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wildfieldz · 22 days ago

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WITHIN AN INCH OF THE DREAM | CHAPTER 1

The story in the original language is available here.

DO NOT REPOST.

Edgar was dressed in foreign clothes, as was Charlie, but he only noticed it on the eighth try — right after he gave up wrestling with the tiny steering wheel that looked more like a hoop. The carriage itself resembled a coach, if you imagined the driver’s seat was inside rather than outside.

Before him, Charlie saw the road stretching into the night. Were those lanterns or torches lighting the way? It was impossible to tell — the speed at which they were hurtling forward was too great. Where to? Why? And why the hell had he been dreaming this for two months straight?

Bill — William Blanc, before he completely lost his wits — used to teach his grandson to pay attention to the signs of fate. The problem was, not everyone had the knack for deciphering them.

Charlie wouldn’t mind puzzling it out in the morning, but dying in his sleep on a regular basis? That was a bit too much. He had no doubt that, in the end, he and Edgar crashed straight into a tree, and his soul went off to join the ancestors. No matter what he did, the dream always ended there. Best-case scenario, he’d wake up drenched in sweat. Worst-case? The first time, he’d rolled right out of bed, smacked his forehead on the nightstand, and earned himself a nice lump. Mary had noticed, asked him about it, and hadn’t believed the half-baked excuse he’d come up with on the spot.

“Charlie, you’ve lost all shame! Any decent citizen is up at the crack of dawn, and here you are, lazing about in bed! Open up, I don’t give a damn about these bohemian habits of yours!”

Yep. That’s exactly how the newly minted Mrs. Norton would say it. Anything connected to the past, the orphanage, irritated her now, as well as Charlie himself.

Wait. That was Mary’s actual voice. Not some leftover bit of the dream.

“Damn it, Bloom…”

Peeling himself off his not-so-comfortable mattress, the minstrel hurried to meet his friend.

The floorboards creaked under his bare feet, and the sound jolted Charlie fully back to reality — where, today, he was expected to deliver a revised portrait to a very picky client. Bloom had been most displeased to see all three of his extra chins staring back at him, and he had little interest in the artist’s noble commitment to the truth. Charlie, swallowing his pride, had agreed to redo the whole thing — and then some. After all, he couldn’t return the advance anymore, and losing potential clients from the jeweler’s guild wasn’t exactly a smart move.

Ed would have said he’d succumbed to the system, definitely. That is, if Ed actually cared.

The door groaned in sympathy with the floorboards. Mary wasted no time.

“Ugh, it’s stuffy in here,” she muttered, striding past Charlie and heading straight for his workspace. “Alright, where is my lord and master?”

“You mean Gaspar?” Charlie quipped, fully aware he’d regret it. “Well, he’s definitely not here. He knows exactly how I feel about him.”

The consequences were immediate. Mary rolled her eyes.

“I meant Bloom, not my husband. Bloom will have my head if something’s wrong again.”

The messenger always pays the price, even if he has nothing to do with the bad news. In Mary’s case it's the same, despite the fact she happened to be very easy on the eyes.

Charlie walked over to the easel, set aside the empty wooden canvas, and groaned as he lowered himself onto the chair. It was easier to search for Bloom’s portrait that way, among the finished works propped up against the wall. It didn’t take long.

“The very embodiment of lies,” he muttered.

Someone barely resembling Friedrich Bloom gazed back at them from the painting.

“He’s lost, what, forty kilos? No, forty-two. I got rid of the wart, shrank the nose... Life is just wonderful.”

Mary patted his shoulder the way she used to when they were kids. Or almost the same way — there was a nervous edge to her touch now.

Maybe his gut feeling was right — maybe she was miserable with Gaspar. Or maybe Bloom was working his people to the bone. No. More likely, Gaspar was just rotten to the core.

“It’s alright, Marquis,” she said. “That’s adult life for you. You’ve done well, settling down. The pay’s good — that’s what matters.”

Strange words. Someone else’s words. And the nickname — from the orphanage days.

Charlie looked up at her, as if seeing her for the first time.

“So you’re saying I’ve been acting like a child?” He frowned. “That I should ditch art and focus on this nonsense instead? Mary, there’s no vision here, no creativity. If someone’s losing weight because of me, but only on canvas, that’s not art. That’s fraud.”

