Sherry stormed out of the Royal Knights HQ and into Skye Street, her anger driving her forward without direction. Mort lingered behind her at a safe distance, wanting to help her, but knowing better not to approach yet. A hundred thoughts and feelings blurred her vision, and she almost ran into a passing dwarf, who cursed loudly at her as she continued forward.

Her grandfather had died before the great war, and as was tradition, his skull was bequeathed to the next head of the family to be able to summon when in dire need of counsel. That was her father. But after his death, she could only find the upper part among his old possessions, and you need at least the full thing to tether a soul to it.

Sherry should have taken her father’s skull, as the role of dead advisor fell to him now, but she couldn't bring herself to do so after what she tried to do. The memories were as hazy as she felt then, and she did not want to dwell on them. Nor did she want to remember the boy and what he had taken from her. For Deadbone to know and use both against her like this… 

Make peace with the boy.

The words stung even now, that anyone would ask that of her, especially that monster, parading with her father’s face.

“Sherry…please stop,” Mort asked calmly, finally drawing nearer.

“I cannot stop thinking about it,” Sherry whispered.

‘I can imagine, but you’re not alone,” Mort said, daring to stand beside her. “Let me do what you brought me back to do and help you with this…well, dead weight.”

Sherry couldn't help herself and let out a painful chuckle, “Did you just refer to yourself as...”

“Well, I am,” Mort said releasing a sigh of relief. “But I’m supposed to help you with all this trauma you’re still carrying for what happened to me, not weigh you down with it.”

“What happened to you was a crime.”

“Yes, but it was also an accident.” 

Sherry turned to stare at Mort, who held her gaze firmly, but also with that same softness that always broke her. She could never hold any anger before those eyes.

“You think I should do what she said?” Sherry asked, guessing his intent.

“It’s not bad advice just because it came from a lunatic through a crazy dragon lady.”

Sherry looked sideways at him, then took a long sigh. “I believe I need a drink.”

“You never drink.”

“Today I do, especially if I must do this.”

“Well, that’s a dark reason to finally take my advice to go mingle and relax but, hey, I’ll take it.”

Mort placed his arm around Sherry as they started walking down the street again, “I know just the place.” 

***

The place turned out to be a raucous bar in the middle of the Upper East Side, the kind none of the other knights would frequent. The area was filled with the working class of the city, all species blended for a richer community than the ones she knew from the great Houses. 

There was crime here, of course, and Sherry had made her fair share of arrests in these very streets, but the people here looked out for each other, even the houseless elves from the neighboring Wisp Hill, where most dwelled, alone and forgotten. However, they had no love for Royal Knights like her.

“I used to come here when we were off duty back in the day,” Mort mentioned, opening the door for her. Inside was a cozy but loud atmosphere, with all the patrons discussing their business until they noticed her, and then everything went dead quiet.

Sherry felt, as she often did, like the literal black spot in the room, sucking out the joy of everyone. She started to turn, ready to leave, when someone shouted; “Oy, is that you Mort?”

“Fenn!” Mort shouted back, delighted. 

Sherry starred as the oldest-looking elf she’d ever seen walked towards them, full with a long gray beard and wrinkles all over his face; he hugged Mort like a long lost brother. “You devil, I thought you were dead?”

“I am!” Mort replied with a laugh. “And I thought the same, but I'm glad to see you’re still holding on, you stubborn bastard!”

“Just turned three hundred and five! Nobody thought I’d make it this far either, mind you. Maybe there’s still a tiny bit of magic left in me after all.”

“You’re full of it, my friend.” Just then, Fenn noticed Sherry, and his smile faltered, but he didn’t seem mad or scared.

“Ah, this would be the Sherr’Yand’Rull you always told me about then?”

“Yes, she’s why I’m still here.” 

Mort spoke pleasantly, but there was a pointed note in his words there, and understanding flashed in Fenn’s eyes. He seemed to suddenly notice everyone else at the bar had been holding their breath, waiting for a signal that everything was ok.

“What are you all gawking at? This ain’t a library, so talk! Eat!” Fenn barked, and slowly, everyone resumed their activity, but you could tell there was still a bit of tension lingering in the air.

Most of them worked long hours at jobs that paid little gold, with no magic, which is what the city ran on. They had no power to light up their houses, cook their meals, or get any materials or goods. So they worked for who they could, aging like humans, sometimes faster for the Houseless elves.  The whole bar was lit with the same candles that Sherry used in her apartment, yet they made the most out of it and found respite in places like this.

