My Servant Is An Elf Knight From Another World

Irene was up next on the chopping block. 

I dread to even think if her Tuesday had been anything like mine— y'know, just one giant snowball rolling down from the absolute peak of Mount Misery.

Like, maybe she burnt her toast for breakfast, slogged through the busiest rush hour of the week only to then clock in and be met with a pile of papers on her desk the first hour on active duty. In the midst of all the tedium, she gets assigned a case—one so mind-numbingly monotonous that I can't even think of an example of such a thing, which in turn, keeps her occupied all day long with no gaps for leisure, not even a second for a breather.

The fact that I didn't see her sitting and sipping in her usual spot at the cafe today kind of turned that long ramble of overthought thoughts of mine into something a little more concrete… and should my deduction on the detective's day be spot-on here… then here I was, the speeding truck streaking across a puddle on the road and splattering her suit with mud on her way back to her car.

Well, I mean… my day started to pick up eventually… let's hope that threads of fate really do bind us, after all.

Going once, the dial tone chimed. I gripped the edge of my bed, on edge for no apparent reason. Going twice, Mr. Black hopped onto the mattress, circling around in place for the perfect spot, and attempted licking himself through his new sushi-pink sweater to miserable results. I'll take that off him as soon as Sammy goes home. Going thrice… there wasn't a fourth. 

Please leave a message after the beep. 

Guess someone's day was still far from being over. 

I switched tactics, tapped the small empty space to prop the keyboard up, and mulled it over for a moment—both thumbs hovering over the border of letters, sifting through for the best one to start with. 

Ultimately, I decided to not beat around the bush. Detectives are pretty used to sudden, spur-of-the-moment circumstances, aren't they? She can handle it.

So I began the message, murmuring under my breath as usual as I wrote, only for my phone to abruptly bar all my inputs, tab away, and replace my wall of text with a live mirror image of myself, as it rang, vibrated, waiting on me to press the big, green button. 

Irene wants to video call?

I pressed the obvious, and immediately I was whisked away into the sights and surroundings of a very familiar setting. 

In the frame, front and center, were the soft paddings and cushions of the very same couch I had been sitting on barely even a week ago. Then, on the right, the hallway leading to the front door and veering even deeper right, extending beyond the peripheries as the kitchen, in my head, still the mess of leftover ingredients and various other goodies it was left as last night. For all I knew, it still could be.

Suddenly, on the complete opposite side, a basket landed in the frame, cratering in a messy bundle of colors and fabric, following that, a pair of legs waltz into view—long, slender, and to my unspoken delight, bare as can be. 

It felt almost as if I was watching the sample tape of a pageant show's first-place submission, with the theme being mellow, in which case, I give my vote for third, second, and first hands down. 

Irene slowly sank into the frame, her raven-black hair pouring loose and free over her shoulders from its usual bunned-up restraints. Her attire consisted of shorts, a loose shirt, and then nothing more. 

Not even a bra, I don't think.

Or at least, none from what I could tell… no straps… and the way the fabric just… falls over her chest… it was… 

"Hi," she suddenly spoke, her eyes catching mine before it could stray anymore. "You called?"

"Yeah, I did," I mumbled out, my voice apparently with a life of its own. "You look nice." 

"Thank you," she said flatly, reaching for the basket and pulling out a shirt from the bundle, airing it out briskly before laying it flat on the table. "Now I hope I'm not distracting you from telling me what you actually called for." 

"Hey, you turned my call into video, put yourself before my eyes—the weak depraved man that I am—you knew the risk." 

"Well, I didn't get to see you today," She said simply, quickly folding the shirt into a perfect, seamless square. "Better late than never, right? I'll take the risk. With immense pleasure at that." 

"Right…"

"Besides," Irene took again from the pile, briefly. obscuring the small, waggish smirk on her lips behind the flutter and flap of soft fabric. "I like you when you're… distracted." 

And indeed, her basket of clothing wasn't the only thing swaying around with her movement. 

"So, uh… why couldn't you see me today anyway?" I asked, my theory still fresh in my mind. "Had a long day today?" 

"No, but I bet you did," she said. "New menu, rampant marketing like that. You must have been packed, right? There was no way I could concentrate on my work with that kind of crowd. So… sorry if you were expecting me to drop by." 

"Probably better that way," I said, the throes of fatigue still heavy in my breath. "If you saw just how I was working… rather not go looking stupid in front of you." 

She snorted. "Thought you'd already be pretty used to that." 

"Hey…" I furrowed my brow. Paused. "...okay, that's fair enough." 

"You'll learn, you always do," Irene said, gentle, assuring eyes peeking over the thick folds of a large blanket. "And if not. Nothing wrong with being just a little stupid. It's got you through everything good enough so far, hasn't it?"

