Rooms Above the Stag • The Dives
Early Evening on the 38th of Hamis, 2719
The clocking Stag. Figured.
But he didn’t go in, not today. The last pale light in the grey sky’d dipped behind the craggy silhouettes of the rooftops, and it was growing steadily darker. It was a wet evening; the streets of the Dives were slick with it, uneven cobbles glistening, carriage wheels hissing and throwing water on huddled passersby. The Clockwork Stag was as busy as ever, cheery lantern light spilling out on the mist, glistening in the pouring rain. It was chilly, fair chilly, and Tom was tugging his light coat tighter about him, drawing his shoulders up, wishing he’d brought an umbrella.
When she’d given him the address, he’d barely been able to believe it. How many times’d Tom been to the Stag, since he’d started living this half-life in Vienda? He’d visited it when he lived in the Dives, tired and dirty from long days at the mill; he’d continued visiting it when he’d moved back in Uptown, craving what’d become familiar and comfortable in those sooty, alien months. How many times’d he sat nursing his whisky in the corner under the stairs, avoiding prying eyes, keeping his field away from the bar, keeping his head down – with her staying right upstairs?
Fucking coincidences. Tom might’ve laughed, if it hadn’t been so godsdamn sad. Maybe, he thought, souls stuck together. He was surprised, and a little touched, that she’d trusted him to meet her at her lodgings. He didn’t know if he was glad he hadn’t run into her before; he didn’t know what he would’ve done.
He still didn’t know what to do, he thought as he climbed the rickety stairs up to the outside door, gripping the slick railing tight. Through the patter and hush of the rain, he could hear the occasional clatter of hooves behind. It’d been tempting to go into the Stag first, just for a quick drink – something to fortify him – but he’d decided against it. There was already a bottle of Long Haul in his bag, and anyway, he didn’t want to make Caina Rose wait. It’d already been so long.
The door took some rattling and wrestling to get open, and by the time he’d tucked himself into the tiny corridor, he was soaked through. For a handful of seconds, all he could smell was wet wool. He took off his hat, ran his hand through the wet, tangled mess of his hair, and blew out his cheeks, trying to ground himself.
The smells of strong beer and whisky, then, and creaky old wood breathing with petrichor. Mold and must. It wasn’t a long corridor, and it was cramped, even for Tom as he was now. If he’d been himself, he reckoned he’d’ve had to duck his head a pina mant. A handful of doors, quiet and still, unmarked. Chatter and laughter drifted up from downstairs, reduced by the muffle to a low burble like the lapping of water. He could hear the clinking of glasses. The monotony was broken by the occasional shout, or hob-nailed boots thumping away.
Tom didn’t think many folks were in upstairs, though he heard the floorboards creak now and then, a sound as of feet moving soft-like. Pitter-patter scratch-scratch in the walls. His eyes alighted on one door in particular, not far down the hall.
Couldn’t help feeling self-conscious; it was the nature of it, Tom thought. He felt frozen to his spot, almost, like he didn’t even want to creak the floorboards, even with his light step. Didn’t even want to approach the door. Instinctual, almost, he reached up and rubbed his throat with his fingertips. It was unmarked, but he thought he could still feel the tingle of the blade’s edge nestled there, indenting the soft skin like a promise of violence. Heaving a sigh, he rolled his shoulders, kicked himself into motion.
He gave the door a rhythmic tap with his knuckles: tap-tap tap-tap-tap, tap tap, tap, jaunty, familiar, though he didn’t know from where. Once he’d done, he took a few steps back, leaned against the wall. Patted the comforting weight of the Long Haul in his bag, the little bundle of cards nestled right next to it, the couple of journals he took everywhere.
He’d leaned his head back and shut his eyes, trying to find some old iron inside himself, when he heard the door open.
Tom blinked up, something like a bemused – an unsure – a hard-to-read little smile flickering across his face, twisting his thin lip. He’d forgot, again. He’d forgot she’d be at eye-level; he’d forgot they were the same height. He opened his mouth, but stalled.
Last time, it’d been dark, and that’d been the saving grace; being honest, he didn’t know what he’d’ve done, if it hadn’t been dark in that alleyway. She hadn’t looked at him too hard in Ava’s back room, and though he’d looked her in the face, it was like a memory from a dream. The sight of that face, only a few years older than it’d been the last time he’d seen it in the Rose, but somehow harder. Her hair, long again.
“Hey, hey,” he said finally, clearing his throat. It was a lean little fox of a man across from her in the corridor, hands deep in his pockets. He looked like a half-drowned rat in his long dark coat, a raindrop clinging to the tip of his sharp, upturned nose. He looked like he hadn’t shaved (and maybe hadn’t slept) in a few days.
