Amorous: Shae and Daemien

Night of Fredas

Natural notes of caramel and oak wafted from the still glass in the middle of the raised black imitation of a table. The frosted, shallow glass hovering above a pool of dew droplets merging into an irresponsible puddle alerted its drinker that the beverage had been untouched for far too long. The honey of its colour advertised a more pleasurable experience than the strangled, bitter complex creature it could be if washed along a virgin tongue.

Cruel laughter satisfied the flaunting story tellers, peacocking casually with no shame or embarrassment. ‘What you have to say only matters if the people who matter, think you matter.’ Daemien could hear his father saying it over and over again, willing him to believe that the people he had thought mattered, didn’t have enough substance to matter to themselves. He was sure if he ever visited outside of the city walls, his father would love to say it in person.

He took another sip of the ‘exotic’ bourbon. Pretending it was worth the endorsement he would have to give. “Daemien?”

He hardly gave the caller a glance, swirling the glass between his long ivory fingers. He hadn’t taken the supplements today, and was eagerly considering dropping them all together. The people he thought he often enjoyed didn’t seem to be nearly as thrilling when the chemicals were absent. “Maevise?” he responded before another sip, wishing the alcohol count was higher.

He felt her hand rest on his shoulder, her raven hair hiding her scowl from the rest of the onlookers crowding around the pathetic excuse for furniture. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” Maevise whispered to him, embarrassment heating her falsely lifted cheeks, and the pointed tip of her ears.

High caste women hated to show corrupted abnormalities from their social image. That included the suited paramours that had been suggested to them on their twenty fifth nameday. Who you paired with said everything about the way Meridian’s Council viewed you. A council many knew were bought and influenced by the businesses every citizen in and outside of the walls depended on. Businesses just like his. “I don’t think so.”

“I don’t blame you. It’s thoroughly pleasing.” he held back a groan as Braithe made another hideous smacking noise between his tongue and teeth.

Daemien felt as if he was being punished. He could not conceive of an alternate existence in which he would ever be pleased to be sponsoring the engagement of Braithe Aila to his chosen mate, Necolette Feidral, and in turn serving her father, Senator Mertain Feidral, by marketing the dismal excuse for bourbon between his fingers.

There truly was power in a name.

Braithe was a spoiled purist, a coward who took lower caste whores as lovers while walking over humans for his own gain. He was heir to his father Senator Archdane Aila’s Council seat and his architectural company responsible for the building and maintenance of Meridian’s city walls. The mile thick feat of Elven glory plated with grey wet stone and solid titanium were the efforts of his ancestors centuries in the past when elves had unceremoniously thrust themselves on human society, no longer hiding themselves in the shadows of what they deemed their lesser.

Of course the wall had only served as indication of war, one the humans lost and lost brutally, their technological advancement far inferior to those of the elves that had previously kept no knowledge or wealth from one another in an effort to support their advancement.

Not much could be said of this mission presently. Wealth and knowledge were still shared, but unless your blood was pure and traceable, you had no hope of lifting your status within the caste system and living a better life than the slums outside of the city walls could provide.

Humans were far beneath them, halflings just behind them, and on top sat High Elves in all of their glory. Glory and supremacy the likes of which humans had no chance against.

Daemien took another bitter sip.

Necolette was nice enough, miles better than her twin sister Maevise, Senator Feidral’s oldest children and heiresses to his agricultural company. Though he had not yet declared which would gain his council seat in the event of his passing, with Necolotte’s engagement to Braithe there was clear indication that Maevise would be his inheritor, making her worthy of a temporary pairing to Daemien as a Senator himself, just until the roll out of their new product was over. Then their pairing contract would be dissolved.

He couldn’t wait. After tonight he was free to be on his own once more.

He tilted the glass again, swallowing the remainder of the infuriating liquid much to his audience’s chagrin. Delighted that it was empty, he had an excuse to abandon the exchange of rich brags muttered passive aggressively between his companions.

He looked across the jazz filled gallery, the open bar blessed with no lines and a human bartender looking stressed to please high elvish society. “Excuse me.”

Gentle sax rang harmonious with airy piano, making the atmosphere light and sociable. Cheese and small plate synth chicken and synth fish floated between the pretending socialites, uniformed in greys and blacks for the night occasion. Pearls clung to almost every neck, diamonds on others. Signature watches rested on every wrist, flashing their observant faces of platinum and gold, speaking for the wearer's wealth in the few moments where their words would not.

