Artemis stared into the glass of dark amber liquid that sat cocked at a slight angle in his hand, not quite able to focus on it in his drunken state. Anger and frustration and so many other emotions exuded from him. He wanted to be left alone, and alone he was in his dark little corner, two large bottles of some strong alcohol most likely meant to be finished off over the course of a few nights sitting before him, one empty, the other one third of the way there.

His hair was still damp from the rain, his clothes mostly dry at this point, but his emotions still roiled as if he was still there- with her smirking at him- baiting him. He couldn’t get her out of his mind. But a part of him had known it would be impossible from the moment he’d sat down at his little booth and ordered his drink. Because for some reason, “Drinking away one’s sorrows” was more like amplifying them. Making the memory and the emotion that much stronger and harder to deal with. But for some reason, even when he always knew this deep down, he’d always had to have that drink when things went sour. And “one more drink” would always melt right into the next, along with each and every memory, and he couldn’t stop himself, even when he knew how incredibly stupid the whole thing was.

It became a mechanical sort of reaction to simply having the glass and the ale there.

To just drink it and hope it would wash everything away.

And it never did.

He knocked back the next glass. It still burned. But it wasn’t as pleasant as it had been when he’d first started. No, everything pleasant about the drink had gone away some time ago, when he’d had one too many and spilled over into his current drunken state. When he’d lost what barriers he’d had and slipped into this miserable depression. It held him in a vice-like grip. It was so… sickening. Everything was so sickening, and yet none of it ever stopped. He poured himself another glass, stared at the bottle in his hand for a few quiet moments, trying to focus, trying to make it all stop. He set the bottle down- a bit harder than was necessary, a loud clank resonating through the room from his table. He barely noticed. He placed his forehead in one palm, his weight supported on that one point on his elbow, and stared into the glass, the light reflecting almost invitingly of the liquid. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to do more- take that next sip, or send the glass- drink and all- crashing to the tavern floor and leave.

A sob wracked his body. Just one. And he controlled himself. No. He shouldn’t break down like this. Certainly not out in public for the world to see. Gods, he should have simply gone straight home after his little scrap with Tallulah. Bah, there she was again. Why wouldn’t she just go AWAY?! The woman was so persistent, even in his mind. Who did she think she was, anyway? She had no right to judge him. She didn’t understand. No. No, she never would.

As Tallulah stepped into the bar of which she had become a regular, she had to admit to herself that she might have just been looking for him . Might. As in maybe. And, in her libertine experience, maybe always meant no. So she wasn't looking for him, not really, she had just been in and out of three other bars, and why the hell had she done that, anyway? Ah, yes. They weren't comfortable enough. And that's when she felt it - his field. She wasted no time in walking to the opposite side of the room, and sitting alone. She was soaking wet, cloak, clothes, and all weighed more than usual, so she was grateful for the large, soft, warn chair she found. Luckily for her, it was quite secluded.

She took the cape from her shoulders, and let her hair down - she would dry faster that way. It was odd, standing there, wondering if he was watching her as she tried to get her dripping black dress to stop clinging to her legs, wondering if he still hated her, and finally wondering why she'd even bothered finding him. Certainly not to apologize - he was a wick. A coward. She shouldn't care about him, but still . . . what he'd said to her. How he'd looked at her. That damn bastard. She sat slowly, curling her slender legs under her slight body, waiting to be waited on. She wanted something hot and non-potent; she was going to need her wits about her if she was going to attempt to say anything to him.

Tallulah hadn't looked at Artemis the entire time. She was still raging, sill seething, still annoyed, but for some reason, the itch was there. She denied the need, the curiosity, and ordered a Demcay Allcream smoothly and with a small smile. She sat, examining her hands, tracing imaginary lines of scars that - no. She wouldn't think of that. She had to be strong.

He felt the presence of her field. She had just entered the tavern. He didn't even have to look up to know it was her field, but still something dragged his eyes up in her direction, as if to confirm it- as if to make sure he wasn't just crazy. And he was right- there she was. And she was walking away. That's right. Keep walking. He smirked. If she wasn't going to bother him, that would make things much more pleasant.

But who was to say she simply hadn't noticed him, and wouldn't meander right on over to his table as soon as she did? He really hoped that wasn't the case. He gave her one last glance and returned to his liquor, a bit on edge. Damn woman. She made him so tense. He could always leave- try a different tavern- but assuming he could even walk on his own two feet with all the alcohol he'd consumed at this point, there was the risk of attracting her attention if he moved.

Gods, what was he so afraid of? He didn't even remember anymore. He was so drunk and tired and angry and depressed and nothing made sense anymore. This woman was driving him crazy. Even when she wasn't doing anything she was bothersome. He shifted the glass in his hands, staring into its depths, still unsure about whether to drink or not. He didn't need anymore. He'd never needed any of it. And yet he'd craved the fix and he'd gotten more than he'd hoped for and he was so drunk and miserable for it. Not even really giving it much thought, he knocked it back, shuddering as it went down, feeling vaguely ill as it did so. Why was he doing this to himself? Maybe if he had more he could make himself throw up. He could expunge all the toxins from his guts and sober himself up a bit.