A sad smile softened her face. She looked at him with sisterly affection. And then… struck again.

“I’m saying you’re, what… twenty-five? In five years, you’ll be a proper grown man. And going bald.” She widened her eyes for emphasis. “Then you’ll realize you missed your chance. By now, you could have a good house, a wife, and kids! If you’d just stop messing around.”

She cast a critical eye around the room.

Charlie followed her gaze.

Yeah. It hadn’t always been like this. Back when Edgar was around, at least there was constant cleaning to do — after his sworn brother. And before that? His grandfather.

He knew how to keep order, how to cook, how to milk cows, plow fields, whitewash walls. This whole house had stayed in shape because he held it together. Until he was left in it alone.

“What is this shack?” Mary clicked her tongue, having completed her inspection. “You could move to the central quarter, Charlie. But you’re lazy. You daydream too much. You need to work more, take orders from everyone! Then you’d have money. You could save —”

She went on for a while.

Charlie didn’t interrupt.

He should be grateful. Mary actually cared about his future. In a way, she had every right to make him pay for all his jabs at Norton. Then again, Charlie hadn’t done it out of spite. Or jealousy. He was just worried.

His feelings for Mary had changed ten years ago, when he realized she liked Bjorn. And he had stepped aside. With Bjorn, Mary had been shy. She’d sought him out, wanted his company. So why had she married Gaspar?

Probably for the same reason Bjorn had left the Continent, abandoning both her and their troupe. Hell if he knew what had gotten into them. Back then, those two never shut up about how they’d sail across the ocean together. Edgar and Charlie had laughed it off, playing their usual cards — We’re fine right here and We actually love our homeland, thanks.

But the four of them rarely fought. And they played damn well together.

Mary and her violin were often the highlight of the show. Of course, only with Ed’s permission. He had been their leader. And the truth was, people mostly came to see him, to listen to his melodies, not someone else’s.

Without Edgar, the troupe had no meaning. Without him, Charlie would have kept writing poems in secret, never realizing that anyone might actually like them. The others, as time proved, would have found something else to do regardless. Only Ed had been consumed by his craft. He had to compose. It was his nature. He’d do it non-stop, forgetting to eat, neglecting sleep.

No surprise, then, that his surroundings were always a disaster. He lived in his own head, oblivious to the mess. It had been like that even before he picked up the lute — back when they first met. Charlie had figured it out quickly: his new friend was a genius.

And really, who but a genius would wear his own tooth around his neck like a trophy?

Then again, people wore all sorts of things. Charlie was no better — he still carried the only thing he had left from his mother. Kept it tucked away, because explaining was exhausting.

At least Ed’s tooth had been easier. Like… Go ahead, laugh. Laugh at my clumsiness, at my failure. If it makes you feel better.

At some point, that wayward fang had disappeared.

And their performances had stopped. Because of… Eleanor.

What if Mary was right? What if he was the only one stuck in the past and it was time to let go of his dreams? For as long as Charlie could remember, he had wanted to create a masterpiece. Not for fame or wealth, but because only masterpieces had the power to make people truly see the beauty of the world — beauty they so often overlooked. A modest dream, really. Charlie wasn’t like Ed, obsessed with the idea of true immortality, and he had always believed he could do it. And yet, at twenty-five, he had neither a poem nor a painting that captured that elusive, undeniable beauty.

A sign from fate? Charlie refused to accept such a fate — or Mary’s reasoning. He just hoped his face showed nothing more than exhaustion, rather than his true feelings about wealth and the ever-looming prospect of a future family life.

Improving one’s financial standing didn’t automatically lead to love. That wasn’t how it worked! Life was meant to be built with a person, not with their possessions. And if some girl admired Charlie’s writing, that alone wouldn’t be enough to marry her. He only had to look at his brother’s example — whoever Eleanor had believed Edgar to be at first, she was sorely disappointed. And rightly so.

“What are you smiling about?” Mary ruffled his shoulder. “I didn’t say anything funny. Honestly, why are you so unserious? And then I wonder why your money vanishes into thin air.”

“Sorry, Mouse. It just happens.”

