Two: Blood

TWO:
Blood

'My aim is inconsequential, your majesty.' He practically spat the last words, his impatience growing. This was accompanied by a violent twitch from his arm, cradled in his vestments. His irritation seemed to be feeding his pain. He let out an infinitesimal gasp and closed his eyes, attempting to regain his composure. This little girl would not get the best of him tonight - he couldn't afford it. When he spoke again, his voice was more calm, but his eyes were still closed.
         
'I was certain that you would see the wisdom in eliminating this foe. Yes, I do have reasons of my own, but you simply cannot ignore the danger that is being presented to you. Rolandt will return to the city, and he will bring others. As certain as I was that I remained the only one who knew of your presence here, I'm afraid that is no longer the case. You have witnessed first-hand the destruction these zealots leave in their wake. I am trying to help.'
         
The queen's face remained passive, her yellow eyes staring into the sorcerer’s, unblinking.
         
'It seems rather ridiculous, one such as you accusing another of being "zealous," considering your line of work, warden,' she said. Her brow arched at him, such a sardonic look of triumph on her face, and her irreverence tugged ever so slightly at the corners of her cool, pale lips.
         
Mernith chuckled to himself at the assumption. It had been far too long since their last meeting. So entertaining she was. Senlia was, at least in Arden Mernith's opinion, more beast than man, perhaps not entirely because of her curse. But of course, she was not a Man at all. Her former Elven beauty still managed to somehow shine through the pale visage she displayed these days. Precisely her origin, he did not know, as he was sure that no living man knew, but Mernith believed that he was among a very few who were aware of what lay beneath the wrappings that perpetually covered her dead hands. The symbol of Malenfere, the flaming wheel, was tattooed onto the back of her palm.
         
What exactly this entailed, one could only guess. He took this as nigh-irrefutable proof that she had been no ordinary Elf, that she must have come from up north, from the bastard tribes of the Fire, and the assumption was complimented by her features, namely her hair. The mane of her hair, now dull and deeply crimson, was sheared into harsh, sharp layers, the deepest of which was braided into an extremely long tail that reached down to caress the small of her back. The tail often trailed behind her as she walked, and she had the distracting tendency to examine and play with it during what he was sure she regarded as tedious conversation with lesser beings.
         
Whatever sense of innocence or corrupted beauty she possessed was always utterly shattered by the eyes. They disturbed Mernith greatly, had done so since the first time he met them with his own black. But to spite her, to spite himself, he always made it a point to treat with her eyes, never allowing himself the luxury of avoiding them during their meetings. He could only hope that she had noticed this during all their dialogues. Her eyes were unmistakably unnatural, evil things - yellow and feral, with narrow slits for pupils, like a cat's eyes, the infernal iris opening a window into the scorched black abyss of her soul. But they were also unmistakably alive and bright, glinting with an almost gleeful sense of alertness.
         
Standoffish would have been an appropriate word to describe their relationship - always. However he felt that she had become somewhat, for lack of a better word, intrigued by him. Her tone with him on some occasions bordered on seductive, and she most definitely had softened her manner with him over time. Mernith could not help but feel a bit of reluctant self-satisfaction at this, and humored her in her more whimsical moments. He, for his part, was also intrigued by her and regarded her as his most valuable ally. What reason a Fire Elf had to have journeyed so far from her home, at which point she had fallen into her current state, he was very interested in discovering. This would have to wait, however, for another time. There were much more pressing matters at hand.
         
'If you'll allow me to change the subject to Morhaina's art,' he spoke respectfully to her.
         
'What about it, Ward?' she queried, raising her head inquisitively.
         
'You've got the necromancer's book, haven't you, queen? I know that subject must have grabbed your interest. We've all heard the stories, all the perverse little experiments she supposedly carried out in her research of the power of Undeath.' He waited for her response.
         
'Which piece in particular are you...'
         
And then he made his big reveal. He threw his arms to the side, his cloak billowing outward, and steadily raised his stump of a hand toward her in presentation. The cold air sank its teeth into the open wound, intensifying the pain once again. He bared his teeth slightly at the sensation, determined to keep his composure this time.
         
Senlia looked quite interested in this development, pushing herself into a more upright position in her seat. She leaned forward slightly, peering at the mess as Arden Mernith proceeded to lower his arm again and roll up the sleeve of his vestments. The black cloth was still damp from his blood, his forearm stained rusty crimson. There was an undeniable glint of interest, or madness, in the vampress's staring eyes. Mernith guessed that this was an opportunity for which she had been harboring a desire since she had rescued that book from its former owner's tomb - a willing, living subject on which she could use Morhaina's knowledge. Her reaction was just as he had anticipated. He would use it to his own profit.
         
'Oh, sir, what have we here? What happened with this then, Ward?'
         
The lackadaisical tone of here voice told him that she was seeking ammunition against his ego rather than offering sympathy for his injury. He closed his eyes as he shook his head; he did not wish to reiterate the nights events to her if he could manage to avoid it.

'I assure you that her highness doesn't want to know. Suffice it to say that we have a mutual problem with our security here in the city.'