Audemus Dawnspark

I. Dwelling

“Can you do me a favor?”

From most, this question would not be an alarming one. From him? It is a skipped pulse: a dry and uneasy feeling in my throat that is washed away with a steadying swallow of lightly sweetened tea. He does not ask before he does. I roll my wrist, quill in hand, to work out a writer’s cramp before I answer with a question of my own.

“That depends. What kind of favor?”

It proves to be a reasonable request, which, considering the source, makes me immediately wary. His mother is ailing, and he would like a second opinion. I find it surprising that he has a mother — not in the biological sense, of course, but in the sense that he has never spoken of her. Then again, he had never spoken of his sister until he was making perfunctory introductions when she showed up unannounced. My mind, annoyingly, is quick to defend him: I have never spoken of my parents either. Given the likelihood of his abrupt departure from any conversation that even skirts the edge of sentimental, his seems the more egregious fault.

It is also a request that I find myself unable to deny for a variety of reasons. I tell myself that first and foremost, it is my physician's oath and the strength of my moral character to provide aid wherever it is needed that drives me. I don’t count as a reason the feeling that has immediately welled up inside of me — the strong urge to bear witness to a part of my roommate-lover-headache's past that he has guarded so fiercely.

Regardless of my reasons and not-reasons, he seems pleased that I have agreed. He says nothing to indicate such, because naturally a ‘Thank you’ would be too envincing. Instead, I am left to decipher the subtle cues of his gratitude: the fidgeting hands peeling away the petals of a peach ranunculus that still with my acceptance; the chaste, almost bashful kiss he plants at the corner of my indulgent smile that is not the prelude to something more amatory.

x

My preparations for this trip do not involve anything beyond the scope of my usual day to day work, but for some reason, my regimen seems especially important to adhere to today. There is solace in routine, and I relish in it where I can. Especially as of late. There is no predicting when or where I will be subject to one of his dangerous, idiotic, or perverse (sometimes all three) whims, which he refers to as experiments or ideas or I don’t knows.

He showers, but doesn’t bother with a change of clothes. I make no comment about how mercenary garb seems unfitting. It would be a waste of breath.

My leather shoulder bag, packed the night previous, is the last thing I move to grab as he busies himself with opening a portal in the midst of my (our?) living space. It lays disturbed, which kindles a small feeling of dread or anticipation (I am not sure that I want to reflect on what it means that these are found in equal measure and are nearly indistinguishable) in the pit of my stomach. My hands are hesitant, but steady, as I peel back the flap to reveal the potential horror that lies within.

It is an rose-embroidered chiffon handkerchief, one corner unfinished, that is wrapped around a still-warm chocolatine. Both items smack of swiped goods. I am absolutely sure that the croissant is made by the travelling pâtissier who delivers her freshly baked goods on the weekend, but the hour is too early for purchasing them. I am also sure that Miss Meadowshine, her intricate handiwork straightaway recognizable, will appreciate me returning this needlework to her later. A small mental note is made to do this when the thief will not be present: I will not be held liable for any potential injuries.

Turning to thank Audemus for the breakfast, biting back the reprimand at how it was obtained, I find that the only presence in the room with me now is the tail of his cloak, quickly disappearing into the shimmering image of Silvermoon.

x

Our conversation is lively as we make our way through the sleepy morning bustle of the city streets. He tells me stories of an eccentric gnome Magus who he keeps occasional company with and peppers me with in-depth questions about the more unusual injuries I have treated.

He walks backwards, gesticulating wildly, as he regales a colorful account of a polymorphic spell gone wrong. It is amusing, but not as much as what happens next; I cannot hide the immense amount of schadenfreude I feel as he stumbles and falls into a fresh produce cart that has stalled in the boulevard. The farmer seems much less pleased and approaches us both with curled fists and blustery threats. Audemus is there, and then he is not. Only a small puff of arcane residue settling atop crushed fruit is left in his wake as he has displaced himself some twenty yards down the way, fleeing.

The circumstances are ridiculous, and never in my life would I have imagined myself to be in a situation where I am evading the wrath of a wronged fruit seller. Despite my delinquent companion’s much shorter stride, he proves to be quite fleet-footed, and I am forced to track the peals of laughter ringing through the Walk of Elders when I lose sight of red grape footprints.

The muscles in my cheeks are sore from smiling.

x

Unexpectedly, he grows quiet. An emotional pendulum with an unknown tipping point. As the city bleeds into hilly outskirts, and the wellspring of his good humor dwindles with each step, I become aware of the correlation. I have become accustomed to navigating the tidal changes of his moods. There is an equilibrium that exists between us: deluge and slack tide.