No way was he going to tell her that for the past year and a half, he had been working himself to the bone and could have saved a decent sum if he hadn’t been secretly donating most of his earnings to the orphanage. Even Edgar didn’t know — the one person who wouldn’t have judged him or called him a fool, because Edgar himself parted with money just as easily, the moment he heard someone needed it more. So Mary certainly didn’t need to know.

“What am I going to do with you?” sighed Mrs. Norton. Then, her face shifted into concern. “Charlie, you’re not sick, are you? You’re pale as death!”

“I’m fine,” Charlie gently pulled her hand away. “Just not sleeping well. The boar, remember? Keeps coming after me every night.”

A small truth — Mary deserved at least that much, even if she hadn’t been entirely honest with him. She was hurting, something was eating away at her. That whole speech wasn’t meant for a failed minstrel but for herself — the former violinist convincing herself she’d made the right choice by becoming… serious. If she had to convince herself, then doubts were gnawing at her. But Charlie wasn’t about to untangle that mess. Edgar’s philosophical dilemmas were more than enough for him.

“Weren’t you in a hurry?”

“Oh, right…” Mary bit her lip, as if debating whether to say something else, something important. “You distracted me again, you fool! Hand over the portrait, quick! If I’m lucky, I’ll make it out alive today. Charles, wake up!”

If not for the commission, Mary wouldn’t have visited at all. They no longer spoke the same language. Well, so be it.

Charlie wrapped the slimmed-down version of Blum in a piece of cloth and solemnly handed it to her. At the door, he offered to help carry it, but Mary waved him off.

“With you, the trip will take twice as long, dreamer. Tomorrow, three o’clock sharp, I expect you to come for the payment! I really hope you will!” Then, after a pause, she added, “You should go see a witch, Charlie. Listen to me. This boar… Go. She’ll give you something or at least tell you what it all means.”

She believed in the boar? Well, that was something… He must really look awful. Maybe he should check the mirror? No, no time for that — not when he was busy running from the suffocating thought that he was losing his mind.

Charlie knew it was possible. He remembered how pitiful and helpless his grandfather had become — calling out for strangers every night, begging for forgiveness, failing to recognize Charlie, shooing him. He had invented a whole pirate’s past for himself, even though everyone knew he had served the King his entire life and would have kept sailing if not for age and illness.

The fear of madness hadn’t died with his grandfather. But it faded when Charlie painted.

Finishing one commission, he would immediately take on the next. And if there was no work, he sketched. Young ladies, noblewomen, distinguished gentlemen — they all lacked imagination, always wanting to see themselves in the same poses, the same predictable settings. Artists with ambition, like Charlie Blanc, grew tired of such monotony quickly. And yet, he worked diligently.

Between sketches, he prepared his own ground mixture — clay, chalk, glue — applied it to canvas, sanded it down, sanded it again. The repetitive work soothed him. Carefully mixing oil, ochre, and lapis, Charlie envisioned how he would use them to create his masterpiece, and for a moment, he felt at peace.

Unfortunately, it all took a toll on the artist himself — enough to unsettle those around him.

“Alright, Mouse, I’ll consider your suggestion.”

Diplomacy was one of his strengths — knowing just the right words to avoid getting beaten up.

Leaving the outskirts of the city, Mary hardly expected her friend to take her advice the moment she stepped out the door. Yet that was exactly what happened.

Charlie threw open the shutters, letting in the air from the yard — not particularly fresh, but, as they say, beggars can't be choosers. It took the minstrel quite some time to scrub the floors, gather all the scattered dishes, wash them, and return them neatly to the shelf. He also tidied up his workspace. And himself — since he was heading out. He put on the best clothes he owned, including a clean shirt and his favorite black vest with dark red patches.

“I'm not balding, and I never will,” he muttered, slicking back his light blond hair. “And I'm not setting foot near a witch.”

Charlie wasn’t exactly a skeptic when it came to witches and sorcerers. Many of them could, for example, turn you into a donkey, a goat, or any other hoofed creature. Some could even shapeshift into beasts themselves. But Mary had likely meant fortune-tellers. Those specialized in love charms, hexes, curses, vague weather predictions, and even vaguer prophecies about the future. Not to mention gossip. No, thank you.

The dream wasn’t really about the boar — it was too personal for that. Especially since Edgar was in it. And the last thing Charlie needed was for some busybody to start up again with jokes about him being a mother goose. That was, in fact, one of the mildest jokes he'd ever heard about himself and his brother.

