CW: Genre-typical violence.
Gareth was out for only a moment, opening his eyes again to find Tag standing over him with the knife. He came to quickly after that, scooting back and holding out a plaintive hand. "Don’t!" he slurred. "Please don’t kill me. Please let me live."
"Why should we?" the other brother asked.
Gareth stared at the muddy ground, blinking back tears. "My sister has money. She works for Unity. Spare me and she’ll reward you, but there'll only be trouble for you if I die."
"How do we know you’re even tellin’ the tr—"
When the man cut off with a gasp, Gareth looked up to see the glimmer of a blade protruding from his chest. As it retracted, a spreading stain took its place and the man's gasp turned to a gurgle. His knees buckled, but before he could drop, a hand wrapped around his head from behind and slammed him into the wall: skull hit brick, and Gareth flinched at the sound it made.
Then, the man fell, leaving a stranger with a bloodied sword standing over his body.
"Knife," Gareth mumbled from the ground. Somehow, the stranger understood his meaning: when Tag charged him, yelling, he dropped his sword and easily sidestepped the smaller blade. He caught Tag’s forearm mid-swing and twisted, graceful as a dancer, until Tag cried out and dropped the knife. He moved so fast Gareth almost couldn’t follow. But maybe that was the head wound.
The stranger grabbed Tag by the hair, yanked his head down, and brought his knee up until it met Tag’s face. And just like that, Gareth’s second assailant fell to the ground, motionless. Gareth squinted. "Did you kill him?"
"No, I don’t think so," the stranger said in a gentler voice than Gareth expected. He glanced at the other brother’s body, where spindles of blood reached for him over cold cement. "I try to keep to only one murder a day."
Gareth stared at him.
"Just a joke," he said when the silence stretched on. "A poor one, maybe. Sorry. Are you alright?"
His accent was soft, the vowels round. Northern, Gareth thought, though thinking was hard with the world tipping around him. "I think I’m going to be sick," he said.
Gareth shrank back when the stranger moved to approach, so the stranger stopped and held his hands up placatingly. "Come on, it's alright. I only want to check your injuries."
"Can I trust you?"
"I'm afraid you don't have a choice," the stranger said, far too cheerfully.
He was right, though. When the man kneeled beside him, Gareth allowed it, though he flinched at his gentle touch. "I'm looking for Kramer Street," he mumbled.
"Poor fellow. You're quite a ways off. Come on, let's get out of this alley before your friend wakes. It's too dark to see here, anyway," the man said. He retrieved his sword, wiping it off before slipping it into a sheath at his hip, then helped Gareth to his feet. When Gareth shrugged him off, he let Gareth take several stumbling steps on his own. But he was still there to catch Gareth when he inevitably fell.
"Woozy," Gareth said.
"I bet." The man bent to retrieve Gareth's cigarette case and pocketbook.
"Are you going to rob me?" Gareth asked, watching.
The man snorted and rifled through the pocketbook, tucking Gareth's displaced ID back inside in the process. He handed it to Gareth intact. "Nah. There's not enough in there to make it worth my time."
"Uh," Gareth said, awkwardly. "Thank…you?"
"Anytime."
Gareth squinted at the stranger. With one of his eyes beginning to swell shut, he couldn't make out any of the stranger's features in the darkness. "Should we, erm...alert the authorities? Surely we can't just leave the bodies."
He could only feel the stranger's stare, not see it. He fidgeted, uncomfortable, while the stranger let out a disbelieving laugh. "The authorities? Really?" he asked.
"Is that so strange?"
"It is in this neighborhood," the stranger said. "Mind if I ask your name?"
"Gareth Ranulf."
There came a pause, and the stranger said, flatly, "Not Ranulf as in the Magistrate of Unity Ranulf, I hope."
"My sister," Gareth said.
"Great. Of all the rotten twists of fate," the stranger muttered. "Oh, alright."