He blinked, again finding himself staring in Tallulah's direction. Everything was so out of focus. And the room wouldn't stop moving. The lights were too bright, the colors too sickening and dull, and they all danced before him in a frightening sort of manner. He squeezed his eyes shut. He had to shut everything out. Make it all go away.

When Tallulah finally gave in to the burning itch to look at him, when her will power simply couldn't battle with her curiosity for any longer, she slowly raised her eyes and glance in Artemis's direction and was surprised by what he found. He looked sick. Weak. Sad, and yet some how so cold and distant that the resulting effect was somewhat disturbing. Gods, he looked horrible. Her drink came, and she gave a tight smile to the man who'd brought it, thankful that he didn't offer her a towel for her wet hair or anything which would've set her apart from the other patrons. She shivered delicately, her small shoulders shaking gently, and took a sip from the steaming brew. It was sweet, and went down smooth, and most importantly it sent a rush of warmth throughout her. But it wasn't the burning warmth of strong alcohol, no it was a pleasant glow - goddess, did he really have to look so . . . bereft?

With a sigh, she stood, and walked slowly to him. Her wet clothes took away some of her usual grace, but her dignity stayed in tact. Her drink still in hand, she stood over him, her face completely blank. "Artemis, I wanted to apologize." What!?! No. She did not! WHAT THE HELL WAS SHE DOING?!?! He was a WICK. A WICK! 'A GODSDAMNED WICK, Tallulah,' she thought furiously. But her mouth seemed to have a mind to its own. 'Or maybe a heart'. But no, that was foolish. Even as she thought it, she rejected it and imagined him hanging by his toes over a vat of acid, just to clear the unpleasant aftertaste of kindness from her mind.

"What I did and said was inexcusable, and I apologize." If people turned to gawk, so what? She'd pluck their eyes out, that's what. Right now she was stuffing her pride, and doing the right thing, even if it was a little damaging to her self esteem.

Oh, gods, she was walking toward him- he could feel her field mingling with his own as she neared, and it was sickening. And then she was standing over him and he was looking up at her from his seat, wishing he could just disappear, shrinking back into himself as much as he possibly could. His eyes finally focused, and when they did it was so beautiful. It was like looking at an ethereal being of some sort- the pale skin, the white hair, the eyes glinting like rubies... all so beautiful. And then he blinked and it was gone, replaced by the golly he'd come to hate so much more than he did the rest of the world. And she spoke to him.

Gods damn it all, she couldn't be- she had the audacity to think she could simply come up to him and apologize and everything would suddenly be better? As if it had never happened? What the hell?
"Gods, woman... what do you want from me? Do you honestly think..." He mumbled, trying to find the words that just didn't come as easily to him when he was this inebriated, "That you can just walk into my life, wreck all the havoc ye want, spit in my face, and then come up to me and fake an apology, and think everything's gonna be fine?" He took a long sip of his ale, "I reeaally don't think that's going to happen."

Gods, none of this was coming out right. If only he weren't so drunk, then he could properly articulate exactly what he wanted to say, but gods damn it all, he was. "Really... what do you want? I don't think it's my forgiveness. Oh, no... it's.... it's... Why won't you just leave me alone?" Couldn't she see that was all he wanted? Couldn't she see that? But really, how could he expect her to? Even he didn't know for sure if that was really all he wanted. He had been alone before she had come to his table, after all, and what good had that done him?

Well, he was damned sure that it would do him a lot better than her company would.

Oh, gods. He was drunk. She smirked, twirling a chair from a nearby table. If someone protested, she didn't care, and if it was someone's, well then. They'd deal with it. She sat, placing her drink on the table in front of her as she curled her legs to her chest and turned to the side so her back was against the armrest of the thing. It was as big and a similar shape to the one she'd previously, which meant it was severely outdated and cushy and much too large for her own tastes, but it would do. She was only a bit drier than she had been when she’d so decidedly averted her attention from him upon entering the little hole of a bar.

She had half a mind to hit him, but that simply wouldn’t do. The world had just been so horrible to him, the poor little thing, and one more offence and his little back might break. She snorted. “Your life probably isn’t half as hard as you make it sound. You wallow in pity – gods and goddesses, you thrive on it – and yet you are so adverse to cowardice. It almost seems a contradiction in terms. I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: you’re not alone. As much as you’d like to be the starlet in the little melodrama you seem to be living, you aren’t. Everyone’s got problems, so I suggest you stop using yours as a crutch and actually learn from them.”