A peasant, having sold his goods at the market, was hurrying home and had no intention of running into Charlie in one of the narrow alleys of Merenberg. The young man, however, showed some empathy and listened to the man’s rant about how if life was no longer worth living, it was better to drown oneself than to let a horse trample over them. When the peasant finished cursing, Charlie nodded and continued on his way, leaving the man in confusion.

He certainly didn’t want to spoil his mood today with thoughts of ending his life in any way —especially not over quarrels. What he did want was breakfast! Some people had already eaten lunch, while his stomach was still growling like a whale. The minstrel headed toward his favorite tavern, “The Troll's Trail.” The prices were reasonable, and the food was top-notch, at least in his opinion. Charlie Blanc was easy to please. He was also an artist, after all. So, naturally, he got distracted in the town square, curious to see what his fellow performers were up to.

A trio was singing a song about love with all their might. They were clearly amateurs. The song’s content wasn’t new: once again, the object of affection wouldn't even spare a glance at the unlucky lover, and once again, the fair maiden was cruel. The musical quality of the song plunged Charlie into a deep melancholy, and he joined the crowd watching a puppet show about the era of Sebastian the Unifier.

“Now, that's the sovereign,” said a man to Charlie’s left, spitting on the ground as if to underscore the truth of his words. “Decisive, strong, he cared about his people, kept the empire from eating us up! That's a real king, not like these...” He suddenly fell silent, realizing he had chosen the wrong moment and place to express such opinions. “Ah, to the elves with them all!” he added and shuffled off toward the artisan shops. Charlie couldn't help but smile as he watched him go.

People always need a fairy tale, no matter their age. A little girl will believe in the prince who will one day come for her, while an adult man will believe in a just king who can keep ministers in check, chase off enemies, and make everyone rich. Charlie understood the little girl with his whole romantic soul: he, too, was waiting for someone, not knowing how their fateful meeting would unfold. As for the man… Charlie understood him, too. After all, there was no denying that Sebastian had worked some kind of magic.

When old Bill took his grandson from the orphanage, he didn’t immediately throw his full authority and domestic duties onto the boy. At first, he did try to become a more familiar figure. He even went as far as to find out what interested Charlie and sighed with relief when he found that the son of the crazy Albina wanted nothing more than books. Books were easy enough to provide, and the sailor had plenty of tall tales to tell. However, Charlie, at that age, had grown too old for the stories about krakens and hidden treasures buried on islands. In the end, Merenberg was inhabited by more than just humans, and it became just as important to satisfy a curious mind by finding out why that was so.

Sebastian’s story was well known to everyone from childhood — Charlie had hoped to find more details in the book. Alas, there was little new to be learned. It wasn’t even clear what the king actually looked like; there were countless versions of his appearance. As if he could change his shape! But no source ever labeled him as a magician. On the contrary, that was considered slander. The current ruling dynasty carefully controlled how Sebastian was depicted. It was probably their efforts that turned him into the idealized, almost mythical figure he had become. But he was real, and he had done many truly heroic things. In difficult times for the South, he reconciled warring neighboring principalities, uniting them and pointing out the true enemy who had been eagerly anticipating an easy conquest. Sebastian did something that could easily be called madness. His preemptive strike helped preserve not only Merenberg’s independence but also that of Sommetia, while Atforand never managed to conquer the southern lands or secure another route to the sea. Bloody wars came later, but thanks to the decisions made by the first king, Merenberg managed to fend off enemy invasions time after time. One of the most crucial decisions was not to outlaw magic. On the contrary, it had been taught in the academy ever since the time of the Unifier.

Anyone stuck between life and death was to be regarded as a victim of still undiscovered magical laws, rather than as monsters. Of course, no one was eager to help vampires, goblins, or werewolves to become human again. They were already considered normal members of society, though they led secluded lives to avoid ruining the perfect image of the city. Those who required blood consumed pig’s blood — this was something a vampire acquaintance had once told Charlie, and he very much hoped it was true. Undead creatures were harshly punished for murder, regardless. Aside from rare conflicts, the peaceful coexistence of different races and life forms in Merenberg was a fact. There were even dwarves from Sommetia living here. They were solid, if taciturn, and had taught people how to mine coal, gold, silver, and precious stones.

