Chapter 2D: Unfortunately, Alive (And/Or Drunk)
He was back to his essential visa work, having failed to deliver his version of justice or dispose of the town’s thieving problem. That wasn’t too significant to him right now, however. All he could think of was family. It was always family. They made life unnecessarily complicated and dramatic. Or, that’s what Ziafar assumed, given how Valon had responded to his father’s letter
Ziafar didn’t know much about family. His mother and father had pushed him into his homeland’s local academy when he had been old enough to walk, talk, and obsessively read. And then, when he had passed the entrance exams, to the next academy. And the next, and the next, and however many he needed to go through in order to become a powerful, high-ranking mage. Enough to become a subordinate to one of the leaders of his country’s High Council, where he would then receive his legal knowledge and overwhelming pride. He had been even plotting to have that leader deposed and eliminated (secretly, of course); unfortunately, that leader took care of the problem for him by jumping from the walls of the collapsing, magic-less city. By then, of course, who would want to be a member of a memberless Council? Who would want to be a frail shell of a once powerful man in a ruined gathering of equally ruined men and women? That had been when he left, by which point they had fallen into a symbolic, but effectively powerless, group, picking up rubble to rebuild something that could not be.
The elf stopped himself; he was reminiscing again. Regardless, he had not seen his parents for years. Did they know he existed? Did they know he was still alive? Did they care? Did he care? If caring would make him turn out like how Valon was acting right now, he wasn’t interested in it. Besides, he read through a letter a few times, and it treated Valon almost like a child. Mosquitos were the least of their problems, annoying as they were, and hard as they were to kill. It was hard not to want to set fire to the letter, but it was clearly important to them and their cause, and posed an opportunity through which they could boost their own reputations and increase their likelihood of getting a visa. Ziafar preferred his own self-interest above all else, and so he kept the letter on hand while he read through the rest of Valon’s notes. He needed identification papers for all of them in order to register properly for a visa, after all. Thankfully, Valon’s own unexpected knowledge of the legal system had made this process far easier, as much as he hated to admit it. Now Ziafar was writing down an elaborate letter on the events of their preceding trip; entering letters of correspondence with Yliev’s ambassadors for rewards and legal aid, thanks to his dismantling a Glavin scheme; and reading through the Pontifex Statutes and Espergale Convention texts to prepare for what would be a brilliant case against Glavin’s military actions. He felt professional, humming a tune to himself as he multitasked in his reading and writing of several documents. This wasn’t magical power, but it was still power - especially against an entire nation - and it satisfied Ziafar. With luck, it would not take too long to build a case that would get him the visas he needed to enter strange lands in search of the mana he desperately craved.
And, if he were to succeed, what then? Could he take over his homeland with a power that nobody else could dream of having? Rule the Council? Crown himself---
The elf spied a strange-looking envelope stuffed in between several papers. Somebody – Valon, it looked like – had written a small note on the cover. What really matters to you? Curious, Ziafar opened the envelope and pulled out its contents. Scouring through them, he realized they were his identification papers, complete with notes on his arrival and joining of Valon’s group. Normally, he would be elated to see such documentation, pitiful as it made him seem. Unfortunately for him, that was right before he spotted another horrifically familiar name. Ziafar ripped out the paper in question and read through it frantically, eyes darting over the page as they tried to grab as much information as possible. Astrid, who had just asked if anyone would join her in the Manablush Festival, watched him warily; everyone else in the room did the same. All of his energy was devoted to keep his hands from ripping the page in two and flipping the table. Particularly when he saw where the person in question was located. Memories spun through his head, urged on by rage.
“I know that I am charming,” boasted Ziafar to the man opposite him. They were sitting in a clay-walled sauna with a wooden floor. Draped in only a towel, Ziafar was smug and proud as he leaned back and stared upwards at the light fog hovering over him. Sweat dripped down from his face as he continued. “She sees my talents, my charm, and my ambition; she sees me for who I am, and loves it.”