Her voice was severe and her eyes cold, and yet they burned like embers in the cool planes of her pale face. That was all she’d meant to say, and yet the words kept coming. “You know some of my story, but not all.” Why, on earth, was she doing this? Why couldn’t she stop talking? What was WRONG with her? “My mother died because of me, and my father left, that much you know. What you don’t know are the last words he said to me. He called me a ‘Weak, unlovable monster, with nothing but malice and hate,’ in my heart.” She paused, allowing herself a brief smile. “I bet this articulation aligns with your thoughts of me completely.” She took a sip from her mug, and, despite all rational thought, continued.

“You accuse me of not trying to find my father. I have. Oh, how I’ve tried, and yet some way, some how, I’m still not good enough for him. They’ve all left. I killed her, he left me, I left Gran,” why did she mentioned Gran? That was a whole other story completely. Gods, what was she doing? “And now I am alone, save Lily. But she is getting old, and she will die, and then what will I be left with? A Moa and an empty house.” The fake, empty smile was plastered on her lips. “And I don’t want any of it.”

He watched her sit and didn't bother protesting. He raised his glass to his lips and she spoke again and insulted him. Huh. How had he known that was going to happen? She was still using his words against him, and only when he was this drunk did they seem to ring true. Just as he was about to set the glass back down, it slid from his grasp, bounced off the corner of the table, and shattered on the floor, the alcohol splashing out and seeping into the wood floor. He blinked, still listening to what Tallulah was saying, and slipped out of his seat rather clumsily to pick up the pieces- needing something to do to keep himself from reacting stupidly to Tallulah's words.

As he sat back in his seat, Tallulah continued talking, and mentioned the last words her father had said to her, and he smirked a bit, dropping the glass pieces into a little pile on the table, and then turning his hand over to stare at the cuts the glass had made in his palms. Huh, he hadn't even noticed until he'd seen the red stains on the glass. They were deep and stung and were bleeding freely, but he didn't really care. He reached out shakily to grab the bottle that still contained drink and put it to his lips, knocking it back and taking a swig, then replacing it on the table almost too carefully, as if he didn't want it to make a sound.

And then Tallulah was done with her little rant. "I'm sorry." His voice was hollow as he said it, but in some odd way, it was so very true. He was sorry. And he wasn't sober enough to keep himself from saying it. He looked around on the table for a napkin of some sort and, not finding one, merely placed his bleeding hands in his lap, staring at them as if they were an anomaly. And then he repeated it, a small, sad smile on his lips, "I'm sorry."

He shifted, feeling himself slipping and having no means of stopping himself, "I wish I could offer you some sort of comfort, but I can't." Gods, what was he saying? "I wish... I could just take it all back. I keep fucking up," He mumbled, the word one he rarely used. Swearing wasn't something he did very often, preferring more intelligent ways of expressing himself, and yet here he was, completely drunk and lost for such words, "And I keep trying to fix things..." He cocked his head to the side and looked up at her, eyes wide and full of more emotion than he'd ever shown her before. "And I keep failing."

"I'm so tired," He murmured, again glancing down at his hands. That was an understatement. He was exhausted. "It's all just... too much..." Another sob wracked his shoulders, and his hands gripped his sides, and he tried to contain himself. He was a wreck. "I'm sorry..." He pulled a hand away, straightening himself as much as he could in his inebriated state, and slammed his hand down on the table, gripping at the edge. As if holding on to something solid would help him get a grip on himself.

And he was apologizing, and she was shocked, and he was fumbling with his words and hands, and he just seemed so lost. So broken. So unlike himself that she had to keep herself from doing something so utterly stupid that she would regret it for the rest of her life. She had to keep herself from telling the rest. Telling all.

Tallulah, upon witnessing this piece of him that was so mangled, so torn, was torn herself. She was trying desperately to alienate herself, but it . . . it just wasn't working. And so for the first time in a long time, she let one of her shields down willingly. Hell, it wasn't like he was sober enough to hold it against her. So she gently leaned forward and placed her pale, slender, soft hands over his work-hardened and blood-stained palms. She drew the wounded thing towards her, inspecting it closely. Seeing it was clean, she took the bottle he was so intent on finishing over the open cuts, and swiftly padded them dry with the sleeve of her dark dress.

As she saw to the cleaning of his injury, she motioned for a member of the staff and asked him for a napkin, a request which he obliged quickly and willingly. As Tallulah began to wrap his hands in the white linen, she risked a glance at his eyes. Even when he was slobbering drunk, those crystal clear orbs of impenetrable mystery were still so confusing. Still so challenging. She closed her own eyes, so as not to be distracted. "Artemis, what . . ." She looked down at the bandage she was tying, and reached for his other hand. "What happened to you?"

She began cleaning this wound as carefully as she had the first, because here, while he was drunk and she was willing to let it all past, they were on even ground. And it seemed . . . easier. Not more pleasant, no, pain was never pleasant, just . . . more comfortable.

