He Wasn't The Type

The Archive shelves were untidy.

Some centuries’ worth of scrolls and skin-bound tomes were accrued upon the tall stacks in loosely organized fashion, arranged atop one another in only an barely stable layout. It was a collection in need of pruning, which was regularly seen to by the vermin that the perfumed braziers hung around the perimeter failed to repel.

Making sense of the chaos was not the job that Tarth originally assumed she had signed on for, but it was not an apprentice’s place to complain.

She hooked her tail underneath a plush cloth that she swished about behind her, dusting the floor as she walked with her arms full with materials. There was only one commission today, a lineage inquiry from the matron of the Orn family, with no research orders from the Council that might supersede it. Tepidly, Tarth had offered to take the job, as she knew it to be her station, but was relieved when her offer was pleasantly and surprisingly denied. Lineage records were kept only for the most influential bloodlines and, being a matter of pride, were susceptible to grandiose falsehoods that would hobble even the most fastidious factchecking in its tracks. In other words, the work was tedious, and an enormous bother.

Just to her right, a small, glossy creature skittered across a shelf at eye level. She swiped her hand out, seizing the thing easily and crumpling it before she flung its little body into a dusty stack of books in the corner. The sound of impact was satisfying.

Yet, the lack of other response gave her pause.

If there was one thing the head archivist hated (of which there were many), it was any further addition to the maelstrom that was their workplace, and in hypocritical fashion he was quick to lash out at his apprentice for it, somehow always hyper-alert of her comings and goings unless they were purposefully concealed.

But today, he was quiet.

In fact, since relieving her of the unwanted burden this morning, he had not said a word, which was, to say the least, unusual. The archivist was gregarious, even in his work, even alone, often muttering to himself, pontificating on arcane theories or simply ranting about philosophy to anyone even vaguely within earshot. Yet, not even the obvious slight that was the hurled carcass had gotten a rise from him.

Tarth set the bundles down and began padding down the aisle toward the room’s center, half suspecting that he had stepped out without her knowing. Just before reaching sightline of his overladen desk, she paused. A thick tome with red binding leaned out from one of the shelves, sandwiched between its neighbors in an increasingly precarious position. She pressed at the spine with her claw tip.

The book toppled to the floor. A slam sounded, and a cloud of dust billowed gloriously out. Yet, no angered shouts came.

Satisfied that she must be alone, she rounded the corner.

“Oh! If only my master were here!” she began to belt to herself in sing-song. “Why he would be saying, what a splendi—”

It was said that those of warrior blood carried a unique sense of oncoming peril, a sort of instinct that invigorated you for the fight when danger was afoot. Whether this was true or not, Tarth felt a distinct prickling down her spine as she locked eyes with her mentor, sitting hunched on his stool, a trail of green smoke wicking from the long pipe in his hand. If she was soon to find herself seeking other employment, she suddenly thought, then that would in fact be the best case scenario.

“I…” she began, before she quickly stopped herself. She had missed an important assessment on first look, failing to utilize the keen eye that had won her this position to begin with.

Vanik was not looking at her. He was looking through her. His eyes were glassy, his focus somewhere far beyond the walls. She had known him, when contemplating enigmas, to stare deeply and intensely at random spots in the floor, his brows tightly knit, silent only if he was not mouthing angry phrases to himself in reflection. However, this look was not that look. His gaze was empty. Lost.

“Sir?” she ventured, and it finally seemed to rouse him. He blinked, twice, thrice, slowly, and studied her face as though he had just now noticed her. He furrowed his brow, and pressed the corners of his mouth.

“Any updates on the Orn request?” he huffed, his words disimpassioned.

Suddenly recalling, Tarth turned back to the book upon the floor, happy to break eye contact for the few seconds it took to reshelve it. Straightening, she said, “Sir, you said that… you would be handling it?”

He blinked at her a few times more.

“Yes…” His voice was a bewildered groan. “Yes, I suppose I did.”

He sucked on his pipe, and leaned back, a green mist dancing upward on the draft of his long and forceful sigh. Briefly, he stood, reaching beside the desk into a cabinet, from which he produced two small, cuboid vessels and an amethyst flask. He retook his seat, and then, after what felt like an eternity of a pause, patted on the desk, pointing to the stool at Tarth’s smaller, and more haphazard desk beside.

“Vanik?” Tarth asked, but complied with the implied request, pulling over the stool and taking a seat at a comfortable distance, though he did not approve or reply.

