Ignis in Inanis

 Ignis in Inanis

by C. Stephens

Marcellus bent over in his chair and stared at his knees. Chairs were scattered around him, with little rhyme or reason to their organization. Some were filled, and some weren’t. Everything and everyone was covered with a layer of dirt. The room was dark.

He couldn’t help but remember…

“Come on, Marce! Catch up!”

His pants were ratty–covered in dirt, torn, frayed, sewn together in patches of different clothes. One knee had cotton packed underneath it as a pad while the other didn’t.

“Ha-ha! Can’t you hit harder than that?”

“Shut up!”

Hot blood dripped off the edge of his nose, staining his pants a spotty orange. Marcellus could feel the blood crusting on his face. The wound on his forehead pulsed like a heart.

“Look, Augustus… I love you.”

“Me too, bro. Me too.”

Marcellus would get his brother back. He would.

A door creaked open.

Marcellus’s head snapped up.

Light tinged a dark, violent purple streamed into the small room where Marcellus was kept. The guard had told him that if he wanted to get his brother back, he’d wait here. Marcellus didn’t have much choice, considering that the guy had beaten him senseless with a stick.

Marcellus leaped to his feet, facing the door with fists raised. The few elves around him that had been talking fell silent, staring at the door with wide eyes. The rest hunched down in their seats, whimpering in fear.

Marcellus ignored them, eyes locked on the opening door. He was a bit warier this time, though; the last thug had taken his weapon after “teaching him a lesson in courteousness,” and Marcellus hadn’t practiced much with hand-to-hand.

However, Marcellus reminded himself as the door continued to open, he did have a secret weapon. Something no one expected from an elf on the streets.

He had noble blood… and all that entailed.

The door finally opened all the way. An elf–tall and willowy as they came and strangely handsome and beautiful all at once–stood in the doorway, framed by the colorful light and by the fast-paced music inside. Their curly brown hair was piled atop their head, spilling off the sides and down the forehead like a waterfall. Their clothes–white and loose, probably faux silk– weren’t as fancy as a noble’s but were still far better than anything Marcellus could ever hope to own. They also served a message: that even the lower-down thugs in the pecking order of Glacies et Ignis could keep themselves clean.

Literally, if not figuratively. Even a street gang should draw the line at kidnapping kids for no reason.

The elf raised an eyebrow at Marcellus’s fight-ready posture. They silently stepped to the left of the doorway and, with a bow, gestured toward the open door.

Marcellus hesitated.

The elf straightened, standing erect like a soldier at attention. Their face, sharp-lined like so many elves, was expressionless, save for the mild irritation in their eyes.

Marcellus sighed, dropping his fists and straightening. The fight had already leached out of him anyway. Eyeing the elf warily, he stepped up to the doorway–

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