He stared blankly at her as she wrapped his wounds. He felt like his emotions might just bubble over. It was all so stupid. Why had he allowed himself to get this drunk? Gods, her hands were so soft, too. So gentle. Almost like.... He blinked, trying to keep his emotions from spilling into tears. No, no, he mustn't think of her. That was dangerous ground. But it was too late for that.

"It was all so beautiful..." He mumbled, staring at nothing in particular as everything seemed to get hazy. "Why did everything have to be so perfect? When I was young..." He pulled his hands away from Tallulah, when she was done, but didn't draw them back. No, he left them resting, palms up, on the center of the table, staring at them. "My life was so godsdamned perfect... I was so naive. Thought the world was butterflies and rainbows... I was so happy, then..."

Why was he breaking like this? Had he been sober he would have been less easily enticed to speak of such things with this woman. But right now, in this moment, he was so drunk it all seemed so... perfect. And so wrong. "My mother got ill... I was seven." He shuddered, "Back then, my father gave me a blind hope that everything would be ok. Years went by. She only got worse. I may have been a child, but I wasn't stupid." He closed his eyes as he remembered saying similar words to his father. That conversation he had had, when he'd begged his father for that confirmation to his suspicions- that his mother would die. That it would come soon. He'd known all too well. "I knew she would not recover."

He drew his hands away so he could rest his head in his palms. He had to do something to keep himself from falling. He leaned into them. Closing his eyes. Shutting out everything but the memory- perfectly clear. "But she did what she could. She was strong, for us. We were strong for her. Things were still so happy, even then... we did what we could." He swallowed, hard. "My father promised me that when my mother passed away he would still be there for me. I was grateful. I needed him."

He shuddered, drawing a sharp breath, trying to rid himself of a lump that was forming in his throat, "Then one morning my mother didn't wake up. I was seventeen. My father was not himself. He was so.... distracted. I was out of sorts, as well. I tried to comfort him. After we buried her, he said he needed to do something to keep his mind off things." He began to rock himself slowly back and forth, a slow, rhythmic motion that was somehow comforting. "He asked me to bring him his daggers. Said he wanted to practice with me. I wasn't in the mood to spar, for once. But I wanted to make him happy. I brought him the blades..."

He opened his eyes, glanced up at Tallulah, trembling, doing everything he could not to break down, "He usually knew all the answers. Usually had the best advice. He had never been wrong before. He told me I should take my life. That was just before he took his own. Apparently, his son wasn't worth living for. I wasn't enough for him. And for once he seemed so weak to me. So wrong. For once he did something so terrible I could never forgive him for it. He killed himself. He broke so many promises when he did that." He had no idea what was causing this. But the words just kept pouring from his lips. They wouldn't stop. "He left me alone."

"I had the tribe. Yes. But I found no comfort in them. Only pity. I hated the pity. I wanted to be alone. I wanted to think...." He shook, glaring at his hands, "I often wonder if I would have been better off staying with them. I would have at least had real friends, there. In my tribe. People who were my family, if not entirely through blood." Again, his eyes closed. "I found myself in Old Rose... Gods, of all places, it had to be there..." Of course, the Harbor was no place to find oneself. No place for a distraught young boy to find the answers. To become a man. He trailed off, swallowing hard, and looking up into her eyes again, as if trying to find something in them.

Tallulah stared at her own hands for a while. The silence might’ve been awkward if not for the depth of emotion brewing under the surface of everything she’d heard and the thoughts that buzzed around in her head like a swarm of frenzied bees. She wasn’t the type to soak emotion in and then spit out anything meaningfully deep or even remotely kind, but the way he was looking at her . . . It was like she had some sort of answer to his pain, and if she could only find it, he’d be able to forget his life and live a new one. A happier one. Oh, gods, what could she say?

Her fingers traced lazy patterns in the wood grain on their table, her mind tracing lazy patterns through his story, connecting things and finding loose ends and wondering, always wondering, why fathers were such bastards. At least one thing was for sure – she’d never be one. So they shared common ground – dead mothers and cowardly fathers that didn’t find enough in their offspring to stick around. Tallulah didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing or something to be forgotten or ignored. So she pushed it to the back of her mind and let her words bubble freely from her lips. “We all need butterflies once and a while and we all need darkness now and then, too. It’s the extent of the darkness we can handle that makes us real, and the ability to enjoy the butterflies that makes us divine. And you’re right. It is beautiful and it does hurt, but sometimes you just have to . . . to wait. Wade through the night to find the day again.” She laughed silently, and with no real humor.

“I’m not making sense, am I? Ah, well. I need something stronger than this.” She raised her steaming mug and poured the remnants of his ale into her own cup, setting the bottle down gingerly when she was finished, her brow crumpled in thought. “Old Rose . . . I’ve never really been there, but I’ve . . .” She trailed off, staring out into nothing. She’d always seen the Harbor as a place of mystery. As a place of excitement. A place of freedom and, possibly, danger. She’d read stories of pirates and damsels and fisherman and other fantastical men and women who all turned out to be good, in the end . . . All had hearts. ‘Gods, of all places, it had to be there,’ he’d said. ‘Gods, of all places.’ Tallulah shivered, looking into his forlorn eyes once more. “What . . . what happened there, Artemis? Is that where you . . . where your business began?”