In short, Sebastian’s teachings hadn’t been forgotten: in Merenberg, no one was oppressed, and no one was insulted behind their back, even for racial reasons. And, to be honest, many were proud of this, for in the Empire, things were different. People there had privileges, and the rest seemed to enjoy risk and humiliation, as they had not yet moved elsewhere. Merenberg and Atforand held opposing views on technology, fighting large-scale wars every few decades — or not, depending on luck. The only things they shared in common were their language and mutual disdain for elves, who had been expelled from everywhere and banished to the East.

Charlie had never seen elves, and during his obsession with the legendary king, he had greatly lamented this fact. Elves had witnessed the birth of the world; some of them might have been contemporaries of Sebastian and could have told the truth about him. But after, so to speak, the overthrow of the elves, they were not only no longer considered descendants of the gods but were also made out to be the main villains, liars, and the cause of most disasters. To go to them for answers was something beyond reason, even for a fool. So Charlie didn’t go. And where would he have gone without Ed? Ed had no interest in searching for the royal tomb... it was as useful to him as wings on a ferret. But still, if they had found the king’s burial site, they’d have made it into the history books! Scholars had clamped their mouths shut about the ruler’s death — no exact date, no exact location. Clearly, it was much more important to repeat a million times that the current monarch and all those before him — including the most incompetent and cruel — were blessed by Sebastian, and therefore their right to the throne was unquestionable. It’s easy to guess that the peculiar cult of the Unifier was supported by the authorities, not out of love or gratitude, but for more pragmatic purposes. Gradually, teen Charlie lost his resolve and stopped wanting to search for anything, though he still maintained his respect for Sebastian. Had the first king been even half as good and thrice repainted in books and plays, it wouldn’t have changed anything. It’s painful to part with childhood illusions.

“Ow! What the—?!”

Well, it wasn’t that painful, but close. Charlie hopped on his left foot, waiting for the pain in his squashed right foot to subside.

“Stop sleeping while standing, you poor thing!” came the voice of the person responsible for the incident, who was now walking away.

Right now, Mary would’ve shaken her head with a look of what did I tell you? Charlie wasn’t just daydreaming; he was doing it professionally. A crowd had already gathered around him, and he hadn’t even noticed!

When someone shoved him in the back, his stomach rebelled. Charlie took this as a final warning and, limping, shuffled toward the tavern.

“The Troll's Trail” wasn't known for luxury, but it had everything you'd expect from a good establishment. Including rooms for lodgers upstairs, a small stage, and the immediate, overpowering scents of roasting meat and beer. Charlie nearly licked his lips, feeling almost happy, but fate once again decided to test his resilience.

“Blanc, now you're doing somersaults too?” James Green's laughter rang out from seemingly everywhere while Charlie, sitting on the floor, tried to make sense of what had just happened. “Impressive, impressive! We thought you were dead!”

The minstrel finally realized what had caused him to lose his balance — a cat was hissing at him from under the table. A ginger disaster.

“Why would I?” he asked, not the least bit offended, pulling straw out of his hair. “Hello, by the way.”

James Green's companions took turns greeting him, all while continuing to chew. James himself explained:

“Well, how else? You haven't come to save him or help. We've been watching this drama for two weeks, and you're still not here! We thought you were dead, and he, poor guy, clung to the wine barrel out of sorrow!”

Charlie looked questioningly at the tavern regulars. What were they talking about? Someone had been drinking out of sorrow for two weeks. Out of sorrow. Drinking... How long had it been since Charlie had seen Ed? No, not like that.

“What about Ed?”

“Blanc, calm down,” one of James's companions raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture, dropping a piece of potato back onto his plate. “You look so scary, like you’re gonna kill us,” he nervously chuckled. “We're not involved, Blanc!”

“What about him?” Charlie stood up and strode directly toward their group.

If they were scared, it was unnecessary. He himself was enveloped by a sticky fear — images from a dream flashed before his mind’s eye. A dream he had already memorized and hated, in which Ed was also in danger and which might prove to be prophetic. Charlie was scared, angry. And he didn’t care what he looked like to others, defeated by a cat.

“Charles, my dear friend!”