The art on the walls were arguably the only interesting attraction. They seemed to vibrate with the exhales of the hall occupants, the lights focused solely on the pieces five inches apart. Each canvas displaying abstract lines of seasoned colours, progressing into darkness as the end of the exhibit neared. The clear shapes of the beginning installations lost their figures as they advanced in age, giving the impression that the artist themself was slipping away from their solidified beliefs.

Such was the nature of Saeiraith’s last collection.

He had chosen this gallery out of intrigue. Saeiraith was a pureblood elven artist famous for his work, his paintings gracing almost every wall that could afford it in Meridian. Daemien was willing to humour the clamouring crowd, betting his entire fortune that none of them knew who this establishment belonged to.

The way Saeiraith had been treated, executed–outcast by the council for his humanitarian efforts–was distressing. He hadn’t played in their games, their concept of how society should, and could be. Saeiraith had used his money to better life outside of the walls, risking his reputation and his livelihood on bettering others and how had the high caste repaid him? By using his death to drive up the price of the pieces from his glory days, while the outsiders beyond the walls held vigils and donated what little they had to keep the lights on in his beloved gallery.

Daemien had been blessed to meet him on many occasions, and he could say that a light like Saeiraith would likely never shine again.

He could smell the bar from where he manoeuvred through the crowd. He could hear the clinking of the glasses, the broken skin and gentle drops of the ripe limes resting on the crystal rims. “Excuse me, sorry.” he said in passing, not wanting to offend anyone further.

“No, I’m sorry.” he heard in return, excusing his harmless bump that he had apologised for. He scrunched his black brows, the teary nature of the reply slowing his journey. Had he shoved harder than he thought?

He turned over his left shoulder, wanting to make sure before he continued on his path. “Are you alright?” he asked prematurely, not caring for the answer as long as he hadn’t stepped on their foot too awkwardly.

Seeing who exactly he had clumsily walked on, he shut his mouth, keeping his inebriated tongue from rolling past his lips.

She was two feet beneath him at the very least, his own seven foot stature tall for even his bloodline. Giving him the impression that she was some percentage human, even though her cinnamon ears were just as angular as his own. Three brass studs led from the tip of her ear to the pearls in her lobes, her honey blonde hair tucked neatly behind them, full and wavy to the small of her back. The strapless red dress on the curvature of her body the simplest kind of tasteful and stunning, keeping close to her form as it rested midway up her calves. Her small feet rested in black stilettos that attempted to give her more height than she had been gifted with naturally.

She hadn’t yet turned to face him. He supposed it was because she wasn’t done wiping the tears from her eyes. He wouldn’t pretend he could empathise with her problems. As a half-breed, she was undoubtedly low caste and would have struggles he couldn’t relate to, and would only insult her more if he pretended to. Still, he waited, wondering if she would respond.

Shae tried to stop the tears that seemed to be coming faster each second her eyes closed. Hearing someone finally ask had unleashed a geyser of unshed admiration and longing she hadn’t been prepared for. She pressed the cocktail napkin closer to her waterline, begging them to cease. She would only embarrass herself further in front of the people who had caused her pain.

She couldn’t look up. She couldn’t meet the eyes of the deep voice who had drawn her to her breaking point. She would only keep her blurry gaze on the splashes of magenta and warring burgundy spreading their creative disease to the black and white empty circles beneath them.

Daemien turned his attention to the piece in front of her, tempted to ask if it had drawn such a reaction from her. It had its obvious beauty to it, frustration and lust clouding an otherwise clear minded artist looking to provoke tension. Tears were a far interpretation. Maybe she was a part of a suited pair? Depending on the half-breed, many could thrive inside the walls of Meridian. Who they were fathered by were the truest indications if they could conform to society, but never on their own. They would still have to depend on another to gain stature.

“Are you alright?” he asked her lowly, standing by her side as he continued examining.

She wished deep in her soul that she was. Invisibility–appearing well–would be the grandest blessing from the seven. But she was not. “Unfortunately not.” she let out a sigh laced with choked sobs.