The other elf – a burlier man with a warm smile – replied, “Why not give some love back? Unless you appreciate yourself too much to do anything other than take it.” As usual, he was sarcastic, though with an odd, bitter edge to it. His smile was not resolute, and he seemed more annoyed than anything else.
“I…,” stammered Ziafar, caught off guard, his little façade of pride broken. “…want to know if she…will show in the palace when I join the Council before I decide if…”
His companion laughed. It was laced with a little spite, but Ziafar was too unobservant and surprised at the time to notice it. The other man stopped after a few seconds, explaining himself as he looked at the ground and wiped a tear from his eye. “What kind of lady would wait for her boyfriend to become a secretary before he takes interest in her? Go for her, as soon as possible, because you never know how long you’ll have the chance.” He glared at Ziafar; the smile never reached his eyes.
Eye twitching, arms trembling, Ziafar drew his lips into a tight frown and set down the paper. Tynan raised an eyebrow as the gathering of people stared at him intently, ears waiting patiently to catch any response, if one would come. He looked straight back, all the way through the well-furnished office room, with its not-too-shabby couches and lamps and cabinets, and sighed. A long, drawn out, exasperated sigh. If it wasn’t for the fact he wanted to keep his nails clean, he would be clawing at his face. Peeking through the paper one more time, trying to assure his knowledge of the location was correct, he squeezed past the large desk
“I’m going down to town to visit a winery,” whispered Ziafar. Any louder, and he would feel the overwhelming impulse to shout at something.
“That had better not be a joke, you--” began Valon.
“I assure you, it is not.” Admittedly, Ziafar had wished he’d made up such a joke intentionally. He didn’t smile, but his eyes betrayed him for a brief second before reality crashed down on his head and left him dour.
******
Ziafar had forgotten this was the time of year for the Manablush festival. Their local area lacked the resources and spirit to make the most of this time to year. A few papier-mâché butterflies floated on a light breeze, while a frustrated man attempted to imbue magic into them, likely with the hopes of turning them to life. However skilled he had been in the past, though, the mana drought had sapped most of his strength, and the most the butterflies could do was act dead and flutter slightly.
Still, a long series of shops extended in front of Ziafar and all of his (eager or otherwise) companions, vendors hawking various love-themed goods under wooden roofs imbued with the vine of hearts (both the realistic and paper kind). The markets were active and crowded, with young and old couples walking to and from the stores, pointing at various items, and buying old relics and artifacts that may have served their true purpose in the past, but had worn with age and the drought. Ziafar was always startled by the way in which people were so excited about a festival that was nothing like what it had been when he had been a child. Every young boy or girl waving a small kite about or throwing one/both kinds of the vine of hearts over their parents earned a confused stare from him. The people stared back at Ziafar, who was wearing a brand-new set of green and black clothes he paid for with his own money. If it wasn’t for the fact that Astrid had taken his money and had made him allow them to buy their own clothes, else they would have bought some for him, they would likely be dressed similarly. Nevertheless, the grim sentinel, energetic girl, jaunty leader, and rather grim druid, as well as him, were already enough of a sight to behold.
This was a spectacle, as every curious or alarmed face indicated, and the kind of attention Ziafar despised; it made him uncomfortable. Still, he couldn’t help feeling some form of pity when he noticed that Valon, at the head of the procession, still looked depressed. He was trying to bury it in his usual color and energy, but there were noticeable holes in that disguise, especially when they came across fathers doting on their children. Neither of them were normally this emotional, and Ziafar wanted to say some word of encouragement or aid. Yet, everything that came into his head never left his mouth. What was he thinking? He wasn’t good with feelings, he wasn’t good at giving some benevolent piece of himself to others, and he certainly wasn’t good at consoling somebody on a topic he had no experience with. This level of self-doubt was infinitely frustrating, pestering and nagging at Ziafar by taking shots at his pride and confidence. He had to say something, it demanded of him, no matter how terrible it might sound.