It’s hard to say how it would have ended if not for the tavern owner. Uncle Clive, as everyone called him, was so kind that at “The Troll’s Trail”, fights sometimes stopped the moment he entered. To upset Clive was like hurting a child. Charlie definitely wasn’t ready to fall that low.

“Good afternoon, Uncle Clive,” he said, shaking the tavernkeeper's calloused hand and offering a guilty smile. “Sorry I...”

“What’s the matter? You’ve got nothing to apologize for! I’m always glad to see you. You and him too! But right now — this is not what we need, by the gods!” The middle-aged man was shorter than Charlie, several times wider, but moved with surprising agility as he brushed straw off Charlie’s clothes and talked nonstop in a barely intelligible manner: “Charlie, my dear, I’ve been waiting for you, waiting so long. No one else can help, so help an old man out. I won’t throw him out, I respect him for his talent and... He might get offended, not come to play later, and I want him to come — the crowd’s been pouring in for him like it’s a holiday! Take him quietly, and I’ll be right behind.”

And to make sure Charlie couldn’t refuse, Uncle Clive gave an order:

“Daisy, quickly set up a table for Charles in the corner! Soup, meat stew, salted fish, cheese, all of it!” He led the guest to the bar as if afraid he might run away. “Wait here, or go take your table. I’ll bring him right now. It’s all on me, except for the wine. He’s already had enough, you know.”

The situation was becoming clearer. Charlie was on the verge of laughing. It felt as if the dream, a nightmare turning into a trivial fantasy of eating until he couldn't anymore and sitting with his brother, talking about life.

“No, no, I’ll pay...” he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket. Only to find emptiness. “Or... as you please! But this is the first and last time. As for your request... I guarantee, we’ll be gone and leave no trail in an hour.”

The tavern owner, thankfully, didn’t notice Charlie’s momentary hesitation. He appreciated the rhyme joke and almost sprinted up to the second floor. So, Ed was up there — either sleeping or suffering from inner turmoil. As for signs of his activities... Yes, Charlie didn’t find any signs of damage such as broken windows, broken chairs by the bar, or any other disturbances. Whoa.

After observing everything from the designated corner for important negotiations, Charlie came to some grim conclusions: it was unlikely that Clive had gotten around to fixing anything right away — it wasn’t his style; he spent six months fixing the porch. So, there had been no ruckus. And that meant Charlie had an even tougher job ahead of him than usual.

It’s impossible prepare for such things. Even if the minstrel knew his brother like the back of his hand. Therefore, Charlie began to study everything in front of him anew: the map of the Continent, the moose’s head, the wooden panel shaped like a troll’s paw print — how could this place exist without it? — bundles of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling beams. The tavern was a cozy place, despite the chatter and occasional brawls. Charlie loved it, both as a guest and as an artist, because it was here that they had first performed, overcoming their fear...

“For the stew you’ll have to wait,” Daisy set a bowl of soup and a plate of meat and cheese in front of him. “Wanna some beer?”

“Thanks. But let’s skip the booze.” Charlie shook his head. “I try not to drink.”

“At least someone has their head on straight. Your wife’s gonna be lucky, Blanc.”

For some reason, everyone was trying to marry him off today. Why? He would’ve thought about it if he weren’t so damn hungry. The whale inside him died, drowned in hot soup as if it were lava from a volcano, and Charlie finally relaxed: he closed his eyes in bliss, leaned back against the wall. His thoughts scattered in all directions, as did the warmth throughout his body. They say elves don’t need to eat or sleep. Must be convenient, especially on long journeys...

“Why were you looking for me?”

The low, raspy voice hit like the city’s bell. Charles jumped, almost knocking over the table, blinked several times.

“You're stupid.”

“And you...” The minstrel smiled involuntarily. “You look like crap.”

Actually... Ed looked like Ed after a drinking binge. Charlie could have started lecturing him, could have said he’d let himself go — normally, he shaved his stubble under any circumstances... and that was the extent of his neatness — that he smelled from a yard away, that he should stop hunching over, and all that. But Charlie missed him too much for typical teaching moments. And what bothered him most was the emptiness in his friend's gaze.

“You're no prince charming either,” Ed sat down across from him, theatrically tossing the worn-out cloak’s flaps aside. “Spill it, ghost of my old friend, the one who’s forgotten about me. Why the sudden interest in me?”

