miz, Miz-ri, Ehmtua…whatever you want me to call you today…can you please keep the ring for me, for now? I'm worried I'll have…a moment and shove it back on. I need to get away from it.”

  “Need time to think?” Miz'ri reached out and took the silver bauble in her hand, pying with it in her index and ring finger. Something so small held so much control over this frightened girl. It felt right to Miz to be the one to keep it - Talisa clearly had far too much on her pte already.

  “I've been thinking for a while now…before I met you. When we get back, I want to tell him myself that I can't be his woman anymore, my heart has no room for him, his ledgers, or his silence."

  If you knew my silence, would you run too? Miz'ri thought as Talisa looked up at Miz’ri, a fragile hope blooming in her expression. "My parents will understand. They have to. They love me. Once I expin that I want to live my life, not this one they gave me... they'll listen. Won't they?"

  Miz’ri looked at the girl. She saw the desperate naivety, the belief that love could conquer duty. In the Reaches Below, and especially in the Niranath family, love was just another whip to control or break someone.

  "Talisa," Miz’ri started, her brow furrowing. She reached out, her hand lingering near Talisa’s cheek. “I know from awful experience what old families will do to protect their own reputation when they discover how errant their daughters are. Even in Doulmaedes, where we women held all the power; Mother made sure I held no power over myself. Not until I ran. I am..." She paused, the word sticking in her throat like a fishbone. It was a weak word. A human word. "I am worried about what will happen to you when you go back."

  Talisa blinked, the confession catching her off guard. "Worried? You?"

  "Yes," Miz’ri snapped, though she didn't pull her hand away. "Worried. If they try to cage you again... if they try to use that ring to chain you back to a desk..." Her red eyes burned with a fierce, protective intensity. "I might have to burn Censure Street to the ground."

  "Miz..." Talisa softened, leaning into the touch. "That's surprisingly sweet..."

  "I am not sweet," Miz’ri corrected, though her thumb brushed Talisa’s cheekbone. "I am possessive. There is a differ—"

  BAM.

  The door flew open, bouncing off the wall with a deafening crack.

  "Time's up, lovebirds!" Artie shouted, striding into the room with the energy of a chaotic whirlwind. He stopped, looking at both of Miz’ri’s hands - one on Talisa’s face, the other bore a tiny silver ring. He smirked. "Am I interrupting a proposal? Or a breakup?"

  Behind him, Herkel shuffled in, cttering loudly. The skeleton was wearing his disguise hat at a rakish angle and seemed to be vibrating with impatience.

  Miz’ri snatched her hand back as if she’d been burned, spinning on her heel. "We were just leaving," she growled, snatching up her pack. "Learn to knock, you filthy jaluk."

  "I did knock, cousin." Artie lied smoothly. "With my foot. Let's go."

  Talisa grabbed her tunic, pulling it on quickly to hide the brand. She looked at Miz’ri, who quickly pocketed the ring, a secret smile pying on her lips. "Ready," she said, her voice lighter than it had been in weeks.

  They stepped out of the inn and were immediately assaulted by the sky. To a human, it was a beautiful morning. The sky was a piercing, cloudless blue, and the sun was a golden coin promising warmth and growth. To Miz’ri and Artie, it was an act of celestial aggression.

  "Ugh," Miz’ri groaned, throwing her arm up to shield her eyes, instantly fumbling for her dark goggles. "It’s so… loud. Why is the light screaming at me?"

  "It’s hateful," Artie agreed, pulling his hood so low it nearly covered his nose. He hissed at a cheerful beam of sunlight hitting the cobblestones. "Look at it. Just staring at us. Judging us for having sensitive pores. It’s a malevolent god, Miz. A giant, burning eye that hates hydration."

  "It’s trying to cook us alive," Miz’ri muttered, adjusting her scarf until she looked like a bandaged mummy. "I can feel my moisture evaporating. I’m going to turn into teazalnan jerky before we reach the city gates."

  Talisa, who was happily munching on a warm, sugar-dusted bun she’d bought from a street vendor three seconds after leaving the inn, looked between them. The ample girl swallowed a mouthful of pastry and smiled, feeling her head spin a little less as something besides alcohol entered her stomach. "You two are such drama queens. It’s a lovely day! Look, the birds are singing."

  "The birds are screaming because they are burning alive," Artie corrected, the two deadly Dark Elves huddled in the thin strip of shade provided by a stack of hay bales, looking utterly pathetic.

  “Why don’t you two live nocturnally?” Talisa questioned, still stuffing her face.

  The dark cousins shot her both the same look. Artie retorted ,“What, and live like a lifeless vampire? We Tea’zalnans may come from Mother Moon, before the dark forces dragged us to the pit, but this world belongs to those who bask in her father the Sun. If we exist only at night, only when the sun doesn’t harm us, we exist always on the edge of the bounty of life but never quite touching it. It's maddening.”