And with that, he turned on his heel and left Gareth alone in the dark. Alone and injured, with nothing to do but panic. He held onto the wall, grimacing at the gritty grime under his fingers. In this state, he wouldn’t even make it to the end of the alley on his own, let alone home. What was he supposed to do now? Was he going to die in this reeking alley?
While he was trying to decide on a course of action, his stranger returned: he heard boots on gravel first, and then that soft voice again. "I left a message with the shopkeeper across the street. The cops will direct any follow-up questions to a Gareth Ranulf on Kramer Street. Now, come on."
Gareth gratefully leaned on the man for support as they hobbled to the end of the alley, where they emerged onto a sparsely crowded street. The man pushed Gareth onto the closest bench. "Sit. Let me get a look at you."
He knelt in front of Gareth, studied his face. Gareth shut his eyes, fighting another wave of nausea. "Atiuh and the Three, you’re lucky I was following you."
"Pardon?" Gareth asked.
"I said you’re lucky I found you," the man said with an easy smile. "I’m Roman, by the way. Roman Hallisey. I’d say it’s a pleasure, Mr. Ranulf, but I’m not sure the circumstances warrant it."
"Have we met before? You seem terribly familiar."
"No, I don’t think so," Roman said. "How could I forget such a pretty face?"
"Is that some sort of jest?" Gareth reached up to touch his nose, but Roman batted his hand away.
"Don’t. Touching will only make it worse. It’s stopped bleeding, at least."
"Is it broken?"
"I can’t tell. I don’t think so."
"And my eye? Is it bad that it’s swollen like this?"
"You have a strange idea of good if you even have to ask. But you’ll live, if that’s what you mean," Roman said cheerfully. "It’ll stay swollen a few days, then take weeks to heal completely, I think. You’re going to have a nasty bruise for a while."
"You seem to know a lot about how this works."
"I’ve seen similar injuries in my time," Roman said. Gareth wondered if he was being deliberately vague.
"Right," he said, unsure how to respond to that. "Thank you for the help."
Roman patted Gareth’s knee. "Of course. Anywhere else hurt? They didn’t stab you or anything, did they? I assume you would’ve mentioned it already."
"No, they just…hit me a few times."
"Are you still dizzy?"
"No. Yes. Maybe a little," Gareth admitted.
"You might have a concussion. Or be in shock." Roman tilted his head to one side, his dark eyes wide. "I don’t know, I’m not a doctor. How about we get you home so you can call one?"
"Please," Gareth said. He hadn’t been on his feet even ten seconds before he turned to the side and hurled.
Roman wrinkled his nose. "Strike that, we’re going to a hospital now. There’s one on the way."
Gareth nodded, the taste of bile too fresh on his tongue to argue, and let Roman lead him down the street. Walking helped clear the nausea some, letting him think again. "Roman’s an interesting name. Where’s it from?" he asked to distract himself from thinking too much.
"Thanks, I think. Technically, it's my middle name. My mother was a bit fanciful, with particular ideas about who she wanted me to be. Romanos is a spirit in Troasian mythology, Ro- meaning 'above' and -manos meaning all personkind, or the like," Roman said, waving his hand grandly. He seemed to do a lot of that. "She thought 'Roman' was a name for someone who'd do great things."
"And have you? Done great things, I mean?"
Roman's smile fell. "That depends on how you define great, I suppose."
"I'd say saving a man's life qualifies."
"Those men wouldn't have killed you," Roman said. Despite his flippant tone, he looked away from Gareth, embarrassed. "Just robbed you."
They walked in silence a moment, until Gareth asked, "So why did you do it?"
"What, save you?"
"Yes. I doubt anyone else would have."
Roman shrugged. "I was there; I heard you shout. I had time to investigate." He looked over at Gareth, then grinned at the man's affronted expression. "Did you want something more storybook?"
"Maybe," Gareth said. "It's strange to know I'm only alive because of a young man's boredom."