Charlie almost replied, “And what about you? You cut me out of your life because the truth stings?"

Daisy with the stew interrupted. Or maybe she saved the situation by giving Charlie a bit of time to come up with a better response.

“My dearest,” Ed scratched his ear. “Could I have some water?”

“Just water?” All of the serving girl’s friendliness drained away.

“Yeah, just water.”

Charlie reacted immediately, as any good friend would, following the maternal instinct jokes.

“Eat! It’s for both of us. There was more, but I just devoured the soup. Couldn't wait.”

Ed winced.

“No, I don’t want to,” the clay bowl barely stayed on the table. This was Ed, after all. “I feel sick, can’t do it. I just can’t.”

Doesn’t want, can’t, no strength, sees no point. It all started at the age of twelve, when Ed’s father, George Harding, became a widower. Having lost the opportunity to bully his wife, the retired soldier shifted his focus to his son. Everything Ed did was wrong. His hobbies, his friends — all of it was just garbage. Charlie could still be tolerated, but Ed’s social circle was severely limited. Ed was supposed to train for the guard, not waste his time on nonsense. Nonsense is everything except the history of Merenberg and serving for the good of Merenberg. Naturally free-spirited, Ed followed all the instructions flawlessly and even considered following in his father’s footsteps — they were so alike that Ed couldn’t help but be drawn to military service. Because of this, the clash of their personalities was grand — the whole region soon heard that Harding had disowned his humpback moocher. Ed, having left home, lived wherever he could, often spending the night under a bridge or at Uncle Clive’s tavern. Later, he moved in with Charlie. For Charlie, it marked the happiest few years — they officially formed their troupe then. When your best friend is either trying to bash his head into a wall or bleed himself dry, only to then declare that he’ll live forever and achieve immortality... it’s not exactly pleasant, and quiet days were even rarer. But Charlie never complained — you can’t be angry at a clueless child. Yes, the reasons for all this turmoil lay in the past, in childhood. Having never received love, recognition, or care from his father, Ed hated himself, craved recognition from the public, but never stopped needing care, not for a second. Charlie took care of him, listened, cheered him up, asking for nothing in return, because he already had what mattered most. He was finally understood.

Ed admired his friend’s poetry, even though he didn’t consider it nonsense. He supported him, taught him to play the mandolin, and even sing a little. When Ed was just standing nearby, Charlie felt capable of moving mountains — that’s how much Ed believed in him. More, perhaps, than in himself. And Charlie couldn’t help but return the favor. They could talk for days on end or remain silent — even then, communication didn’t stop. “Those mules have only one brain between them — and it doesn’t even work!” Charlie once heard someone say about him and young Harding, and he readily agreed with the first part of the statement. The brain did work: there was never enough paper for the poetry, and music was composed with such speed and ease that one could almost suspect Ed of wizardry. Too bad it wasn’t true. Because if he had been a sorcerer, he wouldn’t have been an idiot. Therefore, he wouldn’t have fallen for Eleanor, wouldn’t have quarreled with the guys, and wouldn’t have abandoned his art.

“What the hell is going on with you?” Charlie asked as casually as possible. Ed couldn’t stand pity. “Enough with the shame, we’re not strangers. Or are we?”

“What do you mean..?” Edgar almost choked on his breath. “Wh-what do you mean, are you out of your mind?! We're family! It's just... you know, it’s kind of... I don’t know...”

It’s unpleasant when someone uses your own method against you. However, Charlie immediately felt guilty.

“Alright, fine. I’ll tell you what’s going on,” in a way, he wasn’t lying, because he’d bring up this topic sooner or later. “Ed, our industry is dying, there are no decent minstrels in the city! You should hear the nonsense they sing now! All hope is on us, we absolutely have to return, triumphantly, or everything here will drown in tears and die! You were right, brother! There’s nothing useful in those ballads, it’s all the same, and the people are just listening and getting dumber. We need to come back, or we’re done for!”

He didn’t mind love songs, nor love itself — he’d be lying if he said he found them all repulsive. But songs should also help in life. For example, they should teach you how to fight through hardships, be resourceful! Or make you laugh. Or, at the very least, scare you. But if you want to sing about pain and loneliness... is it always the women’s fault?