Hearing her speak he stepped in closer, the soft tone of her mezzo-soprano voice an enchantment that licked his ears, making his toes curl. To be so small, and have a voice so sure and confident, despite the glaring tones of melancholy in her tears, was a mesmerising surprise. “It is the music then? The conversation? The latter makes me want to weep alongside you.”

Shae looked up at him from her right shoulder, parting the red of her lips as she wanted to respond more cheerfully than she could. “No, I’m not important enough for high caste conversation.” His kind brown eyes seemed to lose the single ounce of joy they carried with her answer.

She wished she could be happy enough for them both. His manicured hair pushed away from his ears, off of his all black suit ensemble. His shaved face, portraying a tormented unhappiness she could feel in the depths of her stomach.

She looked back to the painting, her tears slowing.

Grief-stricken silver green eyes, painted sultry lips, a thin rounded nose, dirty blonde arched brows, and impeccably clear brown skin. If she was paired, he envied her suitor. “Not even high caste elves are good enough for high caste conversation.” He mumbled, the empty glass growing warm in his hand of the remainder of the brief adventure he should have been taking. “If not the monotonous conversation, why are you crying?”

She closed her eyes briefly, crumpling the wet napkin in her palm. “I…I don’t think you would be interested. No one seems to be, although it’s staring you all in your well-fed, wealthy faces.” She covered her mouth, not having meant for an insult to pass. Such an outburst would garner harsh punishment if the right person heard. Unfortunately, she found herself surrounded by the right people.

She looked back up to him, prepared to hear him berate her, but instead found an entertained smirk gracing his pink lips, humour in his eyes beneath his raised brows. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.” Most assuredly he was high caste himself.

He waved it away, enjoying the way her eyes grew wide as she tried to excuse herself. It was wonderful to hear someone else say it, making him feel less alone in the verdict. He would keep her secret. “It’s perfectly fine with me if you did. You’re not wrong about them. But you are false in claiming that I wouldn't be interested. I am irrationally interested in what you have to say now that I know you have a mind of your own.” Maybe he could listen to her problems after all? He gathered that she didn’t show this much emotion over just anything.

She shook her head. The consequences for what she would say were too great. Even the nicest people would sell your words to the council if it raised their status. “No, I just think I had too much wine.” She held herself, focusing on the piece again.

Daemien heard her reluctance through the floating clarinet, thinking her wise to not trust another so soon. The laughter seemed to grow louder through their silence, no more tears to produce innocent conversation. He wasn’t going to let the lull continue much longer.

The bar was beginning to be forgotten.

He put the empty glass on a serving tray passing below his nose, the human waiter greeting her as he passed. He had a feeling if he ousted himself as an ally, she would be more willing to come forward. “What if I told you something embarrassing about myself? Would that help?”

Her brows drew together in confusion. Why would she want to know anything like that about him? All to get her to tell her why she was crying? What was in it for him? “I don’t know…” she said in rejection, not wanting to jeopardise her situation any further. There were listeners everywhere. Little stood in his way if he was looking to endanger her further.

Hesitation was a gift in disguise. If he assumed each low caste elf was looking to complain about the high caste, many would be imprisoned or exiled. Her desire to survive was just as well managed as the council’s need to silence opposition.

Her eyes shifted to her surroundings, proving his theory. He nodded to an associate as they passed, glad that she had kept her admission to herself for even a few moments. When all was clear, he stood closer to her, whispering as he pretended to be commenting on the art. “I still sleep with a night light because I’m afraid of the dark.”

She shook her head, confused for only a moment until a smile was forced onto her face. He didn’t look any younger than three hundred and forty. That was far too old to need to sleep with the lights on. Was he only saying so to make her feel better? “That isn't true...is it?” He only returned an unknown gesture, his shoulders lifting to his ears. She could tell he wouldn't divulge any further without a response from her. This game of his would be a two way street, and for now, she would be grateful for the distraction. “I argue with myself aloud if I'm being indecisive...even if people are around.”

He smiled as he heard her admit her habit, her ears tipping with red. He was pleased with any honest outcome, whether it helped her work through her problems, or just allowed him to get to know her. “So you're clinically insane then? That was a nice way to say so.” Happy to hear her chuckle, he saw her shift her weight, covering her upturned lips. When was the last time he got to hear someone laugh genuinely? “I'm an aggressive snorer. In advancement school, my roommate complained so much about me that I was quarantined for fear of a nasal disease.”