Roman laughed, then steered Gareth away from a hole in the pavement. "Let me start over," he said. Deepening his voice, he said, "And when the Great Hero Roman heard the man's calls for succor, he could not help but rush to the injured's aid, slaying the wrongdoers and single-handedly clutching Gareth Ranulf from the jaws of death!"
Gareth hid his face behind a hand. "I'm sorry he asked," he said, answered by more of Roman's laughter. "But I'm glad you did it, anyhow."
"Anytime, Gareth. Really," Roman said. He stopped walking, and Gareth followed his gaze to a squat, prison-like building. "We're here."
"That's the hospital? Are you sure it's safe?"
"In this part of Gallontea, Gareth, it's the best you're going to find."
Gareth wished he could see better. He reached up to touch his swollen eye, but Roman batted his hand away. "I can't read the signs. I can't even tell what you look like."
"Hence the hospital. But if it makes you feel better, Gareth, I can't tell what you look like either. With all the blood and swelling, you look like an ogre that was painted red then ran into a beehive."
"That doesn't help," Gareth said flatly.
"But it did distract you," Roman said. "Come on, you can't go home looking like you do. I noticed your ring — do you have a wife waiting for you? Kids too, I'd bet. You seem the type. You don't want to walk in looking like—"
"An ogre?" Gareth finished. "Maybe you're right."
"I usually am. Now, be reasonable. They’ll probably just clean you up and give you something for the pain," Roman said, dragging Gareth slowly toward the doors.
"You won’t—" Gareth began, only to bite his tongue.
"Won’t what?"
"You won’t leave me, will you? I’ll never find my way home alone," Gareth said. Roman paused just long enough to make him self-conscious, so he continued, "If I’m keeping you from anything, I understand if—"
"I’ll stay," Roman promised. Then, tone turning teasing, he asked, "Do you need me to hold your hand?"
"Oh, stop. Just make sure they sterilize everything," Gareth grumbled, pushing past Roman into the building.
"Sure, but if you need stitches, I’m waiting in the hallway," Roman called, trailing behind as Gareth led the way into the surprisingly cheerful foyer. He stopped, squinting against the lights and the sterile smell. While unpleasant, it was normal, as far as hospitals went.
"It’s nicer inside."
"And that’s why you don’t judge a dragon by the shine of their scales," Roman said. "Sit. I’ll talk to the nurse for you."
Gareth slid into the closest seat, grimacing at the pain that trilled up his side. He had too many aches and pains to try to count, so for a distraction, his attention followed Roman to the nurses' desk. While the lights made the pounding in Gareth's head worse, they did help him to see. He watched Roman greet the nurses cheerfully, leaning against the desk like it belonged to him. While Gareth couldn’t make out what was being said, he could hear the songlike cadence of Roman’s accent.
Roman Hallisey, he could already tell, was one of those individuals whose age was hard to place. He was easily younger than Gareth’s forty-two, everything about him radiating an almost childlike exuberance. He was human, with no signs of any longer-lived heritage. If Gareth were pressed, he’d guess somewhere around thirty.
Roman wore his waistcoat open, with tight-fitting trousers tucked into tall boots. His hair fell between the two currently popular styles— too long to fit the close-cropped, younger style of working men but not long enough to tuck behind his ears, a look the upper class currently loved. It was too messy to be fashionable, at any rate. His curls seemed permanently ruffled, and Gareth understood why when he watched Roman tangle a hand through them, pushing them out of his face. Nothing about Roman was fashionable or proper, but he had the charm and natural attraction to excuse it. The nurse nodded at something he said, then looked over to where Gareth sat. Roman beckoned him over.
"Mr. Ranulf?" the nurse asked as Gareth approached, pushing several forms and a pen across the desk toward him. "Sign these for me, please. Do you need someone to read them for you?"
"No, no," Gareth said, brushing her off with a wave of the hand. "I can do it."
