49th of Ymiden 722
Rakvald had received a response, finally, from Ildred in Scalvoris. There was a sense of trepidation as he began opening the seal that kept it folded shut. He genuinely didn't know what to expect. He'd spent the better part of three arcs moving houses, from one to the next, sometimes without consulting her, half of that time without warning her ahead of time.
She had every right to deny one last move, back to Quacia. Especially given the conditions they'd left the city in last time. Rakvald's hands shook as he unfolded the parchment, and then began reading:
Rakvald,
You are the most pig-headed excuse for a man that I've ever had the misfortune of getting entangled with. I will not be moving houses, from Scalvoris to Quacia. I've spent three arcs following your coattails from one end of the world to the other, with nary an explanation or excuse that was suitable. Svartholda deserves better. I deserve better.
Should you change your mind about this foolish venture of yours, and return to Scalvoris, you will find us at the home we made. I will not have Svartholda waiting in hope at the closed door to your office anymore. If you insist upon this latest move, and do not return immediately to Scalvoris, I will have to tell her that her father has perished. You know she adores you, yet you torment and tease her with your lack of constancy.
Dragging us across Idalos on paltry whims, that is not love. That is not care. You are a self-absorbed fool, and I will not allow Svartholda's childhood to be held hostage by your ghost.
Do not write us again. Your letters will be returned forthwith should I receive any.
Ildred
Rakvald stared over the letter, which was written in such a long verse that it must have taken quite a lot of will and thought. Ildred usually sent short, terse replies even over large distances to call him a pig, or a dog, or this or that. Those, he usually disregarded as playful love-bites of his partner. There was something very different about this letter, something final about it. He didn't like it.
Rakvald considered that perhaps she was speaking the truth. Even as it dawned on him, that much of what she said was fair and accurate, he couldn't deny the mental reflex that rose to the occasion, to tell him that he was great, and awesome. And... could she be right? Was he really that self-involved to be blind all this time to their suffering? He moved the letter with a shaking hand to his off-hand, and took the pen with the other, starting a reply. As he did, he found his words coming out strangely. There was almost a mechanical method to his thoughts, as he wrote. It dawned on him. Was she right?
He considered that perhaps he had always been in the wrong. Perhaps Svartholda would be better off thinking he was dead.
Rakvald's heart sank, as he crumpled up the letter in his hand. He sank into his desk, and began sobbing into it.
He sat, wallowing in his misery a good few bits, before hearing a light knock at the door. Who could that be? Rakvald lifted his eyes to the person at the door, his face tentacles curling and writhing beneath his nasal cavity as he took in the sight of an unremarkable-looking man. A short fellow, in a white linen shirt, and brown leather boots and pants.
He stood there, gaping at the sight that Rakvald must have cut, groaning, lamenting over a piece of parchment. Rakvald growled piteously but wiped the tears from his beady mantis eyes. Then he looked up at the man beneath the threshold of his office. "What do you want, why are you here? I'm closed today."
The man in the doorway grimaced, as if expecting at any moment to be struck. Rakvald's brow flesh quirked slightly at the expression. "Are you simple? It old you we're closed."
"I... er... that is." The man stammered. "I'm here to er... inquire to the position you posted at the Lust's Fallacy. For medical assistants?"
Rakvald looked at him for a few moments, rolling over the words spoken for a moment before light dawned on his memory. Yes of course, he'd been looking for an assistant. In all the wrong places apparently, until now. The reason he advertised to a dive such as the Fallacy was there were all manner of back-room healers and barber-surgeons that frequented such places. Healers who wouldn't ask questions nor inform the wrong people. While Rakvald would've happily taken an apprentice or assistant from the Hospitality or Warfare Guilds, they had shut their doors to him. Possibly based on some black-balling of an old rival or another. Rakvald could hardly keep track of who he'd offended in Quacia through the years, but supposed there were plenty in positions of influence enough to enable such a barrier.
Rakvald sighed, and then gestured gently toward a chair that lay opposite his desk. He took the parchment he'd been reading, and slid it into a lower compartment in his desk. This done, he folded his spindly hands and waited for the man to introduce h himself.
"Ah, Master Rakvald, I've heard much of your prowess as a mage, a healer, and an innovator of..."
"Cut the shit and tell me your name."
"Ahm... Renfreud. Jacob Renfreud." The man gritted his teeth as Rakvald interrupted him, speaking through his teeth. He seemed to deal with issues of personal control, if Rakvald was any judge. But he really wasn't. And he wasn't picky about who he worked with, or he wouldn't have advertised for healers at a brothel.
"Renfreud. I like that name." The mage said, clearing his throat. "So let's dispense with all the usual garbage, and get to the matter. What's your background in medicine? What I really need I someone who's familiar with sterilization techniques..."
"Ah, sterilization? Yes... Madame Geneva has hired me to perform such procedures on men who got too friendly with our girls..."
Rakvald blinked, not following for a moment before he caught up to what the man was saying. "No not that kind... We don't do neutering here, we don't make Eunuchs, unless they're paying a hell of a lot anyway."
The mage shuddered at the thought of depriving another man of his manhood. But... Perhaps this Renfreud was just what he ordered? A person who will take any direction without question. "But you have some surgical skill then? Are you familiar with the uses of medical-grade whiskey and similar concoctions?"
Renfreud grew tense again, now speaking through his teeth, "Hisss... yes. Cleaning up afterward is very important."
Renfreud's 'smile' widened, into what resembled more of an ear-to-ear grimace. Rakvald sighed.
He considered the man in front of him, and whether taking on such an anxious assistant might not be the best thing. But he seemed eager to please, and was swift to obey orders. Willing to do anything for the one paying him...
Unless he cut other men's balls off for fun. If Rakvald found out that was the case, he'd have sent him out immediately. But he couldn't imagine it, and so dismissed it as... unlikely.
"Very well Renfreud. I'll offer you a place to stay here, unless you'd prefer to walk to work everyday. What I need is someone who will dedicate themselves fully to this position, at least as long as it's needed to be filled..."
"I will obey master!" He screeched through his teeth. Then coughed, curbing his enthusiastic response. "Of course, Master Rakvald. I will er... bring my things, if it please you? Am I hired then?"
The outburst, as full-throated a declaration of loyalty as it could be, made Rakvald a little less sure about hiring the man. He seemed to struggle with demons. But then, who didn't? Rakvald weighed the bonuses of hiring Renfreud versus the obvious concerns he had. In the end, the scales tipped in the unhinged man's favor.
"Very well. Make ready to move in. We'll start tomorrow night, if it suits you."
Renfreud's grimace grew dimples, it seemed, and his neck muscles tensed, as if he was almost in pain. "Yes master! If it pleases you... I'll come in the afternoon, ready to start!"
Without waiting for Rakvald to call him back, or change his mind, Renfreud hopped up to his feet, off the chair, and pushed his way out of the office.
Rakavld lowered his eyes to the surface of his desk, and the pen and parchment that were ready to make a reply to his 'wife' Ildred and their daughter. In the end, he crumpled up the half-written letter, and then threw it in the hearth.
