A Lesson in Aristocracy

IX - Forget

All he could remember was the bitter.

That, and the pain.

"Gah!" Arden yelled as he shot up, water dripping off his face.

"Shit, Shit, Shit," he gasped, looking at the purplish reddish bruising that covered his side.

He looked around. This wasn't his house. This wasn't his tub. His mouth had an awfully bitter taste in it, and his memory was certainly foggy, but he knew this wasn't where he was supposed to be.

"No way I'm kidnapped. They would've tied me up," he reasoned, wincing as he pushed himself out of the wooden basin. It was large, far too large for him. "Seralfi...?" He whispered, gripping the door handle and pushing it open - after he'd wrapped himself in a fluffy towel, of course.

"Ms. Tre'anne..?" He whispered, noticing the woman was reading on the couch he recognized to be Quetsan's. This was Quetsan's apartment, then. But that didn't explain the reporter.

The woman looked up, her face quickly flushing as she did so. She covered her face with the book.

"Dear gods, put a shirt on!" She yelled, Arden looking down at himself. His torso was fully on display; he was so used to walking around his house in nothing but a towel that he forgot his physique was not a wanted sight for most people.

"Sorry, Ma'am, but-" he began, before realizing the set of clothes on the bathroom sink. "Oh."

He retreated back into the room, pulling the shirt and pants he was left on. He noticed the pants were stiff- newly purchased. "That was nice of him," he mumbled, pulling them on and weaving his tails through the holes
on the sides. Then came the shirt - it was much baggier, far too big even buttoned up all the way. He guessed that was a good thing - it wouldn't press against his wound too much.

"Alright, now, Ms. Tre'anne, please explain why you're in Qu- err, Handler Kre'lest's apartment, and then why I'm here. Please."

Ms. Tre'anne tilted her head, brows raising.

"You don't remember what happened?"

"I can't say I do," Arden replied, his eyes narrowing. That reporter was full of tricks. Of course she would be involved in this.

"Well, you got hit with a brick at a protest, got real loopy, so Quetsan and I brought you back here to rest up. Quetsan's brother has splint, so I didn't feel comfortable leaving both of you until Quetsan got back - and he hasn't gotten back."

"Okay," he mumbled, the casual tone from her jarring him slightly. He picked his brain, seating himself on one of the chairs beside the couch.

"I think I can remember it, a little," he mumbled after a bit, pieces of what had happened flitting through his mind.

"You! You told me your name," he said, the reporter nodding.

"And Quetsan told me yours."

"That's not fair. You can remember mine."

The woman chuckled, lowering her book. "It's Essie. Well, Esrelsa. But Essie's more fun to say."

Arden nodded, picking lightly at the armrest.

"You were delirious, so I guess it makes sense you can't remember very well. We were civil after the brick incident, so I'd appreciate it if we stayed that way."

"I've always been civil with you."

Essie arched an eyebrow at that.

"...Well, at least mostly."

Essie chuckled, setting her book down on the coffee table and standing up.

"I'll make you something to eat. You'll need your energy to heal properly."