Zaire

The tavern was empty.

Zaire slid onto a stool at the counter. From behind the counter, his father glanced up at him, still polishing the glassware in his hands. Tired hands, Zaire noted. Always tired. In the dim candlelight, the lines on his face looked deeper than ever, hanging eyelids not even attempting to hide his exhaustion.

Can he see my anger as clearly as I see his exhaustion? Zaire wondered. I hope so.

“You didn’t come to the ceremony.”

He closed his eyes, sighed. “No. I didn’t.”

“You didn’t come to my ceremony.” Zaire repeated. He raised his hands in a questioning gesture.

He nodded.

“What—were you busy? Were you afraid?”

His father set down one glass, slid it to the side, then started on the next piece.

“What difference does it make?” His low whisper rattled.

“I just want to know.”

Another tired nod.

“Zaire, they’re all the same… Why don’t you just go home…"

Zaire shook his head incredulously. Home? What home? His father turned, placing three polished glasses on the shelf behind him. Each gentle tap of glass on wood filled the empty room

He moved slowly, as if an invisible weight rested on his shoulders. His off-white shirt was wrinkled, sleeves stained at the wrists. Creases covered his vest as if he had slept in it, and his dark curls hung longer than usual. His fingers lingered on the last glass. He turned his head, mouth open as if to speak, but a ragged cough came instead.

Anger surged through Zaire. He neglects himself just as he neglects me!

“Why do you even stay?” Zaire said through clenched teeth.

His father bowed his head, silent.

“If you’re going to pretend like I don’t exist, why do you stay? Why don’t you just leave the city? Find something to live for?”

His father’s hand fell from the shelf to his side. He turned, features impassive, and shrugged.

Zaire pushed himself to his feet and away from the counter, heading for the exit. Reaching the door he paused, palm against the wood. Why do I even try?

"I'll be up at the university."

He pushed his way out of the dark tavern and into the winter morning.

---------------------------

“How is he?” Master Verin asked as the tavern door banged closed behind Zaire. He was leaning against the building, hands folded behind his back, head tilted back against the red wood.

Zaire snorted, breath coming out in a cloud. “How do you think?” He meant to spit the words out but they came out a strangled whisper. Verin pushed away from the wall, placing a gentle hand on Zaire’s back. He leaned close, murmuring in his ear.

“Let’s talk about it somewhere warmer, shall we?”

Zaire nodded, resisting the sudden heat behind his eyes that threatened to flood them with tears. He shook his head, stepping away from Verin’s hand and up the street. Slick cobblestone led a winding path upward into the haze of lightly falling snow. Verin followed silently behind. Crowded buildings leaned above, tight shutters and peaked roofs defying winter’s advance as chimney smoke trailed up into the swirling white.

Cold seeped through Zaire’s clothes; crawled up his sleeves and down his boots, a ghostly embrace inviting him to join its isolation. In the wind’s faraway howl he almost thought he heard a whisper, beckoning.

The road leveled out as they passed under a great stone archway and onto university grounds. Haphazard cobblestone turned into patterned pathways leading past frost covered oak trees and low square buildings of smooth-cut stone. Master Verin turned down a path toward one of the buildings.

A tinkling of keys, then a heavy click and the door swung inward. Verin hurried in, waving for Zaire to follow.

“I was taking us to the residence hall…” Zaire trailed off as he crossed the threshold.

Orange firelight enveloped him, illuminating a tidy world of bookshelves and paper-covered tables. A shielded fireplace burned brightly across the room. Open books and newly-sharpened charcoal pencils sat on a desk surrounding what looked like a drawing. He’s never shown me any drawings… He moved to get a better look, then turned back. “Is this your library?”

Verin smiled. “Yes.” He laughed, hanging his hat by the door, running a hand through his smooth auburn hair. He gestured at the desk. “That’s just something I’m working on, it’s nothing.”

“You’re an artist?” Zaire said, stepping to the desk. “Alkar mentioned you drawing, but… I guess I imagined maps, not this.”

Verin chuckled. “I dabble.”

It was a sketch of a shoreline, cliffs over choppy waves. Zaire peered at the rough lines. It gave a strange sensation, like a slightly warped reflection of something familiar.

“Is it our shore, right here?” Zaire pointed vaguely to the west.

“Yes. Would you like to hang your coat?”

Zaire shook his head absently, fixated on the drawing.

“If it’s our shore, where’s the city?”

“It’s but a sketch, hardly finished.”

“I suppose…” The absence was striking. Wood creaked as Verin collapsed into a chair by the hearth, fingers held out to catch the fire’s warmth.

“So,” he said after a moment. “How is your father?”

Here, in the warmth and safety of the library, Zaire’s anger felt an ocean away.

“It’s hard to say…” Images of his tired eyes, rumpled clothes and that apathetic shrug passed through Zaire’s mind, but the recent pain gripping his chest now seemed as easily brushed aside as cobwebs. He stepped to the hearth. “I’m not even sure what to say about him. He hasn’t been home in days.”

