A Piece of History: One Envelope

         He never expected a welcoming atmosphere from the man sitting at the kitchen table, but the icy tinge to the air was a bit extreme. Bertram Jumoke fairly loomed behind the bright white pine table, the cup of coffee steaming to his left merely a prop to what Jonas Foster strongly felt was a carefully choreographed scene. An envelope of heavy cream stationary was on the table’s surface, Bertram’s blue fingertips resting lightly on the edge.

    
          "She ain’t ready yet," Bertram said, the low growl carrying clearly to where Jonas stood, silouetted in the kitchen doorway.
 
           "Thanks, I’ll wait in the foyer." The death mage still didn’t quite understand Bertram’s hostility towards him, but for Dia’s sake (as if he’d ever admit it) he maintained peace and kept a respectful distance. (-Like a young man struggling for the approval of a stern father…)

 
            "Ye need ta come in ‘ere. We gotta talk ’bout somet’in’."
 
            He couldn’t help the faint raising of one brow, but the death mage walked into the kitchen. It was a warm room, heartily welcoming to the friends of the house, and always smelled faintly of cookies. Bertram took a sip of his coffee, his pale eyes never once leaving Jonas, and then settled back in his chair with the care of one who’s experienced a number of inanimate objects giving way before.
            "Dia got an invitation last nig’t," he began, his gaze flickering back to check that the doorway was still empty. Jonas, having stopped several paces away from the table, turned pointedly to look at the silent hall, and then back to Bertram, his face carefully bland.
            "Oh? Did she?"
            The older man’s jaw worked, as if he was forcibly swallowing something rather bitter, and then he tapped the envelope on the table. "From tha ‘igh King, na less. ‘e’s invitin’ ‘er up fer a ‘tended visit."
            "How extended? Where does this ‘high king’ live?" Jonas managed to keep his voice even, his tone as flat as if he was asking where the coffee filters were.
            "Maybe a coupla mont’s. ‘e lives up nort’, in ‘is palace, Tara-Nar," Bertram replied. The chill in his voice could easily have air conditioned the entire building, and his gaze had hardened considerably at Jonas’s bland reaction.
            "And she wants to go?"
 
            Ah, that seemed to be the million dollar question. Bertram’s steady look faltered for a moment, and he glanced at the envelope, as if seeking answers in the plain surface. He regarded his coffee cup with the intensity of a fortune teller reading tea leaves, and then looked at Jonas. "Aye, she’d like ta go," he said firmly, both he and Jonas ignoring the blatant lie evident in his eyes. Jonas merely looked at the envelope once more, then at Bertram.
 
            "Well, if she’s planning to go…who’s going with her?" There was a basic understanding that he and Bertram had come to: the troll did not like him, but Jonas was just as concerned with Dia’s safety as he was. On this, they could usually speak without undue hostility becoming evident.
            "Tha king’ll be sendin’ ‘is guards down ta take ‘er up," he replied, tucking the envelope under his coffee cup. "She’s lookin’ ferward ta it. Good break fer ‘er and all."
 
            "Mmmhmm…"
 
<font style="BACKGROUND-COLOR: #000000" face="Book Antiqua" color="#99ccff” size=”2″>            Bertram’s temper, usually so quiescent, flared as he turned hard eyes to Jonas. "Ye ain’t got na right ta be tellin’ ‘er what ta do o’ where ta go. She ain’t a babe, and ye act like ye got tha right o’ ‘er, which ye don’t."
            "Oh, I don’t?" Jonas couldn’t keep the icy sneer out of his voice, nor could he stop his eyes from flashing.
            Bertram responded with his usual show of paternal possessiveness and antagonism. "Aye, ye don’t. And she ain’t yers, so ye got no reason ta be actin’ in such a way. She’s free ta go ’bout where she likes."
            "I never said she didn’t," the death mage snapped. His temper was never the best when dealing with Bertram, as something in the man’s proprietary manner irritated him.
            "Nay, but ye got a look on yer face sayin’ yer ‘alf t’inkin’ o’ going up wit’ ‘er, and dat ain’t ‘llowed."
            "Why isn’t it? Does this high king not want her friends with her?"
 
            Bertram went very still, and his gaze took on a speculative expression. "Nay, ‘e ain’t got nuffin’ ‘gainst ‘er friends."
 
            Jonas’s smile appeared, and it was hardly a pleasant sight. There was nothing but icy bitterness in his eyes, and his smile was more a baring of teeth. "Ah, so I’m not counted in that exalted number, is that it?"
 
            "Ye ain’t trustwort’y," the troll replied, his tone and face both exceedingly dour.
            "And why is that?"
            "Ye ain’t got no reason ta ‘ang ’round ‘er tha way ye do, and yet ye keep doin’ it."
 
            The death mage’s eyes narrowed, and when he spoke, it was surprising that his breath did not steam in the air. "No reason." There was no question to his words, none implied in tone or expression. No…it was a flat accusation, and Bertram bristled.
            "Aye, no reason," he snapped, drawing his coffee cup closer. "And ye still ‘ang ’round ‘er. I dunno wha yer t’inkin’ o’ usin’ ‘er fer, but I’ll tell ye lad, it won’t be good fer ye when I learn o’ wha ye want."
           
            It was naturally bad timing on Dia’s part that she walked into the kitchen at that moment. The atmosphere caught her instantly, and bright orange flashed in her crystalline eyes as she blinked, looking from Jonas to Bertram.
            "Is…is everything all right?" Her voice was always so soft when she felt something needed soothing, and if anything, that rasped the last of Jonas’s nerves. It hurt him to do it, hurt him even as he spun on her with claws bared and lashed out, snarling.
            "Fucking fine! You know what? Go where you want! Do what you want! I’m not good enough for your precious time, or your company!” His voice echoed off of the cabinets, rang against the bright copper pots hanging over the stove, and turned the colour of her eyes to a dull blood-orange. Dia stumbled back, her long-fingered hands held up, whether in pleading or fear he didn’t know, and her lips trembled as she tried to speak. Bertram was rising, hastily, a growl thrumming in the back of his throat as he began coming around the table towards Jonas.
            “Don’t you dare touch me,” Jonas hissed, and from within his clenched fist, black electricity began to crackle. Both of the fae stared at him, one in restrained fury, the other in agonized horror, and he snarled at them both, his dark eyes flashing. “You know what? Fuck all of you!!” He blazed out of the house, slamming every door he encountered, and fromthe street came the sound of screeching tires as the death mage tore away from Hearth Home.
 
 
            Bertram turned when he heard the choked sound, looking at Dia with anxiety showing clearly in his eyes. “Lass? Ye a’ig’t?” He held a hand out to her, taking careful steps forward, ready to catch her should she collapse, faint…anything.
            “Don’t!” Her voice, that soft, sweet voice that was always so warm when she spoke to him, snapped in a tone so unlike her, and Bertram utterly faltered. Her eyes were a dark crimson, flashing with tones of acid green, mingling into blood-orange and, for the first time ever, black. Her paper-white lips trembled as she looked at Bertram, and then the tears fell. These were not the delicate tears of a weeping doll, but the hot torrents of pure, unadulterated pain. Sobs ripped from her throat as if torn by vicious claws, and when she turned and fled, she left the echoes of anguish wafting behind. Grey-faced and suddenly weak-kneed, Bertram felt behind himself for a chair and collapsed into it.
 
            …the ruin of dreams rarely leaves a sweet taste to the lips who have brought them tumbling down.