The Majestic
3 Winter 217
Private Deren Lake is uncomfortable in this kind of place, even in the daylight. He waits in the lobby of the Majestic, alternately sitting on one of the small velvet couches, and standing. Standing seems too urgent, too direct, but sitting seems too casual, like he’s here as a patron. And it shouldn’t matter - plenty of people come here for all kinds of things, and it’s not like he wasn’t here last night, anyway. He finds himself half-leaning against the arm of a chair, trying to look nondescript. It’s hard to do while in uniform, and Deren is sweating a little, under his mail and tabard. He’d asked Johanssen to cover for him while he ran this errand, and he’d agreed in exchange for Deren’s promise not to tell the rest of the regiment how Johannsen had earned his newly-blackened eye.
When Deren had arrived at the Majestic a few minutes earlier, there had been a half-elf girl at the front desk, and she’d smiled and asked how she could help. Deren had stumbled through his request, describing the young woman he’d spoken to the night before. He hadn’t caught her name, he’d explained, but she had red hair.
The girl at the desk had smiled, warmly, “We’ve got plenty of redheads. If you like, you can head into the lounge and I’ll send someone down momentarily?”
Deren had blanched, “No, I mean, she wasn’t…she was working the bar?”
“Most of the girls also serve drinks. It’s all part of the experience.”
“No, she,” he paused, rubbing the back of his neck, “She wasn’t one of the pr- one of the ladies. She seemed like she was…” he shifted slightly. He didn’t want to say too much and get the girl in trouble. Instead, he resorted to gesture, punching the air in front of him.
“Oh!” the half-elf girl had said, face brightening with realization. She’d narrowed her eyes at Deren, though, “If you were injured it’s your own fault. I will have you know the Majestic is a privately owned establishment and we reserve the right to refuse service to anyone for any reason, and if a physical altercation occurred between you and members of our security…”
Deren had held up his hands, “No, no no… I mean, yes? Kind of? But not, I wasn’t, I just wanted to…” He’d stopped. What had he wanted to do? Even if the bartender wasn’t one of the professional ladies, this was still her place of work. “I wanted to…call on her?” He’d smiled, the side of his mouth quirking upward, in a way he hoped was nonthreatening.
The half-elf girl had laughed at this, “Oh! Well, I’ll go get her.” She had gone in a flash of skirts.
Now Deren waits, smiling to himself, thinking about the previous night, when he’d been bullied into going to the brothel with Johannsen and the others. It built camaraderie, they’d said, at the end of a long day, to have a few drinks. Deren had suggested a tavern, but Johannsen had overruled him - brothels served drink, too, and the views and company were better than a tavern.
by Kate QuimbyDeren had spent most of his time sitting at the bartop, talking to the bartender. As the night went on, he’d had more than a few drinks - how many he wasn’t sure - she kept topping up his mug. She’d made an impression, though. Quick to laugh at his jokes, and fire off her own, at one point laughing enough that she’d had to duck behind the bar, or risk ruining the atmosphere for the other patrons.
There had been a moment, too, when she’d fumbled with a new cask of ale, and Deren had helped her - he’d told her about how in his hometown, Lostone, his mother was a tavernkeeper, and how before enlisting he’d worked as a barback, helping his family. The bartender had brightened at this. Told Deren a little about her own family. She was one of four, the rest boys. Deren had said how he was of a large family, too, originally only him and his mother - grown and blended when his mother had remarried, and suddenly Deren was elder brother to a whole batch of little sisters.
The bartender had asked him why he’d left home, and the way she spoke of ‘the South’ as if it was a foreign land made him feel like he was worldly and well-traveled. Deren had told her about Lostone, and about the green of the grass in spring, and the sound of insects in the summer air. She’d listened, leaning on the bar top, blue eyes studying his face. By her fair skin he’d judged she’d never had a proper summer, herself, and he’d said as much. This had made her laugh again, had made her put her hand on his arm, to study the contrast against the deeper bronze of his own skin, had made his pulse suddenly quicken.
She’d shoved him, then, too, playfully, keeping her hand flat to his chest for a moment, and told him she was sure there was nothing so important south of here, otherwise he would have stayed, and here he was far from home.
