Hidden Fears

The Last Unicorn. An interesting name for a tavern and inn, but certainly one to be remembered. Perhaps it was the warm wood walls that rose from the stone foundation, carved with intricate patterns of swirling vines that drew Blackbird’s eye, or it could be the deep, forest green shingles that dripped over the roof and awnings like ruffled leaves that lured him to its doorstep, frosted with bright snow. The light inside was a welcoming gold, and a sign mounted over the door swung in the wind. Upon it was painted a unicorn, a cloven hoof lifted in dainty stride and a will of steel in its faded blue eyes. The horn and mane shone in the twilight, as though they were painted with stardust.

Stepping inside, Blackbird moved toward the back, where he always chose to sit when at such a place. He had experience with slipping past the chaos of a dinner crowd without bumping into any careless fools imbibed beyond what they could take. Though the space was well sized, the inn rarely saw an empty seat around mealtimes. Those who chose to stay at the inn were not the only patrons, for other villagers of the small town, Tolm, would come here to merrymake and enjoy a good meal when fortune and finance allowed.

He sat and put out the candle on his table, then watched the crowds. How marvelous it looked, to be surrounded by friends and family, enjoying a night and many a song together. The joy on their faces as they laughed and talked was one he longed to experience. The nearest Blackbird could come to such delight was when he let himself sing along when all the tavern was roused in song, but it seldom lasted once his voice joined the chorus.

As though summoned by the thought, a different voice drew Blackbird’s glance. Turning, he watched the matron, a young woman with a stern chin and fierce eyes, approach one of the tables with a tray carrying drinks.

She set the heavy steins on the round wooden table. Though he could not hear what was said, Blackbird’s curiosity kept him from looking away. The two men wore expensive clothes with shiny cufflinks, ruffled white shirts, fancy waistcoats and rich cloaks. The nearest one to the girl ignored her entirely while the other shooed her away. Dismissive and rude, earning them Blackbird’s disapproval.

The young matron stayed where she was and held out a hand. Probably asking for payment. However, the two men seemed disinterested in her, and some sort of disagreement took place.

After the squabble had lasted a good few minutes, Blackbird saw the matron’s patience run out. She took the metal tray and whacked it against the table, the ringing clang hushing the din of the tavern. The two men looked at her, startled, but then they shrugged and turned away, restarting their conversation as though the matron were simply wind howling outside a comfortable, well-built hall.

Blackbird rose, making his way over to the table in silence. Before he reached it, the woman reached up and grabbed the drinks she brought the pair, put them back on her tray, and started to walk away. At last, he caught one of their raised voices.

“Ey! Get back here you little wench!”

One of the men grabbed the back of the matron’s blouse, yanking it hard. She stumbled and was spun around to face the two men, the drinks sloshing a bit and dripping onto the tray.

“Give us back our drinks little lady,” the first man said.

“They ain’t yours,” the matron snapped back. “Ye didn’ pay for em.”

“It was only seven silver,” the second man said, reaching for one of the steins, “If your best isn’t worth more than that, then it’s not worth paying for at all.”

“Is that so, Deagal?” The woman stared into his eyes as she dropped the tray on the floor with a clang, letting both of the drinks spill on the wealthy men’s shiny new boots. “Oops.”

Blackbird stopped a few feet away, covering his mouth in an attempt to restrain a laugh.

The matron chuckled as the first man tried to wipe his boots clean, now quite fragrant. Deagal’s mouth hung open.

“Wasteful little witch! That was completely uncalled for!” the first man complained.

“It’s my drink to waste, Benedict,” she replied, “And it’d be wasted more poured down the gullets of rubbish such as yourselves.”

“Why you little—” Benedict grabbed her shirt and lifted her into the air, her shoes kicking.

“OI! Put me down!” She struggled fiercely, but the wealthy man was stronger than he appeared, and her wild, untrained blows did nothing.

“Unhand her,” Blackbird said, his voice a startling difference from the two wealthy men. It troubled him to see the woman shudder hearing it. His words were raspy with an unsettling strain running through it, and his gaze was hooded by the red leather domino mask he wore. It did little to conceal his identity, but that was not its purpose.

“What will you do?” Deagal said, glancing at Blackbird. “This isn’t your affair. Go back to your corner and let us gentlemen handle this.”

“You are not gentlemen,” Blackbird said. “Gentlemen do not threaten someone over an unpaid fee. Let her go and pay up.”

“Or what?” Benedict asked.

Blackbird didn’t answer, but he pushed aside his cloak to show a longsword belted at his waist with his hand on its hilt. An aura of terror and unnatural dread filled the air, pressing out all gasps of resilience, suffocating and terrible.

Benedict quickly put the matron down. With another sharp glare from Blackbird, his red eyes and dark sclera amplifying the intensity of the look, Deagal pulled out a velvet coin purse and withdrew six silvers. He dropped the coins into the matron’s hand and tried to leave, only to find his way blocked by Blackbird.

“Fine,” Deagal said, shuddering. He withdrew the final silver and tossed it at the woman’s feet. Blackbird toyed with the idea of making him pick it up and hand it to her, but decided enough had been done, and stepped aside. The two men left, Blackbird’s gaze following them until they exited the tavern.