She spoke with a level of secrecy, not really noticing how close she was to him, until she found herself on the edge of her seat. She didn’t move, though. It was loud, and she wanted to hear his story. Needed to hear about the ghosts who lived in those incredible eyes of his. Those curious, strange, eyes. She’d completely forgotten who they were, and she didn’t want to remember now that she was so close to getting what she wanted. Getting his mystery. And possibly, just possibly, a piece of the man who refused to leave her thoughts alone.

He lowered his gaze from her eyes, trying to take in what she was saying. He'd said similar, philosophical things before. Deep things that might have been beautiful at one point or another. Meaningful to a stranger, perhaps. Yes, he'd had that glimmer of hope before. He'd thought he could fix things and make a better life for himself. He'd pulled strings, made all the decisions that seemed so right at the time- or that merely felt like the smart things. And they'd all led him astray, winding down into a deeper and deeper pit, the path back to the world above crumbling behind him.

He could no longer find the light in anything. After a while, he'd stopped caring about caution- about the same time he lost all regard for life. He lived on the edge, teetering precariously between the strong will only to survive, and the need to end his suffering in a plummet into the cold unknown that was death. He'd only regret the stupid decisions when he found himself in trouble and in that final moment decided for one reason or another that he had something to fight for, even if he didn't know what.

His happiness had been like that- the good times. They'd danced around in the light as pits of despair opened up all around them. They did their best to avoid those pits, and yet they'd all fallen, at one point or another, deep into those pits, and died there. Something about this image in his mind made him smile. It wasn't a happy smile. Nor was it mean, or angry, or sad. It held a sense of irony, but mostly it was a ghost of something that might once have been special. A time when he might once have found happiness, perhaps... And then she asked about his work.

"I started drinking... when I couldn't find the answers. I was frustrated. Angry. Sat down one night and had one drink too many because I thought it would help me cope... never does... and yet it is something I always fall back on." He ran a shaking hand through his hair, then gestured at the drinks before him, as if to support his words. “Made friends, too… A few of them were killed, for various reasons… gambling debts they couldn’t pay off. Got on the bad side of the Brothers… were Brothers… Not many of them seemed to last long, or simply faded with time. But there was one… Richard, his name was…” His hands clenched into tight fists, beginning to shake- not from the ale. “He lasted too long.” But that would have to wait.

He closed his eyes, shutting everything out. Relaxed his hands. Opened his eyes. “I wound up getting involved in a few things I should have avoided… friends’ debts… among other things. I had to fight to the death on many occasions to defend myself, or them, or both. One man… Radcliffe… Saw me killing a few of his men on one such occasion. He thought I had potential, so didn’t kill me. Wanted another thug. He approached me, and offered me a job.” He winced internally at the thoughts that came to mind, “And I... I refused the job, and I ran away... Because the man he wanted me to kill was a friend.” He choked, placing a palm over his eyes as he felt hot tears springing to them.

Why had it had to be him? How he regretted it… not killing Richard when he’d had the chance. Of course, had he killed his friend, he would still regret that, to this day… because his friend would have died loyal, and Artemis would have been the one stabbing Richard in the back like a little coward. But… certainly it would have been worth it- that one terrible, cowardly sin…? And… and...

Had he simply taken Radcliffe up on his offer, she would still be alive. He could only imagine it- she would be his wife, perhaps. They would both be in the Harbor, or would have long since fled to live their lives in a more civil place, but either way would be happily married. She would be sitting with him by the fireplace, knitting socks for the newborn child while he read to the eldest of the children- oh, yes, they would have children. She had wanted them. So had he. He would teach them how to read. How to write. How to wield a sword. How to do so many things… and what to avoid, like drinking and gambling, and that nothing in life was worth suicide… He would teach them how to live, and love them all, because they were his blood- her blood. Because they had her face and his last name and would be so... wonderful.

But all of that was impossible, now. Just a dream- a shadow of what might have been. But it would never happen. Because she was gone. Because he had no clue how to move on and find someone else. He would live and die alone and never be missed. In a way, it could be a comforting thought- liberating. One in his line of work didn’t need such relationships. Didn’t need to be held back by worries over some kind, loving woman worrying about him. Didn’t need the burden of someone missing him when he died. No…

No. But he wanted… someone. Or something… something in that nature. Hell, he didn’t know what he wanted, anymore. But to be missed- to honestly say that he could be remembered fondly by someone… what a comfort that might be. But the fact of the matter remained- nobody would give two shits if he died on one of his assignments. He would be that stranger. That loathsome, murderous slime. That nameless man who had had the audacity to insult more than one golly to their face. Or nobody would even notice, because his body would never be found. He would just disappear on a whim and not one word would ever be spoken of him again.