"We can take you back right away, but your friend will have to wait here."
Gareth’s hand hovered above the signature line. He glanced nervously at Roman. Seeming to guess at his anxieties, Roman said, "I already told you I’d wait, Gareth."
"Thank you. I’ll be happy to compensate you for your time."
Roman raised an eyebrow. "If you’re offering."
"I’m insisting."
"Even better. Now quit making the poor nurse wait on you; I’ll be here when you get back. You can thank me more then, if you still feel the need."
Gareth followed the nurse through winding halls to a clean, barren room. While she went to the old sink in the corner, its pipes banging and clanging as it ran, Gareth sat on the cold metal examining table. The nurse brought him a pillow, then with a bowl of water and a clean cloth, set about cleaning Gareth's wounds. By the time she was done, the water in her bowl was dusky red. She left the room, then, returning with a small canvas bad. "Ice," she explained, "For the swelling. The doctor will be in soon; feel free to lay back in the meantime. It'll help the dizziness."
Gareth waited until she was gone to settle back and drape the ice over his swollen eye. Here, the lights were blessedly dim. He tried to relax, but the room was a little too quiet — it gave him too much room to think. Funnily enough, though, he wasn't thinking about his recent assault, his thoughts instead drifting to his conversation with Moira. He'd just watched a man die, but all he could do was worry about his own future.
Someone knocked on the door. "Mr. Ranulf?" a woman's voice asked. Gareth started to push himself up as the doctor entered, but a firm hand on his shoulder stopped him. "Please, relax. My name is Dr. Carthian. Can you tell me in your own words what happened tonight?"
Once Gareth explained, Dr. Carthian asked a series of questions about how Gareth was feeling, where he had been hit, if anything hurt, and how much he could remember. His face, his stomach, the back of his head. He felt fine aside from a few aches and pains. He could remember his name, the date, his address. He still felt very dizzy.
"I don’t think you’re in shock. May I?" the doctor asked, holding her hand near Gareth’s face but not touching. Gareth frowned and nodded. The doctor checked Gareth’s pupils, waved a finger back and forth and told Gareth to follow it with his eyes. She poked and prodded a bit, but mostly just stood quietly with her eyes closed and her hand on Gareth’s forehead. "You have a few bruised ribs, a mild concussion, and swelling around your eye and nose, but fortunately, nothing worse."
"You can tell all that from just a few questions?"
The doctor smiled pleasantly. "I’m rosanin."
Gareth raised an eyebrow. Rosanin were rare — a class of individuals born with small, inexplicable abilities. Not much was known about them. If you asked the religious, they'd say rosanin were blessed by the Guardians, and even with all the advancements of the last century scientists had yet to come up with a better explanation. Species, race, sex, family history — none of it made a difference. It wasn't hereditary, and it wasn't testable. It seemed entirely random.
Rosanin's gifts varied from person to person. Some had knacks for gambling, others could always point true north or see auras. As a child, Gareth had known a young man with an exceptional green thumb. He could plant anything and make it grow.
"I can touch anyone and understand if something in their body's not as it should be," the doctor explained. "Many hospitals in big cities have someone like me on staff, these days. It speeds up the process, saves time and effort."
"I can see how that might be useful."
The doctor smiled. "You'll be able to treat your injuries at home, Mr. Ranulf. I recommend resting for several days, then reintroduce your normal activities slowly. If you have access to ice, ice your nose and eye at least four times a day. I'd also suggest — once you've healed — introducing more exercise into your routine. There's a concerning buildup of plaque in your arteries."
"Understood."
"For now, I'll give you medication for the pain; just know it might impair your motor functions for a few hours. It'll feel like being drunk," the doctor explained, seeing Gareth's wary expression. "You should take it, Mr. Ranulf. I imagine you must be in a lot of pain right now."
Gareth couldn't deny that. "If it'll help, I'll take it."