“Didn’t even stay for their drinks,” the matron said, shaking her head. “Pity, they won’t get to try ‘em now. Ah well, their loss.”

Blackbird froze. Was she talking to him? A moment of tension ensnared him, but he forced himself to relax a little and let go of his sword’s hilt.

Wasn’t conversation what he longed for? Yet the mere idea chilled his bones with fright.

Yrsa stooped and picked up the silver coin. “I had that under control, ye know.”

Jarred out of his terror, Blackbird raised a brow, doubtful. Were the words derived from a lack of gratitude, or had he overstepped by getting involved?

Wiping the coin clean, for it had fallen in the spilled drinks, the woman stood up. Blackbird turned to walk back to his table, but the matron grabbed his hand to stop him. “Wait.”

Blackbird pulled his hand away, before she could think much of how thin and cold it would feel underneath his glove, and turned to look at her.

“Thanks for yer help,” she said. “Ye know, those two didn’t get their drinks, how about I put in the order for ye, on the house?”

Tension ran through Blackbird’s spine. An offer like that might be rude to refuse. Normally, this would not cause him pause, but it had been a long time since anyone looked at him with kindness. A look that was difficult to toss aside.

Perhaps a polite decline would suffice.

“Thank you for the offer, but I’m not thirsty.”

“I could bring ye some food then, I insist.”

Why did she have to be so generous? Rude individuals were far easier to evade. If he could sweat, Blackbird was certain he would feel it dripping down his face.

“No, thank you, I’m fine.”

Before she could respond, Blackbird turned and retreated to his usual table in the corner, resting his hands on it and looking down. But it was no use. The matron followed him and pulled a chair over, sitting across from him.

“Yer a hard one to read,” she said. “Blackbird, right?”

Great, she knew his name.

“Yeah. Well, Rhydian Blackbird. Bird is fine.”

“Nice to meet ye properly, I’m Yrsa.”

Noticing the lamp on his table had gone out, Yrsa pulled out a matchbook and lifted the glass to relight it. The little flame danced merrily, yet Blackbird flinched and leaned back. Fear churned within him. Why did she insist on doing kind deeds that stuck him with terror? He watched the flame as though he expected it to jump out of the lamp and set the tavern ablaze.

“Ye alright?” she asked, putting the matchbook away.

“I’m fine,” Blackbird said, but there was a tenseness in his words now. His eyes never left the lamp, seeing memories in the flame.

“About before then,” Yrsa said, dragging Blackbird’s thoughts away from pain. “Even though I could’ve handled it, I do appreciate the help ye gave me. Ye sure I can’t get ye something?”

He looked down at the steins still on her tray, eyebrows set with stress. How could he explain that no drink she offered would suffice, not even the basic water that sustained life? The reminder of being denied that human experience, among others, robbed him of peace. He shoved the thought into a mental box and locked it in his mind, away and out of sight.

Yrsa tapped the table in front of him to get him to look up at her. Blackbird lifted his gaze, hoping his doubt was well hidden.

“What’s eatin’ at ye?” she asked.

Well. So much for that.

“I’d rather not say,” Blackbird said.

He saw Yrsa’s eyes flick to something behind him. He turned to look.

Two guards stood there with bland, almost bored expressions. However, they had a hand on their weapons.

“Did you need something, sirs?” Blackbird asked, turning to face them.

“You are the man who robbed Lord Deagal and Lord Benedict?” one of the guards asked, his voice gruff and rough.

“I didn’t rob anyone,” Blackbird said, “They were threatening—”

“Save it for the magistrate,” the guard on Blackbird’s left said in a nasally voice, grabbing his arm roughly. “You’ll have to come with us- Helheim you’re skin and bones aren’t ye?”

Blackbird stood and yanked his arm free, backing away like a cornered animal. “Do you intend to search me?”

“We’ll only take your mask, cloak and weapons, and if you are innocent then we’ll return them to you after the magistrate rules on your case.”

Blackbird felt a cold trepidation at the thought of his mask being taken, and shook his head.

“The magistrate is fair,” Yrsa said. “I’ll vouch for ye, and these guards aren’t bad folk. I owe ye bail anyway. It’ll be fine, I promise. They know them two are full of it.”

“Then they should let me alone,” Blackbird protested.

“Sorry son,” one of the guards said. “We still have to do our job.”

Blackbird’s hand went to the hilt of his longsword, drawing it and ignoring the look of shock on Yrsa’s face. He supposed she wasn’t expecting a fight over seemingly so little, but then, she knew him not.

“I can’t allow that. Leave me be.”

The guards drew their weapons; the gruff guard had a glaive and the nasal guard another sword.

“Now hold on—” Yrsa said.

Patrons were clearing an area for the anticipated fight, gathering at the fringes to watch the violence with eager eyes.