Pushing himself up off the wall, he raised a hand. “Far’ye, lass?”
But he didn’t go in, not today. The last pale light in the grey sky’d dipped behind the craggy silhouettes of the rooftops, and it was growing steadily darker. It was a wet evening; the streets of the Dives were slick with it, uneven cobbles glistening, carriage wheels hissing and throwing water on huddled passersby. The Clockwork Stag was as busy as ever, cheery lantern light spilling out on the mist, glistening in the pouring rain. It was chilly, fair chilly, and Tom was tugging his light coat tighter about him, drawing his shoulders up, wishing he’d brought an umbrella.
When she’d given him the address, he’d barely been able to believe it. How many times’d Tom been to the Stag, since he’d started living this half-life in Vienda? He’d visited it when he lived in the Dives, tired and dirty from long days at the mill; he’d continued visiting it when he’d moved back in Uptown, craving what’d become familiar and comfortable in those sooty, alien months. How many times’d he sat nursing his whisky in the corner under the stairs, avoiding prying eyes, keeping his field away from the bar, keeping his head down – with her staying right upstairs?
Fucking coincidences. Tom might’ve laughed, if it hadn’t been so godsdamn sad. Maybe, he thought, souls stuck together. He was surprised, and a little touched, that she’d trusted him to meet her at her lodgings. He didn’t know if he was glad he hadn’t run into her before; he didn’t know what he would’ve done.
He still didn’t know what to do, he thought as he climbed the rickety stairs up to the outside door, gripping the slick railing tight. Through the patter and hush of the rain, he could hear the occasional clatter of hooves behind. It’d been tempting to go into the Stag first, just for a quick drink – something to fortify him – but he’d decided against it. There was already a bottle of Long Haul in his bag, and anyway, he didn’t want to make Caina Rose wait. It’d already been so long.
The door took some rattling and wrestling to get open, and by the time he’d tucked himself into the tiny corridor, he was soaked through. For a handful of seconds, all he could smell was wet wool. He took off his hat, ran his hand through the wet, tangled mess of his hair, and blew out his cheeks, trying to ground himself.
The smells of strong beer and whisky, then, and creaky old wood breathing with petrichor. Mold and must. It wasn’t a long corridor, and it was cramped, even for Tom as he was now. If he’d been himself, he reckoned he’d’ve had to duck his head a pina mant. A handful of doors, quiet and still, unmarked. Chatter and laughter drifted up from downstairs, reduced by the muffle to a low burble like the lapping of water. He could hear the clinking of glasses. The monotony was broken by the occasional shout, or hob-nailed boots thumping away.
Tom didn’t think many folks were in upstairs, though he heard the floorboards creak now and then, a sound as of feet moving soft-like. Pitter-patter scratch-scratch in the walls. His eyes alighted on one door in particular, not far down the hall.
Couldn’t help feeling self-conscious; it was the nature of it, Tom thought. He felt frozen to his spot, almost, like he didn’t even want to creak the floorboards, even with his light step. Didn’t even want to approach the door. Instinctual, almost, he reached up and rubbed his throat with his fingertips. It was unmarked, but he thought he could still feel the tingle of the blade’s edge nestled there, indenting the soft skin like a promise of violence. Heaving a sigh, he rolled his shoulders, kicked himself into motion.
He gave the door a rhythmic tap with his knuckles: tap-tap tap-tap-tap, tap tap, tap, jaunty, familiar, though he didn’t know from where. Once he’d done, he took a few steps back, leaned against the wall. Patted the comforting weight of the Long Haul in his bag, the little bundle of cards nestled right next to it, the couple of journals he took everywhere.
He’d leaned his head back and shut his eyes, trying to find some old iron inside himself, when he heard the door open.
Tom blinked up, something like a bemused – an unsure – a hard-to-read little smile flickering across his face, twisting his thin lip. He’d forgot, again. He’d forgot she’d be at eye-level; he’d forgot they were the same height. He opened his mouth, but stalled.
Last time, it’d been dark, and that’d been the saving grace; being honest, he didn’t know what he’d’ve done, if it hadn’t been dark in that alleyway. She hadn’t looked at him too hard in Ava’s back room, and though he’d looked her in the face, it was like a memory from a dream. The sight of that face, only a few years older than it’d been the last time he’d seen it in the Rose, but somehow harder. Her hair, long again.
“Hey, hey,” he said finally, clearing his throat. It was a lean little fox of a man across from her in the corridor, hands deep in his pockets. He looked like a half-drowned rat in his long dark coat, a raindrop clinging to the tip of his sharp, upturned nose. He looked like he hadn’t shaved (and maybe hadn’t slept) in a few days.
Pushing himself up off the wall, he raised a hand. “Far’ye, lass?”