"It smells awful," the doctor warned as she unlocked the room's only cabinet, retrieved a bottle, and poured out a single dose. "If you experience pain at home, laudanum should do the trick."
When she passed the small cup of thick, clear liquid to Gareth, Gareth almost hurled again. She hadn't been joking about the smell. He shuddered, steeled himself, and drained the cup.
"Revolting, I know," the doctor said, wincing sympathetically as Gareth coughed. "I'll have the nurse bring you fresh ice. Would you prefer to wait here or in the foyer?"
"The foyer," Gareth answered easily. The sooner he could get home, the better. Isobel must be terribly worried.
He returned to the waiting room on his own, relieved to find that Roman had indeed waited. The young man sat near the door, picking at his nails, and didn’t notice Gareth until he dropped into the seat next to him.
"Your face is clean!" was the first thing he said.
"Yes, apparently the doctor needs to see the injury in order to assess it," Gareth said dryly.
Roman snorted. "Ah, clean him up and suddenly he’s a comedian. Why are you sitting?" he asked as Gareth dropped into the seat next to him.
"A nurse is bringing me fresh ice," Gareth said, pulling the current bag away from his eye and shaking it so Roman could hear the slosh of water.
"Ah. How’d it go?"
"Better than I would’ve expected. I’ve been prescribed bedrest — and given medicine, thankfully."
"Laudanum?"
Gareth shook his head.
"No?" Roman asked, studying Gareth. His face fell. "Tell me it wasn’t Carujan Oil."
"I don’t—"
"Clear liquid. Thick and sticky. Smells and tastes like piss."
"That sounds right," Gareth said. His nose wrinkled at the memory. "Is that bad? She’s the doctor, Mr. Hallisey. I believe she knows best."
"Sure, but she didn’t give much thought to the poor bastard stuck walking you home. Carrying you home, rather. Perhaps we should see if we can call a cab."
Gareth bit his lip. "She did say it might impair some motor functions."
"That’s an understatement. Hopefully we can at least make it a few blocks before you see the effects, then we can hail a cab from main street."
Silence fell between them while they waited for the nurse. Gareth looked around and fidgeted with his clothes and eventually asked, "Where are you from? Your accent is northern, right?"
"Good ear. I grew up in Troas."
That fit into what little Gareth knew about Roman, with his mother’s Troasian mythology and his darker features. They neared the end of a bright summer, and while Gareth’s skin had tanned beyond its usual pasty white, Roman’s was still several shades darker. The only reason Gareth hadn’t guessed Troas sooner was because of the way Roman’s accent had diluted, like he’d been away from Troas for a long time. "I had a teacher from Troas," he said, without quite meaning to.
The nurse arrived, then, replacing Gareth’s melted bag, and when Gareth finally stood to go, the world spun around him. He grabbed Roman’s shoulder for support, but funnily enough, the young man didn’t seem affected by the ground's shifting. He just gave Gareth an amused look and gestured grandly toward the doors, saying, "After you."
The gesture tickled at something in the back of Gareth's mind. Roman felt strangely familiar. He mused over it as they left the hospital, but it wasn’t until the next block over that it finally clicked. "Wait!" he cried.
Roman twirled to face Gareth faster than Gareth had ever seen anyone move, his sword appearing in his hand between one second and the next. He looked around, alert, but seeing nothing, frowned at Gareth. The sword disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. "What?"
"I know who you are!"
Roman's expression darkened. Between one moment and the next, he seemed an entirely different person. Gareth nearly staggered under the weight of his gaze, of those black eyes fixed unblinkingly on him. Had he been in his right mind, it would have felled him. It might have terrified him. But instead, Gareth let out a nervous giggle. The sound seem to break the mood: Roman's dark expression vanished as quickly as his sword, replaced by an eye roll. He grabbed Gareth's arm, dragging him the rest of the way across the street.
"Atiuh’s name, Gareth," Roman sighed, "I thought there was trouble."