With a twist, he pulled the cap from the flask, pouring a clear liquid into the two vessels. He scooted one Tarth’s way. As he raised the cup to his lips, she mimicked, taking a suspicious sip.

Bafir wine. It was a delicacy. It was expensive, and yet she watched her mentor down the glass as though it were cheap marsh ale. He poured himself another, which he took a few seconds more to savor before he set the vessel down. He put his hand against his horn, leaning his elbow onto the desk, and huffed.

“Something’s on your mind,” she offered, sipping at the drink with far more restraint than he.

“Something’s always on my mind,” he replied.

“Something unusual.”

He glared at her, the ruby tint of his irises flashing in the sunlight filtering through the roof grates. Yet, his tongue did not lash. In fact, a soft weariness seemed to take to his face as a palpable resignation rolled over him. He turned in his seat, and reached to a stack of parchment, shuffling through it.

“I saw Najon today, just this morning, before you arrived,” he said.

“Funny,” she replied. “What were they doing here? Pretty far from the Council chambers.”

“They had a message for me.”

Tarth edged forward in curiosity.

“What kind?”

He thumbed through the stack and sighed, and without a further pause said softly, “I’ve received word of my brother’s death.”

She leaned back.

He continued to fail to meet her eyes, his lazy gaze upon the sheets as he leafed through, only now beginning to carry on in something resembling his usual tone, though all the stern authority was absent still.

“Apparently this information came thirdhand. Some fighter’s offspring heard from their mother about the fall of a notable warrior of Nilajo, a son of the afore-fallen Beoferth. It was only a quiet rumor; someone raised a lament and someone else heard, and Najon found out through whatever ways they find things out—and they tell me they aren’t with the Watchers—and they thought that I might not have known, they said.” He took a draw from his pipe. “I suppose they were only glad to think that they knew of something pertinent to me that I did not, a way to gloat over me perhaps.”

Tarth raised an eyebrow. “What did you do?”

“Nothing,” Vanik sighed. “That’s a satisfaction they can have this once. I have better things to do than waste thoughts on pissants.”

Patently untrue, Tarth thought. The archivist was notoriously petty. Her eyes flicked down and back.

“Did you know him well?”

“…My brother? Yes, once. And then, not for a while. Though, I was lately coming to know him again. Mene’s growing a liking to him.” He paused, heavily. “Well, she had been.”

“That’s unfortunate,” the apprentice said, her gaze downcast.

“I suppose. To tell truth, I’m constantly amazed that Jo… my brother, that he made it this long. I have known and been intimate with many a fool, but he was truly the stupidest I ever met. Perhaps his blitheness was the trade for some grace from the gods, I don’t know, but the fortune he was granted is like nothing else I’ve seen.” A wry grin spread across his face. “I guess that fortune finally ran out.”

“Was his body retrieved?”

“Honestly,” he said, “I don’t know how much was even left. The rumors neglected that information. But, if he was, I can’t say that’s my concern.”

“And you believe Najon?”

“I’ve no reason not to.”

Tarth pressed her lips and gripped her cup, swilling the last drops around.

“And what of his offspring then? Will you speak with them?”

Vanik hiccupped mid-breath and let out a guffaw.

“If they existed,” he snorted.

“None, then?”

“He wasn’t the type.”

Once he recovered his breath, he added, “Last I knew, he has some lover, though, a young little thing, younger than you. Perhaps I’ll seek him.”

The apprentice nodded solemnly. She sipped the last of her glass, and stood from her chair.

“I guess I’ll… go work some more on those reorganizations.” She turned and then stopped, and added herself, “I know it’s fruitless to mourn, but if you should need some time…”

“I don’t need you pitying me, I’m fine.” He dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “Go and do your work before I turn you back out on the street.

Ah, that was the man she knew. Tarth nodded with a smirk. “As you wish, Master.” She tipped her head once more to him before she turned. “Are you sure you don’t want me to handle the Orn commission?”

Vanik dragged on his pipe, and shook his head.

“No, it will give me something to occupy my thoughts. Go now.”

With that, she obliged.

From within the stacks, turning once more, she saw an emerald plume rise, snaking languidly toward the high-domed ceiling of the Archives where it snuck out of the open grate, around the rain guard and out into the sky beyond. In the center of the room, the head archivist’s stool creaked beneath his massive, shifting weight as papers shuffled across the desk.

From behind, she spied broad shoulders heave, and sigh. A lonesome quill pen set to work.