As Artemis talked, Tallulah found herself ordering yet another drink, this one much stronger than the last. And yet another, and another, until the world had grown softer and kinder and brighter and he was shaking. Blubbering, though not really blubbering and still she couldn’t help but wonder what was going on behind those ice cold eyes. His emotions called to her own on some deeper level, and she found herself upset and down and morose. And it was all so warm. All so fuzzy, but she did have enough of her wits to realize that the feeling of well-to-do was only temporary, and the pain which made his sobs so profound was their shared reality. In her softened state, she recognized that yes, his well of sorrow was much deeper and much stronger than her own, a fact which she would never acknowledge while sober.

As his hands shook, she was reminded of her own misadventures. None of them were as tragic as what he’d shown her; in fact, most of the trouble she’d had was the type most children and teens got into – there was the time she’d snuck into the kitchens at Brunnhold, and the day she’d stuffed a senior in a closet . . . She smiled, the look on her soft face far away and hazy. She wasn’t able to concentrate on all of his pain, so she broke it up and held it in the back of her mind for later reflection. As she turned back to him, her face was clear, but shadows and light passed over it every now in then. It was silent for a while, a long while, before she began to speak. “I’ve never had friends. They were an annoyance to me, when ever I attempted, but still . . . the ones with power always liked me. That’s the way it was with all of them. Especially the boys. And then they’d figure out that I wasn’t playing hard to get. That I was – am,” she amended, “cold and unforgiving. I wish . . . I wish I wasn’t scared.”

She sighed heavily, waving a pale hand in his direction. The light from the oil lamps and candles placed in various places around the establishment made her skin glow in an odd sort of way. She stared intently at Artemis as she spoke, realizing just how striking he was. Even when he was scarred and shitfaced, he was still a beautiful man – one that she’d very much like to draw, if she got the chance. “You have at least lived. I am stuck with my books and drawings and no one. The only person I talk to is Lily, and she’s not really a person, is she? Anyway, at least you have had adventure, no matter how painful.” She sighed a second time and mournfully shifted her ruby gaze to the once-marred flesh of her hands. “You have lived. I have never been outside of the city on my own. Never been away from it all. I had a brother, you know. They put him in school, but now . . . I wonder if he knows about me. About our mother . . . our father . . .” She trailed off wistfully, her face seeming to grow younger by the second. “Maybe he’s happy. Maybe he has children, and a wife, and a good job . . .” She sighed yet again, her eyes turning back to rest on Artemis. “I’ll never know. But I can’t change it, can I?”

He lowered his hands from his face, trying to regain control of his emotions. It only slightly worked. He was able to suck it up, at least. Stop weeping like damned little girl. Gods he'd not cried since her death. That thought almost sent him back into a bout of tears, but he held them all back. Sniffed once. Glanced up at Tallulah as she began talking. She didn't pity him. Thank the gods- he didn't need all that. He smiled weakly, still trembling a bit.

She spoke of adventure. She spoke of her lack of adventure. She spoke of a brother- she'd never mentioned one before. And she spoke of how the boys at school had liked her and she'd turned them down one by one. Of how she seemed to avoid relationships at every turn. How her only companion was Lily. She spoke of her fear, and it caught somewhere in his mind- rooted itself there in the background. He might remember it. Or the drunken state he was in might wipe his memory of this whole discussion clean. He had no idea. But he listened to her woes. How could she possibly envy his 'adventure'? It didn't make sense to him. Certainly, as a child he had sought adventure. He was an innocent little boy- of course adventure had rung beautifully in his ears back then.

How silly that adventure was so romanticized by the world. He shook his head slowly, almost laughing at the irony of it. How the hell could he possibly be envying a gods-damned golly? Gods- he'd always hated the idea of being one. Having to be tied to the broken system they had. The propriety expected of them. Growing up never having to work for anything- that thought disgusted him. He'd always had to work for the things he'd wanted. When he'd actually obtained such things, he'd always been so satisfied with them in the end. He didn't think he could ever feel such satisfaction if things were handed to him...

No. He most certainly wasn't envying her for being a golly. What was it, then? Certainly he didn't want a boring life... gods, would he ever figure out just what it was he wanted- everything seemed such a godsdamned contradiction.

"Can't change what?" He tilted his head at the last words out of her mouth. Gods his head was swimming, "If you have a brother, why not contact him? Maybe he knows where your father is..." He slurred. "Maybe... you could at least have some family to go to..." He closed his eyes. Gods he was getting so tired. "You speak of all the boys who wanted you.. surely you'd have no trouble in a relationship, if that was what you really wanted..." She was so beautiful... he hated her and her kind and her attitude, but... surely she could rope herself a 'nice' golly man... If she wanted to...