The only thing Ziafar could think to say was, “This town knows about as much what a proper festival looks like as a man who’s buried his head in the dirt would know what a sea looks like.” He was lucky that he said it quietly; being at the back of the group, they only faintly heard it.
No laughter. The crowed parted out of their way as Ziafar barked wrong directions to the winery and slipped into the crowd as the others turned around a corner, finding the winery where it was located among the larger stores in the center of town. It wasn’t that hard to see, what with the massive sign, tables, awning, and vines elegantly wrapped around the wooden frame of the place. The title, “The Remean Winery,” left a bitter taste in Ziafar’s mouth. He proceeded anyway, Ziafar resisting the willingness to kick down the door as he pushed it open and entered it.
The place was empty, thanks to everyone participating in the festival. Light streamed in from windows to the side and back, shadows cast by the mildly-shuttered windows and vines stretching on the outside of the walls. A few oak wood tables and chairs were scattered about on a polished floor, with a bar to the corner. The bartender was there, her calloused fists on the darkened wood as she scanned the newcomer with narrow eyes. Behind her were rows of fancy wines stacked on the shelves and cabinets, displaying their brands and identities proudly. A door beside the wine appeared to lead into the kitchen. The lady opened a drawer under the counter and pulled out a few clear glasses as the Ziafar stepped into the space.
“Where is the proprietor of this place?” asked Ziafar, eye twitching, though it was hard to see in the space’s lack of light. His anger was now a bonfire churning within him, threatening to set him ablaze and cast fire upon his surroundings. All he wanted to do was see that stupid, ugly face of his wretched enemy, grab his neck, and be done with this nightmare. At least the room was mostly empty, save for the bartender, whom he might also have to remove for the sake of leaving behind no witnesses. Plots, egged on by egotism and wrath, grew in his mind, but he tried as much as possible to indicate he was only asking a simple question. It would’ve appeared as such, if not for his scowling face and the clenching of his fists.
The bartender raised an eyebrow, but didn’t voice her curiosity. “He’s gone to Silverlake. There’s a man at Howlengale who thinks he can restart the country’s wine industry with a…a…what was it again? …ah, a greenhouse.”
Ziafar waved his hand dismissively, instantly looking tired and weathered. That voice and statements sounded and behaved real. His fantasies, on the other hand, remained as such, and died where they stood upon the realization that they truly did not exist, taking the bundles of rage they were attached to with him. He felt stupid and ashamed, more that this plan had been all for nothing than the prospect of murdering someone. “…Fine,” he muttered, sitting down at the bar and tracing the impressions and holes in the wood.
Now the person across from him shifted from curious to tense. “Why do you want to speak to the owner?” she asked with suspicion after wasting a minute watching Ziafar in his own misery.
“He’s a…friend,” he said after a few seconds. He couldn’t say any other word to describe it that wouldn’t make the bartender kick him out of the store.
The lady pulled out a fine wine bottles and sent them on the bar’s counter. “I’d think he’d tell me if he had a friend what looked as odd as you.”
Ziafar grumbled, but avoided glaring at her. “Well, I must be a special friend, as we know each other incredibly well.”
“The last time I heard “special friend,” it was somebody from the ma—”
“I didn’t come here to argue semantics,” Ziafar shouted in a completely genuine, angry voice, “I came here to get drunk!”
The room grew quiet, consumed by a thick and invisible tension that bore its way through the minds of the building’s occupants, only beaten by a sense of despair and depression hovering above Ziafar. A drinking mood. Ziafar set down a small pile of cash earned from his diplomatic negotiations with Yliev. The bartender grabbed a bottle opener and yanked out the cork of a wine bottle that she had selected, seemingly at random.
“Danzata del Coberino,” she explained as she poured it into the wine glass. “Very potent stuff. It’s said to have been created from fermented grapes imbued with magic before the drought. It’s probably all hogwash; I don’t remember the wine here aging for that long. It’ll work anyhow.”
Of course, it was about when he put the glass to his lips that his companions kicked down the door.
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