She couldn't bite back her laughter as he shook through his words, passing his chortles off as coughs. She couldn’t picture him one hundred and sixty years younger, with his mouth agape like a cave. “They thought you had Nayman's? No one's had that in centuries!”

He nodded along with her. A serious side effect of the fatal disease just so happened to be obnoxious snoring from the liquid build up. It had scared half of the students into outcasting him. “For two weeks until the testing came back. Then my roommate moved out and I couldn't find another. I sleep with nose plugs now.” Telling her all of this would usually come at a greater price. He wouldn't dream of letting any of this slip to those who knew him now, but something inside of him knew she needed humour at the expense of his image.

Settling back into quiet as their laughter died, she hoped her next fact would be considered an equal match. He struck her as a negotiator that wouldn't let her hear the end of it otherwise. “I have a deep, irrational fear of sharks in swimming pools.” she said it as quietly as she could, willing to die where she stood if anyone else overheard.

Thinking that he had misheard her, he gave a pregnant pause. As it clicked in his mind that not only would she not repeat herself, but that she was being unbearably honest; he slapped a hand over his mouth to keep himself from spitting out in laughter. He heard her giggle haunt the end of her sentence.

“I...I have so many questions. Even if you can see the bottom? With clear water? You know the chlorine...would kill them...don’t you?” He was fascinated. The thought had never crossed his mind. A shark in a chemically treated swimming pool.

“Yes, I know!” She admitted, hiding her face in her hands. Hadn’t she said it was irrational? “I just get so scared, I can never go into the deep end. It doesn’t help my case of insanity, does it?” She shared a grin with him as his loud laugh forced her to join him, a good-natured friendship brewing over their best kept secrets.

Forgetting where they were, and the few glamourous elves around them, they struggled to contain themselves. Relentless whispering took her from the amiable warmth between their close bodies. She turned over her shoulder, catching their eyes narrowing as their mouths moved with their silent words. “Sorry.” She whispered as she mouthed to them, turning back to art that possessed more character than the walking statues.

With no desire to excuse his behaviour, he gave a glance in return to the table judging her. He mimicked their faces, unlike her, he would win the intimidation game they played with others. The high caste socialites broke from his stare, checking their watches and turning their jewellery as they recognized who he was.

He turned back to her, sharing a look of disdain for their behaviour. He preferred the smile that captivated her features, delicately displaying her sharp incisors. “Don't mind them. They hate real enjoyment because it reminds them that they have nothing to enjoy.”

She wiped away her shame, his words clearing her chest of the pockets of hostility and resentment she held for the high caste. His actions had convinced her that he was unlike them, although he looked and spoke just the same as they did. He wasn’t perfect, and he hadn’t pretended to be. “It’s only right that we apologise. We interrupted them speaking about who spends the least amount of time in their summer homes.”

At that moment Daemien wasn’t sure if he had taken his mirth supplement without his knowledge. Gaiety seemed to come so naturally for her when he himself had struggled to feel this way for decades. “Detestable.” he rolled his eyes, playing into her sarcasm.

“The audacity!” She clutched at her absent pearls, feeling lighter as she spoke her truths with someone so willing to listen. It was a rarity to speak with anyone within the walls about their dislike for the high caste, but to have that conversation with someone who lived among them was different entirely. Shae snuck a glance up at him, just as Daemien did the same, his smiling eyes reflecting her sentiments about their audience, and about each other.

If she was held hostage to admit it, he was eye-catching. His bold black hair gave an aura of mystery while his face, chiselled, and strong laid undeniably handsome. His kindest feature was his soft brown eyes, and the way they crinkled with joy when his smile; white and stinging, passed his full lips.

She was not surprised he was purely elvish, from one strong family or another, otherwise he wouldn't be here, enjoying the scenery of her father's gallery even though people just like him had been the cause of his death.

She kept her judgement minimal. Just as she found herself to be different from most other half-breeds, he had proved himself an anomaly amongst the pure. “If you hate them so much, why are you here?”

He wanted to shrug again, but the answer was far more simple than he wanted it to be: because he was one of them. It was where he belonged, and he would detest every moment of it. “To appreciate the last of the true art. I admired Saeiraith and his work, and it seems I'll be the only one within Meridian’s walls to continue admiring him after his death.”