The paths are unfamiliar to me, but he walks with purpose. A winding, lightly wooded bridleway provides a scenic distraction in lieu of talk, and leads us finally to an intimidatingly tall, bougainvillea-covered gate that bars entry to a white stone manor house. I suddenly feel underdressed.

He diverges suddenly onto a grassy offshoot, and I fall in step behind him. We walk along the line of a brambly hedgerow in silence, for what seems like an inordinately long period of time. He stops without warning in front of a section of briars that looks the same as all the rest, and I step on his feet. He hardly notices, or at least, does not care to acknowledge a set of squashed toes, and is slipping his ungloved hand into the thorny bushes. I grimace, and my hand is moving to catch his wrist reflexively — unnecessarily, it seems, as he removes the limb (possessing not a single scratch) just as quickly and the shrubbery swings inward: a hidden postern door.  

“Well, we’re here.” He announces, superfluous. I am left to ponder on two things: who even lives in an estate? And what exactly was unsuitable about the front gate? One of these thoughts is more easily reconciled with the image of the elf I have grown to know.

x

His mother is beautiful. The type of person who wouldn’t look out of place in a grandiose portraiture, golden placard beneath listing nearly innumerous titles. Sweep of perfectly coiffed hair, delicately upturned nose, high cheekbones — the perfect accompaniment to barely concealed cool disdain. Lovely, but wretched.

Despite my initial desire to indulge as a bystander, I can’t bring myself to intrude. I busy myself with pretending that the patterning in the marble columns of the parlor are extremely interesting as they greet each other, overly formal. A stack of books on the coffee table would be a more convincing show, but I find myself with little desire to touch anything in this airless room. They finish their hellos, and I let out a breath I had been holding in an attempt to minimize my presence.

I provide a detached and thorough examination. Two nearly identical sets of eyes seem to be cataloging my actions, but for different reasons. This is fine: I am self-assured in my capabilities. Bilateral pulmonary crackles are present, but my professional opinion is that these are age-related: clinically unimportant. I had assumed his mother would be frail, infirm. Privately, I think I am witnessing two parallel bouts of denial about the implications of what aging entails. Then again, I am a physician, not a psychologist.

She smoothes her hand over mine and implores me to convince her son to stay for dinner. She speaks as though he is not within arm’s length and as if I am the the one in charge of this decision. I note the translucent quality of her skin over enlarged veins. It reminds me of rice paper.

x

We stay for dinner.

The table seats twenty, but is set for only three. It is a five course meal, brought out by servants who creep like mice and shirk eye contact: marinated mushroom carpaccio, celeriac and ginger soup, almond cheese arancini, sweet potato cannelloni with braised escarole, and finally, a blueberry and lavender pie. A drawn out affair involving too many forks and roundabout conversation that never stops, but where nothing of importance is actually said.

The food is delicious, but the quiet sadness of this place saps my appetite. Audemus is similarly affected — or perhaps, just par for the course. He pushes his pasta around with several pieces of cutlery and I find myself in a chorus that is urging him to eat. His face mirrors the mortification that spikes through my gut, and he excuses himself with a frustrated sigh.

I spy a figure hovering in the doorway that I could nearly mistake for Audemus, had he not stalked off in the opposite direction. Similar but wrong — the shock of sable hair that needs no taming and a physiognomy that is stern and peremptory. He turns sharply on a heel as soon as I notice him, a whirlwind of expensive silk, and says nothing. Like father, like son — I can see that the predisposition towards overly dramatic exits is a genetic trait.

x

I am left to my own devices after I am informed that arrangements have been made for the night. Given the entirely meatless course from earlier, I am not surprised that things have been so arranged.

Arrangements do not apparently include a tour or even a clue on where to go in this ridiculously large manor full of empty hallways and countless doors. I wander until I come to a yawning set of glass doors bordered by a golden architrave, a library just inside.

No one is here, but a residual warmth seems to come from the dampened fireplace. A candelabra is still burning. The taste of creosote feels thick in my mouth: smoke and ash. I hook my bag over the edge of an overstuffed velvet chair and, after finding a book, curl up to join it.

Later, after what seems a long period of time (a quick glance at the candles seems to refute this idea), Audemus finds me. He is bleary-eyed and wearing an exquisitely embroidered, high-collared doublet. It looks very expensive. When he kisses me, he tastes like a brandy that is likely older than our two ages combined and desperation.

We leave shortly after with no goodbyes.