He wondered why she pushed everyone away. Of course his situation was obvious. He'd been quite unpleasant to her, as he had been to nearly everyone who bothered talking to him. And he was a wick- which would be cause for any golly to push him away, not that he particularly wanted them either. But she could get a golly man if she bothered trying... It was more than what he could do. Who would want a cold, unloving man who murdered for a living? But why should he care? He didn't want anyone... did he? Or maybe it was just that he'd not found anyone who interested him enough for such things.

Her glass stopped midway to her lips and she burst out laughing. The sound was odd in a pleasant sort of way and had it not been so empty, it might’ve been warm. “Artemis, can you honestly see me in that sort of a bind with anyone? I mean, really.” The smile faded as she shook her head, memories of her failed attempts flooding her mind. "Either I would get bored, or there was something . . . wrong with me. They didn’t like my skin, my eyes, my hair. They thought I looked evil, and some were unable to get past all of my flaws.” Apparently, being witty was a flaw. "There was one who thought I was rude, another who wanted me to gain weight. Another thought I was too tall, and another didn’t know how to deal with my . . . baggage."

All in all, her romantic life was a failure. “Like I said – they were boring, and hated the fact that I was sometimes smarter than them. Didn’t like the competition.” She laughed again, the sound slightly less empty than her first attempt. After taking a much-delayed sip of her cup, she closed her eyes and thought. Why hadn’t she tried in so long? Could she be trying now? Why would she? He was a wick. Did it matter? Of course it mattered. He was smart, witty, handsome, but he wasn’t . . . like her. Why wasn’t he like her? Better yet, why wasn’t she like him? Her own kind had done nothing but hurt her and leave her and wasn’t this just all so idiotic? She couldn’t change it. Could never change it. Which brought her to his second question. She opened her eyes slowly.

“They wouldn’t want me. Trust me – I don’t even want me.” She laughed a third time, this one a bone-chilling sound of hate and regret. She sighed, and looked at him intently, waiting for his next question, and the thoughts and emotions that might be divulged if they didn’t stop . . . what ever it was they were doing.

Didn't like her skin? He hair? Her eyes- her beautiful ruby eyes...? Didn't like the competition- the challenge? Gods, they were weak if they didn't find the challenge worth it. Hell, the challenge was what made it so interesting. Thought she was too tall? Of course she was tall for a woman of her race.. but still at least a head shorter than he. And why would they want her to gain weight? Her body was quite pleasant from where Artemis sat. And her lips looked so soft and were just the right shade of pink for her skin, and... and Artemis was beginning to wonder where his brain ran off to.

"Gods... really?" He mumbled, his words quiet and not so clear as they usually were. Of course they weren't clear. He was clocking drunk. His words were only about as clear as his muddled thoughts. "Didn't like your looks..." He began laughing hoarsely. Gods, he must be drunk. So, so very drunk. "You've such pleasant skin... like ivory. And your hair and eyes... so unique... And as for flaws... didn't you say flaws make a person interesting?" Was that right? Gods, what was he saying? No. It wasn't right. It was all so wrong. Of course, just because she was a golly- just because she was so horrible- didn't mean she couldn't be attractive to look at... right? Didn't mean she couldn't say things... every once in a while- little things that intrigued or enthralled him. Gods, he was losing his mind. "You're beautiful..." These words were the most quiet yet. No. No, he wasn't losing his mind, he'd lost that long ago. He hoped he'd been too quiet to hear, but not likely. That or..

That was it. He had had far too much to drink. He'd lost the little filter that kept his lips from communicating every little thing that entered his mind. Still, no matter how drunk he was, he shouldn't have been thinking such stupid things. Much less saying them. All of this was so idiotic. Quick, find an insult. Something to throw her off. Something to keep her at a safe distance- far the hell away from him. But he could hardly think of something up to his normal standards of wit. Or even close... definitely not good enough offset that little slip of the tongue. He was so tired. The alcohol had sapped his ability to think clearly.To judge. To do much of anything, really. And it was making it increasingly difficult to keep his eyes open.

It was time to go home- yes. Home. Bed. Sleep. Time to sober up and recover his brain and stop thinking about her- stop talking to her. Damn golly always had a way to mess with his mind. Just because she was being.. vaguely pleasant at the moment... it didn't mean a damned thing. Hell, she was probably as drunk as he was, and that was the only reason.. "I... need to get home." He mumbled, pushing himself up shakily from the table. And just as he got to his feet the world began to spin and he found himself sprawled on the floor.

"Well. Damn." It wasn't the most witty of things he could have said, but it seemed to work. "Can't seem to find my footing.." He murmured as he pulled himself back up halfway into his seat, gripping the table for balance. Gods he always felt so helpless when he was this drunk. He loathed it. Normally he would simply stay at the damned tavern until he sobered up enough to walk home, but this was different- staying meant being with her more than he should like to. Maybe if he got help walking home...