  Miz’ri nods from behind her goggles and veil. “He’s right, Tali. I did that for a decade when I first surfaced…even now after nearly 50 years up here I can’t say I’ve ever really adapted. Hate during the day; loneliness at night. It’s a no win for us.”

  “Miz’ri you are so good at so many things; adapting is not one of them.” Talisa sighed, shaking her head affectionately. She walked over to a stall selling textiles, her eyes scanning the wares. She returned a moment ter, not with weapons or supplies, but with a length of shimmering, lightweight fabric.

  "Here," Talisa said, holding it out to Miz’ri. "It’s white linen. Put it over your leathers."

  Miz’ri looked at the cloth as if Talisa had offered her a dead rat. "White?" she scoffed. "I am a creature of the dark, Marshmallow. I wear obsidian. I wear crimson. I do not wear… table cloths."

  "It’s not fashion, it’s being smart. White reflects the heat," Talisa expined patiently, ripping a piece of her bun off and offering it to Miz, who took it reflexively. "If you wear all that bck leather all day long, you’re just baking yourself. Add a yer of white. You’ll be cooler."

  "I will look ridiculous," Miz’ri argued, crossing her arms. "I will look like a surrender fg. Or worse, a padin. Don't imagine me as some Knight in White Linen, Talisa. It ruins my mystique."

  Talisa stepped into the shadow of the cart, invading Miz’ri’s personal space with that new, easy confidence she’d found since the ring came off. She reached up, draping the linen over Miz’ri’s shoulders herself.

  "I’ve seen you in far less, Miz," Talisa teased, her voice dropping to a husky whisper that made Artie choke on his own spit. "And I’ve seen you in far more. A little white fabric isn't going to ruin your mystique."

  She tied the ends of the cloth loosely around Miz’ri’s neck, fashioning a makeshift cloak that covered the bck leather. Then she stepped back, tilting her head to assess her work. A genuine, sunny smile broke across her face. "Besides," Talisa hummed, wiping sugar from her lip. "You look cute in the white of a bedsheet, so I know white looks good on you. It's like a cute little snow-drop on a dark rose.”

  The silence that followed was absolute. Miz’ri froze. Again with that word.Just like the ride up the river, the word cute hit her like a physical sp. Lethal? Yes. Terrifying? Preferred. Beautiful? Acceptable. But cute? Heat rushed to her face, violent and unstoppable. The formerly traitorous, now kind but firm voice in her head purred in delight. She likes it. She thinks you’re adorable. Keep it.

  "You know that I am not cute!" Miz’ri sputtered, her composure shattering. She pulled the white fabric tighter, trying to hide her face. "I am a shadow! I am death!"

  "A cute shadow," Talisa insisted, poking Miz’ri’s dark nose. "Ready to go, Snow-drop?"

  Miz’ri looked at herself in a little mirror at the textile stand. Another woman, one she had not seen in centuries yet strangely different, stared back at her in that little reflective oval. In her memory this noble woman was one of revealing dark silks and deep secrets.

  But who she saw was a happy woman with a slight smile on her face. One dressed in stark white with a paint-stroke of red wrapped around her neck. Her dark, angur face poked out of the snowblind that was the cool white cloth enveloping her battle-scarred soul. The sun felt kept at bay, even for a moment as Talisa held onto her arm as an anchor; though Miz’ri wasn’t sure who was holding him firm anymore. “Y-yeah, ready.” she responded breathlessly.

  From the safety of Gourdy’s massive shadow up ahead, Artie let out a cackle. "Snow-drop!" he wheezed, doubling over. "Oh, that’s sticking. That is absolutely sticking. Hey Gourdy! Look at the little Snow-drop!"

  "Shut up, Jaluk!" Miz’ri roared, though the effect was ruined by the way she was aggressively blushing. She grabbed Talisa’s hand—not to crush it, but to hold it—and marched forward, dragging the giggling human out of the shade. "We are leaving! Right now! Before I kill the scout!"

  Talisa squeezed her hand back, her thumb rubbing over Miz’ri’s knuckles. "You're blushing, Miz," she whispered, delighted.

  "It’s the heat," Miz’ri lied through her teeth, staring straight ahead at the blinding road. "Just the heat."

  But as they walked, Miz’ri didn't take the white linen off. And she didn't let go of Talisa’s hand. She gnced at the girl—so open, so trusting, so willing to strip away her own defenses in the name of connection. A cold knot of fear tightened in Miz’ri’s gut, warring with the warmth of the sun.

  She takes off her chains because she trusts me, she thought, But if she knew about the Silence… if she knew the emptiness that drives me… would she run? Would she put the ring back on just to be safe from the void inside me? Miz’ri squeezed Talisa’s hand tighter, a silent, desperate anchor. I won’t let her find out, she vowed. I’ll be her protector. Her owner. Her Hope. Anything but the empty thing I really am, and how much that truth screams in my ear whenever I let the Silence come.