At this, Deren had told her how that was a perk of joining the Painted Swans. Seeing new places, and meeting new people. He’d smiled at her, with that, and she’d rolled her eyes. He’d laughed, and explained it was a good job for a young person, too, and now he could send most of his pay home to his family. He told her how he got letters from home sometimes, filled with words of his mother’s pride and love, and words of strength from his step-father, and how he’d kept each one, folded carefully. He said that he knew he was doing good work, defending Isendel, enforcing peace. It was an especially important job, now, with the Barony at war, and the constant threat at the Northern border. He’d explained that his own position, guarding the headquarters, was crucial to the ongoing war effort, and the bartender’s eyes had gone wide at that, impressed. Still, he missed his family, and the warmth of his home. In the moment he’d felt like such an admission should have embarrassed him, but it hadn’t, it had felt like an honest thing to say, and the bartender had nodded, sympathetic, saying how she was often homesick, too.
Deren remembers liking the way she talked, how sometimes she said two words when one would do, trying to be clear, and how she shifted in and out of a Jorungun cadence. He could have stayed there, at the bar, talking with her, for the whole night.
But Johannsen had gone too far with one of the girls. A playful slap to the rump was one thing, but he’d cracked a girl across the face, sending her sprawling, and suddenly the bartender was up and over the bartop. She’d told Johannsen to leave, that they didn’t tolerate that sort of thing, here. Johannsen had rounded on the bartender, had cursed at her, told her he’d paid his coin and he could do what he liked, and then he’d hit her, too.
Deren had gotten to his feet, then, unsteady from drink, but ready to protect the women from his comrade, and get him out of the brothel, away from them, but the bartender had acted first.
It had been quick and brutal - a knee to Johannsen’s stomach made him double over, and once he was lower, the bartender had wrapped one arm around his head, and delivered several sharp blows to his face with her free hand. By that point, a larger part-orcish girl had rushed into the room, too, from the lobby space, and she’d lifted Johannsen bodily from the room. The madam had entered as Johanssen left, and told the rest of Deren’s cohort to leave, that their night here was done.
And so Deren had left.
Now, Deren found himself back at the brothel, waiting for the girl from the night before. Eventually, he decides against leaning on the chair, and sits instead. The instant he makes contact with the cushion, though, he hears a familiar laugh, and stands immediately, automatically at attention.
The bartender from the night before is there, now, walking a few steps behind the half-elf girl who Deren had spoken to originally. The half-elf girl addresses Deren, “Is this the girl you were looking to…” she smirks, “call on?”
Deren nods, and brushes his hand over the back of his head, making his hair bristle. His hair is longer on the sides than he likes, starting to curl, and suddenly he thinks he should have shaved, too. Cleaned up a bit better. “Yes,” he says, “I, uh, yes, thank you.”
The half-elf girl touches the bartender on the arm and says something in low tones. The bartender responds, glancing over at Deren while she speaks, and he’s suddenly even more uncomfortable, as those blue eyes seem to look straight through him. After another word, the half-elf girl leaves again, exiting the lobby to the lounge, where Deren had been with his cohort the night before.
Deren hesitates, and then speaks, feeling the need to explain himself, “I’m sorry to bother you, at work, I mean, I don’t know if you’re busy but I figured it’s early and there wouldn’t be too many people at the…” He stops, restarts, “I was wondering if maybe…” Deren can feel sweat spreading under his collar and down his chest. Harvest, help me, he thinks, This had been so much easier last night. He tries again, “I just…I wanted to…sorry, I haven’t really ever—”
“No worries,” she says, “We’re used to first-timers, here.” She grins.
Deren laughs at that, and at his own awkwardness, and rallies. “I was wondering if it would be alright if I…came to call…on you.”
The girl tilts her head at this, “What do you mean?”
Deren starts to explain, “I feel like last night, when we were talking, before you had to beat Johannsen because—” he stops, realization dawning, “you weren’t really a bartender.”
“I mean, I was tending bar.”
“But really you’re a bouncer.”
