Crossroads

Málmr had never sat at the bar at the back of the Beggar and Flagon before.

The groaning floorboards and moth-eaten velvet drapes had always been oddly comforting, his favorite place to return to when he came back from his long patrols across Ivras. He never wandered past the main rooms where Eamon's stage was, fine to leave the bordello and gambling side to those who wanted it, but it was the music he came for, and his friends he'd made there that got him to stay. It was a good place to gather news of far-flung friends who he rarely got to see these days, what with schedules scattered and patrols rewritten to suit the new Archon's demands, and Eamon's songs always made him forget his troubles, especially when they found time for the rare duet. There was magic in Eamon's songs, and by the Forge did he need it tonight.

So he made his way past stage, past the round tables, all the way to the bar in the back. Reynard was working the bar in place of Prothero tonight, and Málmr knew him enough to sit comfortably in front of him, his broad shoulders taking up the seats of two men.

Tonight was quiet. A quick glance down the bar told him there was only one or two men a few seats down, the nearest one dressed impressively in red and gold. Málmr sighed and leaned his elbows on the bar, placing a coin down. “A mug of...something, please.” 

Reynard frowned. “...Y’ sure? You always said you didn’t have the tolerance for it.”

“I don’t.” He replied, rubbing a broad hand over his scarred face. He met Reynard’s assessing look, and apparently whatever he saw made him shrug and fetch him a mug of sweet cider. “...Is Eamon playing tonight?”

The bartender’s frown deepened. “Why’re you asking?”

Málmr was about to give him a flat look – why else would he ask? – when he saw Reynard pointedly nodding to the Witchfinder insignia of the balancing scales, pinning his Order cloak over his worn armor.

“You can’t be serious,” Málmr slowly bit out. “I’m not going to – Reynard, you know me better than that.”

Another shrug, this time hiding a lot of bitterness. “Look, Málmr, you picked a side. I don’t have to agree with it, or like it, but them’s the breaks.”

“I’m not going to arrest him,” He gritted his teeth. “I just wanted to see if he was-”

“If he was what? Gonna pretend everything’s all sunshine and roses and sing songs together?” Reynard curled his lip, making Málmr reel back, eyes wide. “Y’ ever stop to think that maybe he can’t show his face and earn his coin when folks like you come ‘round like nothing’s changed? You hunt people down for a living,” His tone turned quieter, bitter, as he picked up a glass to refill an order down the bar. “Heard you’re damn good at it, too.”

Málmr’s mouth opened, but he couldn’t say anything, all his words stuck in his throat. That familiar acidic knife in his gut returned, that awful wrenching guilt. Eventually all he managed was a quiet, “He’s my friend, Reynard.”

“I get that.” The bartender looked away, his bitter tone bleeding off. “But maybe you might consider leavin’ him alone, hm?”  

Málmr didn’t watch him answer the refill further down the bar. He just put his head in his hands, his cider untouched.