“Where has he been?”

“At the tavern, working,”

“Working? Why so long?”

“That’s the question.” The question I asked him. Zaire sat on the floor, legs stretched out. Verin stroked his beard, deep in thought.

“He’s never done this before?”

A pause. He had never stayed away for so long, but the distance was familiar. Normal. It wasn’t the fault of the tavern, or the city. It went back to winding woodland roads and a loaded wagon. It went back to tears and hushed conversations in the dark. It was written in each line on his father’s face.

The fire popped, sparks dancing upward to vanish a moment later.

"Actually, he has.” Zaire said. “I guess I didn’t notice.”

Verin studied Zaire. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know.” He muttered, shooting a glare into the flames. He breathed in, and for a moment was swallowed by sharp awareness, drowning in layers of pain from years spent wondering, wishing, waiting for someone to explain the horrible cracks inside. He opened his mouth, ready to say it all, to release the flood of emotion spanning years of memories. Then, in the split second between inhale and exhale, the words slipped from his mind like water through his fingers. Waves of emotion flattened, becoming simple frustration. He closed his mouth, jaw tense. “I don’t… know.”

Verin's sigh was barely audible.

"How do you feel about the situation?"

"Numb? Maybe frustrated." His voice fell. “Some moments I'm glad he's not around. Most of the time I just want him to see me. I want to see his smile. Once—" he scoffed. "Once I sat in the tavern watching him— I borrowed Alkar's cloak and sat in the corner. I watched for his smile. I don't know how long I sat there... I think he hates this place. Ever since we came here he's gotten worse. It's never been this bad!"

For a brief period the only sound was the crackling logs as the fire ate them.

Zaire put his face in his hands."And you're leaving." He didn't dare look up to see Verin's expression.

With a rustle Verin stood, gentle steps taking him to the bookshelf on the far wall. Zaire glanced up, watched him pull a small leather volume down from the top shelf. Returning to the hearth, he slid the chair backward and lowered himself to the floor, sitting cross-legged beside Zaire. In his hands the front looked rough, oily black in the firelight. He held it out.

Zaire took it, opening it to the first page. Written small in the middle of the page was one word, clean ink lines easy to read: Founders.

“What is this?”

“It’s for you. It was a gift from my father when I left our home country. I planned to return after five years.” He paused, taking in a long breath, letting it out slowly. “But two years in, King Gabriel rose to power and the walls rose with him. He gave all foreigners a chance to leave or swear allegiance, but it was too late for me. I had already met my Eda.” A smile played with the corner of his mouth, shy and trembling, then it died. His distant eyes caught the orange light. “Gates closed, and five years turned to ten… It was hardest when Alkar was born, I understood then, the love of a father. He got one letter smuggled in, and I sent one back. It’s been silence ever since.”

There was a cry in his voice like waves against a cliff, a distant, roaring heartbeat drowning out all else. He continued.

“All I have of him besides that letter is this book. It’s about people who left a mark on this world, who really changed—”

“I can’t take this. I never knew—” Zaire folded it closed, thrusting it back at Verin but he put up a hand, pushing it away.

“Please. I’m leaving, Zaire. But I refuse to leave you alone.”

But you are, Zaire wanted to shout. It’s not just you leaving, it’s Alkar, and Seraph! Your book will never replace you. It won’t fix this. But that word. Please. It echoed every bit of anguish tearing at Zaire’s soul.

Please, it said, Let this moment be.

Zaire’s arm fell to his lap, leather still in hand. So we're pretending.

"Thanks. For the book. You were telling me what it's about."

Verin straightened. "It's full of stories. Truth and myth knit together. It's no scripture, but it has always been enough to inspire me."

"You, inspired by myths?" Zaire faked a shocked tone. Verin smiled wide.

"You're rubbing off on me." He said. "Now, you'd better find Alkar. He's probably pulling his hair out wondering where you are." He hauled himself up, extending a hand to lift Zaire.

Standing was like a breath of fresh air.

"I guess I'll go find him. Are you headed that direction? We could walk together."

"No," Verin said, "I have things to finish around here." He gestured at the sturdy shelves and papers strewn carelessly on every surface. "Go on, and keep that book safe."

"Of course." Placing the book carefully in his pocket, Zaire crossed the room. It was a strange, jolting normalcy that filled the air. Stifling.

He pulled the heavy door open and stepped out onto smooth stone wet by melted snowflakes, glad he had kept his coat on. With passing melancholy, he wondered if he would ever see the inside of that library again.

Author Notes: So, I rewrote my story from 4+ years ago, and wow! Feel free to go back and read the old one, it's still posted (for now.) It's called "Zaire (Old Version)"

This is only half of the old chapter one, but I didn't want to make it too long. I hope you enjoyed reading it!

The end is kind of rushed because I was getting sick of being stuck on this scene. I'd love some feedback on what works and what doesn't.

What's your favorite part?

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