"Sorry."
"Don't apologize. Well?"
"Well what?"
"You said you know me. Who exactly do you think I am?"
"Oh! We’ve met, sort of," Gareth said, following Roman’s lead when Roman turned down a dark side street. That he didn’t even question it worried a distant part of his mind, but he was mostly focused on walking on ground that wouldn’t stay still. "This morning, actually. You convinced me to stop for a play. Do you remember?"
Roman thought for a moment, then laughed, throwing his head back in delight. "You’re the Egil scholar!"
"That’s me," Gareth said proudly.
Roman laughed again. Even through his mind’s haze, Gareth envied the boyishness of it. "I should’ve recognized you."
"It’s because I look like an ogre."
"You look better, now," Roman said, still smiling. "But please walk faster, Gareth. The medicine is taking effect."
Gareth blinked up at the purple sky as he walked, putting one foot in front of the other. Step, step, step. They turned onto Main Street as a carriage rattled past, its side lanterns making Gareth squint and avert his eyes. Beside him, Roman raised a hand to try to get it to stop, but it sped on past. Maybe it was all the blood on Gareth's clothing. "Remarkably fast, this stuff. And strong. I hardly feel a thing," he said. Suddenly remembering the thread of their earlier conversation, he asked, "Are you one of the Webhon Players?"
Roman looked back at Gareth, trying and failing to hide his amusement. "I’m an honorary player, I suppose. I help with the opening in exchange for a place in their camp."
"I thought your opening was beautiful."
"Maybe you should stop talking for a while, Gareth," Roman suggested, patting Gareth's arm.
"Okay." As they walked, Gareth had to rely on Roman more and more for balance. They hadn’t made it another block before he started complaining. "How far away are we? My boots are getting dirty."
Roman glanced at Gareth’s shoes. "Gareth, those boots were doomed the minute you set foot in Greysdale."
"Set foot." Gareth laughed. "So? How long to Kramer Street?"
"It’s ten minutes from here, but at the rate we’re going, forty."
Gareth kicked a loose stone. To his credit, Roman managed to keep a straight face, even after looking over and seeing Gareth’s rather undignified pout. He asked, "What brought you to Greysdale, anyway? It’s not the sort of place I’d expect to find an upstanding gentleman like you."
"Wasn’t intentional. I just don’t know the city, even after all my visits."
"Visits? You’re not from around here?"
"No, I live in Adriat. Well, just outside of it."
"Ah. You came to visit your sister," Roman guessed. "For the conferences?"
Gareth nodded, then paused to look in the window of a ladies’ hat shop. He balked at how big some of them were. How did the ladies not fall over with those on their heads? When Roman stifled a laugh, Gareth realized he’d said that out loud. He covered his mouth with a hand.
"Atiuh help me," Roman muttered, though he was still smiling. "How’d you end up getting so lost?"
"I was on my way back from a meeting and tried to walk."
"A meeting?" Roman asked, watching Gareth out of the corner of his eye. Under different circumstances, Gareth might have noticed the sharp interest in the young man’s voice. "What kind of meeting?"
"I’m…not supposed to say."
"Sure, I understand. I was just trying to keep some conversation going. It’s not like I have anyone to tell, though," Roman said, earnestness dripping from every word, "If you did want to talk about it. You seem like you've got something on your mind."
Gareth worried at his lower lip. Sensing weakness, Roman continued. "It’s something to do with Unity, right? I heard the island was abuzz today."
"Yes," Gareth admitted. Roman’s dark eyes made him itch, just beneath the skin, and soon the words poured out. "I…overheard something I wasn’t supposed to, this morning. Unity’s sending a diplomatic team to Orean to negotiate the return of a hostage. I’ve been to Orean a few times, so Moira wanted me on the team. That’s what the meeting was about; I was so angry I couldn’t even think straight."