All through his little speech about her physical appearance, her usually colorless cheeks had become darker and darker shades of red until they were finally close to the ruby hue of her eyes. The last bit he muttered, but she heard it as clear as day. Alcohol usually did that to a person - made their voice louder than they really knew. But all of that didn't matter, because he had said that. He thought she was . . . beautiful. Gods, why would he find a thing like her attractive? She was so fickle and self hating and confused and angry and moody and even she didn't know what se thought half of the time. It was hard to believe, but if she didn't believe it, then why on earth was she blushing? Could she like it? No. No, that was impossible. She was simply . . . simply embarrassed. Yes. Quite embarrassed.

And then he was standing and falling over and looking rather hysterical. She couldn't help but giggle softly. The way he was lying there on the floor was rather pitiful, really, in and endearing - endearing? What was she thinking? What was she . . . Oh gods, what was wrong with her? Why was she here? Why were they talking? Why was she so . . . irrevocably interested in him? Why did he have to have such difficult eyes? Why was she asking questions she couldn't answer? And why couldn't she answer them? He'd cursed - and that made her laugh, as well. It was time for her to be heading home as well - she'd stayed far too long, and feared the effects which further intoxication would have on her already loose lips. So she stood, and bent, wrapping his arm around her shoulders as best she could and nearly falling herself with the effort.

"I'll try. Come on, let's get you home, Artemis." She stood slowly so she wouldn't fall, and waited for him to gain his own ground before she started for the door.

And he blinked and she was suddenly beside him helping him to his feet and he felt rather sheepish about the whole ordeal. When he got to his feet, he leaned into Tallulah- probably more than he realized in his drunken state of mind- so that he could keep himself standing. Really, it was a wonder he could stand at all at this point. Once he got himself situated, they made their way out into the streets and the pouring rain.

He looked around, blinking the rain out of his eyes, then pointed, "Home's that direction." Gods his voice was slurred. Oh, well. The instant he got home he would go straight to bed and.. and oh, gods, he would regret this night in the morning- everything said, which he already had some small regret for, even as inebriated as he was, and oh the hangover he would have! He certainly wasn't looking forward to it.

And so, stumbling, Tallulah walked with the larger man leaning against her, his arm heavy around her shoulders. She snickered - they probably looked like some sort of mythological beast with two heads. Oh, well. She'd often heard it said that two heads were better than one . . . unless one was smarter than the other and the other refused to see sense and was so caught up with itself that it just had to go around telling everyone how smart it was and act like it was some big hero who everyone owed everything too but wouldn't act like a grownup when someone picked and pulled at its threads and yet that one other head was needed. For some reason, that other head was part of the equation . . . Suddenly, Tallulah had forgotten where the train of thought had started, and for some reason she couldn't finish it.

They slowly mad their way to his house, their bodies awkward and bumbling and odd looking as they cast shadows on buildings in the dim light of the early-morning moon. She kept blowing at this ridiculous strand of hair which kept falling in her face and guessed at how . . . moronic she must have looked. Fortunately, no one of decent manner was out at this hour, so there was no one to see her making a fool of herself.

They reached his house and he grabbed the handle of his door and- oh, gods it was locked. Of course it was locked. This was a good thing. Only.. that required unlocking it when he could barely function as it was. He dug around in his pocket until he procured a key and after several failed attempts and one muttered, "Stop moving, damn you," shoved it into the hole and unlocked the door. Well. That was an adventure. That done, he pushed the door open and made his way rather clumsily to his room, using the wall to keep his balance.

"That's... nice. Thank you..." He plopped down onto his bed, kicking off his shoes and nothing else, "You may leave." He laughed to himself as he remembered those exact words spoken to him by Tallulah on that first night they'd met. Here he was finally getting her back for them. Ooh, yes. Gods he was tired. With an exhausted groan, he allowed himself to fall back into the pillows with a whump! It was instantaneous. His eyes closed and the world disappeared into the black silence of sleep. And he was so grateful for it.

She stood there, watching him sleep for a good while, her brow crumpled and eyes aching from the alcohol and lack of sleep. She'd slept the night before, but not long. It was like napping - it only made her more exhausted. And gods . . . she was so tired. And he was just lying there. That bastard. That clockin' bastard. Well, if he thought he could dismiss her and then fall asleep and lay there looking all comfortable, he was wrong. He was damn wrong. So, she sat on the edge of his bead, looking down at his unassuming profile, those fine eyes closed and the look of worry gone from his face, and noticed that he was - no. She wouldn't. She couldn't. And on impulse, she smoothed a lock of hair from his much softened eyes, her hand perhaps lingering a bit long on his faintly scarred cheek.

With that, she lay down beside him, her cloak still on and her shoes falling to the rough wooden floor of his home with a thump. They were both damp, but he was warmer than she, so she squirmed back into him, with only an inkling of how much she would regret it in the morning.