Prompt 858 from Creative Writing Prompts on Tumblr.
“Please, accept this gift as a token of my affection.” It’s hard to tell if Darien slides off my couch and onto one knee because he can’t stand or because he’s being dramatic. One of his arms is hanging limp, so it might be a bit of both. He looks like he’s been through the wars. His clothes and probably my couch are going to need to be replaced. I’m too stunned by his appearance to be stunned that he somehow got past my wards.
(Again.)
“That’s a knife. And it has blood on it.” It wasn’t the most clever response but it was what came to mind. Crowding close behind was, “how badly are you hurt” and “who did you stab with that knife?” What comes out is “how are you stabbed?” which was at least coherent.
Darien smiles, a quick flash of teeth. “Your concern warms my cold heart,” he says. He sets the knife near my feet and sways a bit. He collapses onto both knees and folds up a bit. I immediately moved forward and he protested as I picked him up and helped him back onto the couch.
“That’s not actually answering my question,” I say. He doesn’t say anything, so I give him my best glare. “That was an implicit request that you answer the question Darien,” I say ans I call in my medical kit and start working on him.
The “cold-hearted killer” flails at me like an injured stray cat with fewer claws and slightly more wailing. He’s bruised but not stabbed. His collar bone is broken and his ribs are fractured. I’m worried about punctured lungs and internal bleeding, but he seems to be breathing normally. I start feeling around for any splinters as I carefully begin pushing his ribs into their correct positions.
“Have you thought of changing your career for inquisitor?” he asks in between winces and stifled noises that I know he’ll deny are whimpers. At the same time, Darien has the fondest smile on his face. I’m tempted to blame that silly smile on the medicine I’d forced down his throat except for the knife that was a token of his affection.
“Have you thought of changing your career for a comic role at the Great Theater?” I snapped back.
Darien snorts, then winces, obviously pained by the movement. “Well, let’s just say you have fewer detractors.”
“Or who knows how many more,” I say. I’m worried now, and I want answers not clever repartee from this idiot. “Who did you kill? And why?”
“No one who didn’t deserve it,” Darien says with a grim smile. “Because they deserved it.” There was a moment of silence that stretched until Darien realized I wasn’t going to let him be cryptic. He sighs. “You realize there have been attempts on your life?” he asks.
“No, I had no idea,” I say. “Assassins walking through my wards like they weren’t there? Getting attacked by suspiciously well-armed bandits? Poisoned food? All of this is because someone is trying to kill me? How could that be?.”
“I’m not an assassin,” Darien says, knowing who the first comment was directed at. “The opposite, if anything. I was hired to find out who was targeting you and stop them. Hopefully, before you got angry enough to do it yourself.” He smirks. “Though surprisingly for a destroyer-ranked mage you seem too gentle to go on a rampage.”
“You had a different opinion when you broke into my tower that first time,” I say. “The opposite, if anything.” My tone is snippy as I echo his words.
“Heh. True,” Darien says with a smile. “Let’s say someone misrepresented your situation, and I felt the need to get to the bottom of the rumors.”
My situation was semi-exile to a tower in the middle of nowhere. Ostensibly I was the landlord of a handful of farms and a small village. The actual situation was a little more complicated, for a variety of reasons. The majority of them being I had no actual way to collect rent or enforce an eviction. (Not that I was much interested in doing the latter. A bad year shouldn’t mean becoming homeless.)
Of course being a destroyer-rank mage out in the middle of nowhere, with no convenient war to be thrown at–well, rumors crop up. Specifically, rumors about the rising of Dark Lords and unspeakable acts against nature. So one day Darien turned up, breaking into my tower and demanding to speak to my “mistress.” (No one expects a destroyer-rank mage to be wearing an old tunic and patched skirt while doing their own laundry. What no one understands is that no one is going to want to work for a semi-exiled destroyer class mage out in the middle of nowhere.) Things had gotten straightened out, though Darien had continued to make the occasional visit.
I gave him a dubious look. “And from there you somehow fell in love with me?”
Darien snorts. “Is it so unlikely?”
“Well, I’ve never been confessed to,” I say. “I have no idea how something like this works.” You poke him. “Also I’m more concerned about the enemy spreading rumors about me, and what you did with them.”
“So cruel,” Darien says, but gives me the details of his investigation.
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