"I'd say that's more luck than stupidity, honestly."

"Some could also say they're both one and the same," she said. "It's not called 'dumb luck' for nothing." 

Irene once more removed another layer from the pile, except this time, I noticed something was off about the white sheet she pulled out. Marks. Burn marks. Here and there. Like a hot iron had rested too long in some places. Except I don't think an iron could make such a distinct charred outline. 

"Ria's still burning?" I asked, trying to make the shift in topic as tonally seamless as I could. 

But Irene noticed, because she's just that sharp, and I'm just that obvious. 

"You tell me," she said, holding the sheet out in front of the camera, and letting it unfurl in a stream of tattered patches and singed, shriveled threads. Without waiting for an answer, she tossed the ruined sheet aside and reached again for the pile. "That's the third one she's burned. I'm starting to consider just letting her burn through the mattress and onto the frame." 

I remember the last video call we had. The gradually thickening smoke taking over the frame as she guided me over to the bedroom where she had her hold up in. And again, when I came over to visit recently, in the midst of waking her—all that smoke, all that heat. 

"You say she only does that sometimes, right?" I asked. "Burning up like that."

"More and more now though," she answered, sounding just slightly agitated. "Cursed to buy fresh new sheets forever. Or at least until I get around to fireproofing things."

"Is there an underlying cause?" 

"I told you before. She burns more when experiencing strong emotions. Whether she's happy, sad, angry. But who knows which it could be, really?" 

My eyes slowly drifted to the side—the sheet just partly out of frame, scorch marks scattered in bits and splotches of black and yellow.

"What do you think she's feeling?" I asked.

Again, I tried to sound as casual as I could be. But unfortunately, it seems my acting skills have gotten just a little rusty. 

"Doesn't matter," Irene said firmly, placing a newly folded shirt onto a separate pile with a lot more force than normal. "It's not our concern anymore." 

"Yeah," I agreed, with no other choice but to. "Of course." 

"Alright, now that we're done with the small talk," Irene declared in a tone that funneled the discussion only one way. "Let's hear what you're really calling for." 

I readily complied. "My family is in town for a week to celebrate my birthday. Which means everyone's here. Thought you should know." 

Irene listened as she folded, nodding along silently as if she were in attendance at one of her briefings. 

"Now, here's the catch—my Dad—he says he wants to meet with you. Whenever you're able to, that is." 

"Why?"

"Why?" I repeated back, mildly taken aback. "Well, I'm guessing he wants to see you for himself?" 

"Because?" 

Was that a serious question? 

"Maybe it has to do with the fact that we're dating?" 

"Exactly," Irene said, an audible whip resounding as she fluttered a pair of jeans. "I'm dating you, I'm not dating him. There's no reason for us to meet. Tell him to mind his own business."

"You met with my mom, didn't you?" I said.

"Under completely different circumstances," she interjected. "And even then I wouldn't exactly call our meeting pleasant. Your parents—you realize there's a stigma, right? One I'd rather not dwell on nor be reminded of." 

Irene had a point. To Amanda, they're my parents. To Adalia, Mom was a pseudo-maternal figure, and Ash was fine no matter the what or why. But Irene was different. You don't just go meet with your apparent world-enders and pretend that your world hasn't ended.

Even so…

"It's gonna happen eventually, y'know?" I said. "You stay with me, you're gonna have to face them again sooner or later." 

"Then I choose later." 

I fell silent, thinking, staring. I don't want to push or force her into anything she doesn't want to do. But at the same time, I get the sense that Dad won't let this go either. 

"How far later?" I asked.

"As far and late as I can push it too." Irene blinked her eyes. "Trust me. If we meet, it won't be on cordial terms. Later is better."

"Alright then," I said, choosing to just let it go for the time being. "I'll, um… I'll let him know." 

She nodded once, throwing a curt smile. "You do that." 

"So, uh… I'll go do that now. Good night, Irene," I told her, my thumb an inch away from disconnecting the call. "I love you." 

"Wait, stop—hold on." 

My thumb froze at once, the skin just barely grazing the screen. Irene shifted in her seat, setting the piece of clothing in her hands aside. 

"For Friday. Your birthday…" she began slowly. "After your lesson. I want us to go somewhere." 

"Okay," I answered back. "Where?" 

"Don't know," Irene admitted. "But I just want you to know." 

"Understood," I couldn't help but shoot a smirk at the absurdity of it all. "Should I also call work beforehand? Tell them that I might not be coming in for my shift the day after?"

For a moment, Irene contemplated it. 

"Maybe," she said, coming to a decision. "Just in case." 

O…kay.