All this only made Sherry feel more like an outsider, not belonging to either side, always out of place and resented. She found that she was angry at them, just feeling that boiling under the surface.

“Don’t mind them, dear," Fenn said, reading her sure-to-be dangerous expression. "They have more than enough reason to not want one of you knights here, but I know you’re quite a different sort from the rest of them.”

“That does not mean I am the sort you like,” Sherry said bluntly.

“I know about your family, and why they were treated as such,” Fenn said, and there was genuine compassion in his voice. “Wasn’t right what happened to them, no matter what anyone says about them or their peculiarities.”

“Peculiarities?” Sherry repeated, breaking a small and humorless smile.

“We all have them, deary. Traditions, no matter how odd they may seem to others, are all we have of our roots sometimes.”

“Even speaking with the dead?” Sherry asked pointedly.

“Yes, and I can’t judge it too harshly if it lets me share one last drink with my old friend here.”

“It’s only a last one if you keel over and die from it,” Mort teased him.

“I still have some life in me yet,” Fenn declared, pulling out a bottle of the local spicy rum, serving two glasses, and then clinking his with Mort's before they downed them in one swig.

“Ah, it doesn't hit quite the same anymore, but the feeling is there,” Mort said, gratefully.

“You learn to live for the little things again when you might not enjoy them forever,” Fenn said, filling another glass for himself. “Like a good drink, delicious food, and-oh! Music! Whose turn is it to sing tonight?”

A few of the dwarves on the corner roared in agreement, but none of the elves at present seemed much in the mood. A well-dressed orc by the bar seemed eager, but his friend put his hand on his shoulder to dissuade him, perhaps sparing everyone a terrible rendition.

“What, does no one have a song in them today?” Fenn demanded.

“I have a song,” Sherry said, rather surprised to offer, but there was a feeling in her chest that seemed to want to get out.

“Ah, lovely, any I know?”

“No, it is one I wrote…after the war.”

The mood darkened for any that heard, and Mort looked concerned again, but Sherry gave him a look and he let her be. She drew in her breath to prepare, the patrons now looking wary, silent again. And then she let out the words to the melody in her head as if the guitar was playing.

“We’re the clan of death,

And our bones are all the best.

You can tell it’s so,

For this city they’re the nest.

We were buried here,

When our lives we did all give.

Queen told us to die,

So we did for you to live.

You saw us as less, 

Watching from afar with disdain,

Our magic is black,

But your kind are a real pain.

Ay, ay, ay, ay,

Now we are dead.

Ay, ay, ay, ay,

Ground is all red.

Ay, ay, ay, ay,

Now we watch you instead.”

There was no applause. She had sung softly, her voice was in tune, and Sherry was sure many would have called it beautiful…but the lyrics were not. She felt the anger behind them, her resentment, and then felt drained by it all.

“I think I will have some of that as well,” Sherry said, sitting at the bar beside a stunned Fenn and an angry-looking Mort, and served herself a glass.

“That was out of line,” Mort said, and for once, he was not being patient with her.

“I do not care,” Sherry replied, drinking.

“You should,” Mort said, turning to face her. “These people are not the ones you are angry at; they are not the ones who send your family to their death. Everyone here has less than those who did, and you don’t get to take it out on them.”

Sherry could not stand the justice in his words, and she hated herself almost as much as she hated everyone else. The highborns for looking down on her, the council for costing her everything, and that boy…for taking the last person she held dear. And she realized hot tears were streaming out of her, even if she wasn’t sobbing.

“Anger is all I have left,” Sherry said, miserably.

“No, it’s not.”

“Do not tell me I have you, Mort. I do not. You are here only because I am too weak to let go.”

“Then do it,” Mort pleaded. “Let go of all that poisons you.”

“I do not know if I can.”

“Start with your anger, if not for everyone, then at least for that boy.”

Sherry closed her eyes, the tears still running down her cheeks. She knew he was right, and if his victim could forgive him, what objection could she raise?

“I will try…for you.”

“No,” Mort said, placing his hand on her own. “Do it for you, Sherry. I am part of the past you need to move from, find those who can be in your future.”

Sherry broke, and her eyes flowed like rivers now, her voice cracking as she clung to Mort’s hand. She cried for hours, and no one said anything. If they felt pity for her they didn’t show it, they just let them be, and she was grateful for that. She would apologize to them all after, but she felt no shame at that moment.