Blackbird thrust his blade forward, attempting to drive back the guards. He let himself move a bit slow; he wanted to scare them into withdrawing, not skewer them. Nasal-voice parried while the gruff guard’s glaive swung at Blackbird’s arm. Blackbird disengaged and stepped back and to his left to avoid the blow in a quick triangle step. Though it was a relief the two didn’t seem too well trained, any master of the blade could fall to a lucky shot, and even a revealing tear in Blackbird’s clothes would be disastrous.

The guards split up, the gruff one walking around to Blackbird’s other side to flank him while the sword-wielding guard slashed at him in a flurry of hacks. Blackbird’s blade whirled, deflecting most of the wild swings of his opponent. A glancing blow sliced Blackbird’s cheek, just below his mask. Yet no crimson wept from the wound. A second cut landed on Blackbird’s hand, slicing his glove, but neither blow pained him.

While Blackbird fended off the guard with the sword, he lost track of the glaive, only realizing his blunder when heard Yrsa cry, “Look out!”

Blackbird heard her and turned to see the glaive coming at him. He lurched back, right into the sword wielding guard, the glaive missing him by a hair. It would have surely hit him if Yrsa had not grabbed the mail shirt of the glaive guard, holding him back. Blackbird opened his mouth to thank her, then heard a scraping sound and felt mild pain in his chest. Yrsa let go of the guard to cover her mouth in shock as Blackbird felt metal scrape his ribs and lodge into his bones.

The other guard’s sword sprouted from Blackbird’s front, and the guard let go of the hilt in alarm.

Oh no.

Blackbird looked around, quailing at the many eyes that were fixed on him and his wound.

“I didn’t mean to—” the guard said, his hand shaking as he backed away. “He stepped in the way—”

A single glass fell in the silence, its death louder than a dragon’s roar.

They saw.

Blackbird bolted for the door, still impaled. He shoved bystanders out of his way as the guard with the glaive pursued, but Blackbird was faster, fueled by panic. Discovering eyes burned him worse than fire ever could. He needed to flee, to hide, to be unseen.

The door.

Escape.

Just as he reached it, the guard swung his glaive at Blackbird, managing to knock him into another patron who shoved him away, their hand pressed against Blackbird’s face. His mask slipped and fell.

Bird did not stop and he pushed past the man, bursting out of the tavern, covering his face.

Hide.

He had to hide.

Pulling his hood lower to bury what was underneath it, the next few minutes were a blur of snow and cold gray bark. Reaching a glade, he stopped, leaning on a tree, and looking down at the metal point of the sword still lodged in him. No blood stained it nor dripped, and he touched the point with a shaking hand.

Was this the universe’s cruel way of telling him he had no humanity left? That he ought to give up on blending in among them? Did it say that it was naïve to hope for friendship?

Blackbird tried to stifle his despair and focus on the task at hand. Even if it didn’t hurt him, this sword had to go. He twisted and struggled to grab the hilt buried in his back, but it was beyond his reach. Upon that failure, he instead grabbed the blade sticking out from his abdomen and pushed it inward. It cut open the palm of his glove and yet it bothered him not. He had a sewing kit in his pack. Pushing it further in, the hilt was forced out of his back a bit more. Blackbird grabbed for it, and this time he was able to reach it and draw the sword from his back, free of any bloodstain. He tossed it in the snow, inspecting his gloved hand, then leaning over to check his abdomen.

Crack! A twig snapped behind him.

Blackbird shot upright, glancing around and tugging his hood lower. He tensed, tempted to run, yet some feeling told him there was no need.

“Wait! It’s just me,” Yrsa said, stepping into view from behind one of the trees. “I brought ye yer mask.”

Blackbird hesitated, but with his face hidden, he decided to stay put. He needed that mask.

“Are ye okay?” Yrsa asked, glancing at his torn shirt. No blood stained his clothes, and she frowned.

“I’m fine,” Blackbird said, still not looking at her, “It, erm, it looked worse than it was.”

“It looked like ye’d been stabbed through the heart,” Yrsa said.

Blackbird didn’t answer, fear denying him his voice.

“What’s really goin’ on with ye, Bird?” she asked, “Yer hidin’ somethin’.”

Blackbird shook his head, trying to grab his mask without his hood falling away from his face. “I’m not hiding anything Yrsa, just leave my mask and go, please.”

She held it back, eyeing him. “Yer hidin’ yer face from me right now.”

“No, I’m just cold.”

Yrsa looked at his travel-stained clothes with a skeptical gaze. Blackbird didn’t even shiver while Yrsa rubbed her arms for warmth borne of friction. She looked back up at his hood. He tugged it lower.

“Yer lyin’,” she said.

Irritation flared up in Bird. Why did she insist on this interrogation?

“So what if I am? It’s none of your business anyway.”

Yrsa frowned and walked a step closer, then rushed forward and raised up onto her toes, snagging and pulling Blackbird’s hood back. Panicked, he tried to pull it back up, but it was too late. Yrsa’s eyes widened and she dropped the mask, falling in her haste to scramble away, gaze fixed on the horror of his face.

“Wait- please!” Blackbird said, reaching out to her, but Yrsa was already struggling to her feet and backing away.

“Stay back!” she said. “Don’ get near me!”

His hopes fell.

She would run.

Fear would drive her.

And he’d be alone again.