Shae held back the tears that she felt bubbling. She hadn't thought there was anyone left who felt that way other than the people her father had helped, ending hunger, and bringing education to several quadrants along the outer wall. “You admired him? That's brave of you to say.” The council was punishing anyone for sympathising with him, all while they stole all the proceeds of his posthumous sales.

“Maybe to some. It was far braver to say so when he was alive, which I unfortunately did not. He was a fine being, and an even finer humanitarian. He deserved more than a nameless pity party, hosting the very people who sought his demise.” He kept his eyes on her, his response seeming to have brought back her worries. Only a moment passed when she started sniffling again. Sensing the root of her sadness, he played his role as a new confidant. “Did you know him?”

She exhaled with longevity, hoping to suppress the emotions fluttering within her lungs. She knew him better than most ever would, and she would lose everything that connected him to her now that he was gone. She breathed before she spoke, passing one last judgement on him before she nodded. Nothing told her that he would betray her. “He was my father.”

Daemien held back his look of shock, her fears, her sadness painting a clearer image now. This very gallery would be sold to the highest bidder in two days time, and so far the council was likely to win it as consolation for his ‘unruly behaviour’. All of her father’s loves–his passion, his work–would be handed to those who had had him killed.

He hadn't known that Saeiraith had fathered a child. Although it wasn't hard for him to grasp. The elven artist had a soft spot for humans and had often taken them as lovers, not minding the whispers that came with it. “You’re his daughter?”

She nodded again, her eyes pleading with him not to tell anyone else. Not even the council knew about her, and she wanted to keep it that way. “His only child. It was still illegal to cross mate when I was born. My mother didn't want them to know I existed, so when they came to register me, she gave them her own last name. She claimed my father died in the rebellion and that ended the questions.” Saeiraith had been more than pleased when she was born, showering her with gifts and education, sharing his art with her on every visit outside of the walls.

To others, it had only looked like more of the charity work he was known for. Their well kept secret had possibly made them the closest father and daughter in or outside of Meridian. “I grew up in these halls, watching him paint, inheriting the beauty he saw in this damned, cruel world. When I was old enough to work inside the city, he made me his second. Now with him dead, all of it will have been for nothing.”

Before arriving tonight he had wondered what he could do as repentance for his silence during the artist’s life. The seven had answered, giving him every reason to lift the worries terrorising her so that she, and their community could have time to mourn.

Her mention of family names made him realise that he hadn't gotten any inclination of a name from her. However, she hadn't asked him either. Did she still want to remain anonymous, or had they simply committed a social faux pas?

He parted his lips, ready to settle his inner debate as a nasal birthed voice shrieked his name. “Daemien?” He looked behind them, seeing Maevise looking over the party goer’s heads in search of him. He held his breath, not wanting to respond. Then their harmless connection would be ended.

Shae saw him react as someone began calling for the Vaeyudual Marketing owner who’s office had contacted her to throw this pompous false engagement party. It was the only Daemien she had ever heard of.

The elf in front of her looked like he wanted to shrink, his eyes looking for hiding places as the elven woman got closer.

He couldn't be. Could he?

Shae had said heinous things about the high elves directly to the Chief Senator that controlled Meridian. “Senator...Vaeyudual?” She asked him, his face giving her his answer as it looked sorrowful. “I–I’m so sorry.” The council would know her secret now. She would be killed just like her father had been. Why had she been so forward? She felt anxiously sick. “I shouldn't have–what I said was out of line. I–”

She couldn’t look into his eyes any longer, she needed quiet.

He saw her try to explain herself, the fear he had worked hard to purge, overcoming her now. It had been refreshing to speak to someone who didn't know his title, who wasn't frightened by who he was. Just as quickly as he had taken solace in it, it had been taken from him. “No, it–it’s alright, really.” He tried to say to her as she bowed earnestly, fleeing on her heels towards the door behind the bar.

He looked after her, her golden hair turning over her shoulder as she took another glance back at him. He held her gaze, swearing that he saw any chance of fondness burn from her iris. He didn’t know what name to call as she turned away, disappearing behind the bar.

He wasn’t sure how long he had watched her go. Maevise’s aggressive hands clutching his suit jacket broke him from her spell. “Daemien, they want you to make your speech now.” she said with false seduction in his ear, pulling him back to the cursed table, back to the sea of misery he had been fortunate enough to break from. He gave no reply, letting his feet follow where her hand led.