Roman’s eyes widened. "Diplomatic?" he said, tasting the word like he’d never heard it before. "Unity? You’re sure they said diplomatic?"
"A few times. Alfheim wanted war, but the Magistrates talked them down."
"That's not Unity’s style," Roman mused.
"And how would you know?" Gareth asked on reflex, sounding for a moment very much like his father. He could hear the condescension bleed through and hated himself for it, just a little.
Roman blinked, expression shuttering. Whatever sharpness Gareth had seen behind his eyes disappeared, like a sheathed knife— hidden, but no less dangerous. "I guess I wouldn’t."
"Sorry," Gareth said.
"No need to apologize, Mr. Ranulf," Roman said stiffly. Changing the subject, he asked, "Was that your wife and daughter with you today?"
"Yes. Isobel’s my wife and Ofelia’s my daughter. Isobel’s the most beautiful woman in the world. You should meet her, Roman! You should come up and meet her! Then you’ll see. She’s pregnant right now. I really don’t want to leave her."
Roman tugged Gareth on again. "I’m sorry, Gareth. I’m sure it’s no great comfort, but it sounds like Unity has things well in hand. Hopefully it’ll be a short trip. And Orean is beautiful in the fall."
"Have you been?" Gareth asked.
"Several times."
"You should be on the team, then, instead of me. You’re much charminger than I, and you know how to fight, and you’ve been to Orean."
"You think I’m charming, Gareth? I’m flattered."
"Of course you are. Would you go, if we could swap? Would you join the team? Hypo-hyperothetically."
"No, sorry."
"Why not?"
Roman half-laughed. He looked up at the sky, weighing his answer. "Because I won’t work with Unity, and because I’m sure they wouldn’t want to work with me."
"Why not?"
Roman turned his considering look on Gareth. "I don’t trust them. Sorry if that’s too blunt for you. I don’t trust them to treat the orinians fairly, and I don't trust their motives," Roman sighed. "I would have leapt at that sort of opportunity, once, when I was young. I did, in fact. I won’t make the same mistake again."
"I don’t understand."
"No," Roman said quietly, "You wouldn’t. You always lose something of yourself on these kinds of journeys, and who I am is all I have anymore. So no, I wouldn't join the team. I'm happy enough where I am."
The word enough seemed to weigh heavier than the others. "You talk older than you look," Gareth observed, the most cogent thought he was capable of forming at the moment.
"I’m fairly sure that doesn’t make sense, Gareth."
"It does."
Roman smiled and shook his head. "Do you recognize where we are?"
Gareth looked around. Past the slight blur, he recognized the lights and sights of Kramer Street. "Oh!"
"Do you need me to help you to your room, or can you handle it from here?"
"I can handle it. Thank you, Mr. Hallisey. I said I’d pay you—"
"Don’t worry about it. Just promise you’ll be more careful next time you wander around at night. Good luck with your trip, Mr. Ranulf."
With that, Roman was gone, strolling down the street and out of Gareth’s life. Gareth lingered outside his flat, letting the crisp air slowly peel back the medicine’s haze. He didn’t want to be so out of it when he explained what happened to Isobel, so he stood and watched the— few, given the late hour— people pass by on the street.
He noticed the trio of orinians that were staying across the hall from him returning to the hotel. One of them, a girl with curly blonde hair, made eye contact with Gareth from across the street. At his stare, the girl’s smile fell — Gareth could only imagine how he must look — and hurried after her friends.
"Kieran! Íde!" she called, catching up to them just as the hotel doors swung shut, blocking them from view. Gareth worried at his bottom lip, watching the doors long after the orinians disappeared. Unbidden, Roman’s earlier words came to mind. I don’t trust Unity to treat the orinians fairly. Gareth hoped Roman was wrong. He was sure Roman was wrong.
When Gareth’s clarity returned, the pain along with it, he headed upstairs to find his family.
What do you all think of this new addition to the cast of characters? What are your first impressions of Roman?
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