A Forest On Fire

You Need To Rest

Adrien's burial was simple and brief. The only one there to remember him was Isaac, and he was buried in the forest near the bar. Isaac had said there was a certain way the telé'l took care of their young, which was just a lie to get the Governor off of his back. Isaac built a makeshift casket- just wood, no nails, no anything else. He tore a black ribbon, which he kept on him a week after. He said what he could remember to say, recited something in a different language that he remembered his mother saying at funerals, but it had been so long that he hardly knew what the words meant. He fashioned a cross out of twigs and weeds and placed it at the head of the grave. And then he went home, tearless but solemn.

The last thing Isaac said to Elliot wasn't quite an invitation to interrogate him, but he had insinuated that he was willing to talk. What he had not said, however, was the price he had decided upon. He did not want money; he did not even want revenge for his nephew- not that he would be opposed to it; he wanted compensation. Elliot dragged him into it by appearing at his doorstep; he could have lived life normally with Adrien if she had not. So, he wanted to be compensated. How? Isaac didn't know. What could possibly equate to the death of his only living relative left? What could be given to him to make it better? Nothing, he realized. What did he want? He didn't know. He thought that speaking with Elliot might clear it up for him; he was ready, ready to give to them anything they needed, but he had no way of contacting them. He did not have a bird, nor could he hire someone to bring a letter to Elliot. That is, until, months later, a certain three sailors waltzed through his doors.

Isaac could tell they weren't from Chalin; dressed as relatively poorly as they were, they were better decorated than were most of the Chalinian people. And their accents were thicker than even his was- Scandinavian, probably Finnish, or else Swedish. Isaac treated them like normal customers, giving them whatever the drunkards could coherently slur without drooling or vomiting, until he saw the woman's scarf. It was thick, rough, a brownish color, and it was embroidered with the initials I.S. I.S. The last time he saw or heard those initials was back at his home in America. I.S. How he hated those letters; the sight of them made him sick, made him restless with anger. I.S. were the initials of the man who ordered the slaughter of telé'l in America. His name was Ilari Sokolov, a Finnish hunter, a terrible, ruthless one.

"Ma'am," Isaac whispered. He stuffed a cloth in a glass and slowly rubbed the inside of it.

"What do you want?" She mumbled with closed eyes.

"You know Ilari?"

Riina squinted. "Eh? So, what?"

"What is your name?" Isaac asked.

"Riina," she whispered. Her eyes slipped shut again.

"Eh, Riina? The hell is wrong with you? Why the hell are you tellin' this fool who you are?" Jorma slurred.

"What's the hurt of it, Jer-ma? Ain't no one know why we're here, 'cept Émile."

"Émile?" Isaac exclaimed.

"Yeah, Émile, y'know that pretentious, cocky- what is he?- OH," Markus suddenly exclaimed. "Friend, you know that officer-guy's mother from Mongolia? I asked him how in de hell she got over here, but he didn't answer me- no, sir- just stuck that sharp over-sized knife in my direction and told me to shut my trap, because that wasn't none of my business, sir-"

"MARKUS!" Jorma bellowed drunkenly. "Maybe he was right, eh? Maybe you should shut yer trap just like he said, eh?"

"Émile? How do you know Émile?" Isaac repeated.

Riina stuck a callous finger in his face. "Ain't none yer business, is it, eh, whats-yer-name? Nah, don't think so; what do you think, Jer-ma, Markus? Ain't proper to ask a lady questions, eh?"