She smiles, “I do a lot of things, here.”
“Oh but you’re not one of the…I mean, I didn’t think you…not that it would matter…” He pauses and studies the girl for a moment, for the first time taking in her outfit. Her hair is pulled back in a braid, and her clothes are covered by a long-sleeved apron, itself smeared red. “Ah,” says Deren, “That is…a lot of blood, actually. Hopefully not just a bouncer, or else whoever…” he gestures to his own tabard. He swallows, hard, and looks up from the girl’s bloody apron to her face. He can tell she’s trying not to laugh. “A…physician? Maybe?” He laughs, himself, suddenly lightheaded, “Hopefully? If that’s blood?”
The girl covers her mouth with her hand, but her own laugh breaks through. She nods, “Yes, I’m a physician.”
“Ah, that’s good,” says Deren, “because it seems like I need someone to remove my foot from my mouth.”
She laughs again, loud, then pulls herself together, looks over at him, and dissolves into laughter again, as if hit by a wave. She shakes her head, and turns her attention to her apron, undoing the knot and folding the fabric so that the blood is no longer visible. She tucks the bundle into the belt of her tunic, and looks back at Deren, smiling.
Deren smiles too, reassured, “Anyway, I wanted to know if I could see you again, properly, go and get something to eat, maybe?”
The girl stops laughing, “Why?”
Deren steels himself. He hadn’t been expecting a question, but he is a Painted Swan. He is battle-trained. This was nothing. “Because,” he says, strong, firm, “I like talking to you. You’re witty and funny and I think you’re interesting, and you can throw a punch, and also you’re…quite pretty.” He swallows again, losing steam, “And I had fun talking to you last night, and so I’d like to keep…doing…that.”
It’s silent for a moment, and Deren watches the girl’s face. Her eyes widen and her lips part for just an instant before her expression changes, her brow furrowed, lips pursed. Deren worries if he’s offended her.
Finally, her face resolves into a smile, “Yes, I’d like that,” she says, “let’s go.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean right now.”
“Why not? I have something, later, and we’re both free now.”
Deren realizes he doesn’t have a good answer. Johannsen is already covering for him, and he is already here, with the girl he wants to be with. “You’re right,” he says, “Let’s go now, then. I didn’t really have a place in mind yet, but we can walk a bit? Find a place where we can get food?”
“Great!” the girl says, “I just need to grab a cloak and I’ll be right back.” She turns, and takes a step to leave.
“Wait,” says Deren. He reaches out, catching her hand. He means to only stop her for a moment, but he’s pulled her back, and now she’s suddenly close. He can see the constellations of freckles across her face, and can smell a faint scent of citrus. The girl is looking up at him, eyes wide, brows raised, and Deren’s suddenly worried he’s overstepped, lost his chance with this small foolish action, but when he drops her hand the girl doesn’t move away.
“I just… I never actually got your name,” he says, sheepishly.
“It’s Vanja,” she says.
Deren smiles, and repeats it back to her, “Van-jah?”
She laughs, and Deren knows he’s gotten it wrong, despite just hearing it. He always had trouble with Jorungun words.
“No, it’s a softer sound. A Jorungun j. Like an Isendel y.”
“Isendelian.”
“What?”
It was his turn to laugh, “It’s Isendelian, when it’s describing a thing. Deren is Isendelian. And…Vanya is Jorungun.”
“Deren?” she echoes.
He brushes a hand across the back of his neck again, “I mean, I don’t want you calling me Private Lake if we’re going to be…courting.”
“I like it,” says Vanja. She puts her hand on his chest, against the swan-shaped insignia on his tabard, “And I’ll be back in a moment. And we can go get food.” She pushes him, gently, “Wait here, Deren-the-Swan.”
Deren lets her leave, this time, watching her until she turns down a short hall. When she’s out of sight, he sits, collapsing in the chair behind him, and rakes his fingers through his hair. He takes a deep breath, and then another. Calmer, now, he can feel the grin spreading across his face. He’d done it. He’d talked to the girl, and she seemed to like him and now they were going to go out together.
He can’t believe this went so well.
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