Charlie was ready to defend his point of view for a long time, but Ed interrupted him.

“Sit down,” he smiled for the first time, and a familiar spark appeared in his brown eyes, the one that used to appear during their joint creative moments. “Sit, will you? You’ll knock the table over, and this is my area, after all.”

Charlie sat down on the bench and immediately asked:

“What do you think?”

“I think it’s not a problem at all,” the spark faded, as if it had never existed, “what you’re talking about. I’ve got it worse.”

“Yeah, I know all about your situation,” Charlie rolled his eyes. “If you want to die again, then even more reason to get back to a real craft. You’ll feel better.”

“I don’t want to..!” Ed slammed his fist on the table. “I mean, going back to the craft is fine, but dying... I don’t want that. Or... I don’t know, whatever. The problem’s not with me...”

“Wait, wait...”

There are things you’re better off not thinking about, so the world seems like a nicer place. If for Ed that thing was the fact that he would someday disappear forever — and you still can’t figure out if that’s good or bad — then for Charlie, the forbidden topic was the so-called House of Pleasures. It’s hard to ignore the existence of the House, since it’s located right in their neighborhood. Charlie first visited it when he was barely thirteen: he went with some other orphan kids who had saved up money to “party like adults.” Before that, he had very vague ideas about the House, thinking that parents sent their daughters there when they were still little girls, so they could at least live comfortably somewhere. How wrong he was! Everything he saw and understood afterward, he could never quite process. Charlie was furious, wandering around in a daze for two days after the trip, and even years later, he couldn’t think about it without feeling as though a bucket of filth had been poured over him. No, the girls weren’t hurt much — in fact, many of them grew up to be well-educated courtesans, skilled in dance, singing, and polite conversation. A beauty — and she had to be dazzlingly beautiful so her rank wouldn’t be lowered — was untouchable and could even become a companion for an unmarried nobleman at a royal reception. Many were bought out to be married, but what’s the use if you’re purchased like an object? It’s disgusting, no matter how you look at it. For money, a woman has to pretend she loves you! And then those same people sing songs about pure love.

Once, Charlie helped a regular prostitute — he chased off her stalker late one evening. In return, he asked for a story because, after all, he enjoyed collecting stories. Turns out, she was demoted after another high-ranking one poisoned her powder. The mark of that incident would remain on her face forever. Whether she was beautiful, Charlie couldn’t judge, but she was certainly miserable. From her, the minstrel learned a lot about the dark side of the House.

And so, with absolute certainty, he could now say that half of what Eleanor told Ed was nonsense.

“Well, first of all, to avoid...” luckily, Uncle Clive had provided a good spot to discuss such crap. “To avoid that happening to her, she would have had to be raised there from the age of five! And if she runs there now, they’ll make her... well, you know. Second, buddy, they won’t let her go in two years because all,” he lowered his voice “the prostitutes are in debt to the House, they’re in slavery. You can’t raise enough money to break free.”

“Damn..” Ed slammed his head on the table. He didn’t really care, though if this kept going, they’d definitely attract not only Green’s friends but the whole tavern’s attention. “I’m not even asking where you know this from, wise man. We need to do something, we need to talk her out of it... Maybe you could try?”

Charlie snorted.

“Why should I deal with it? You talk your wife out of it, hubby.”

His relationship with Eleanor was, to put it mildly, strained. The girl was far too arrogant, didn’t respect anyone, and... If anyone ever tricked her into becoming a courtesan, they surely had a keen eye. Eleanor wasn’t any more beautiful than Mary, but she was ready to flirt with anyone for... well, who knows why. She charmed Ed, but it was of no benefit — she kept bitching about how little money they have. Maybe she just wanted everyone to lust after her? She even tried to seduce Charlie when she was with Ed. They had a bit of a fight then, and Charlie ran off. Since then, Eleanor had been trying to convince Ed that the troupe was dragging him down. The troupe, not the alcohol.

“I won’t be able to do it alone,” Ed slumped even further. “I’m telling you, we’ve done. I’m no longer in charge of her, and I never really was. If we were married, my word would have weight...”

“Oh,” Charlie didn’t know what to say. All things considered, it wasn’t surprising. “Shit happens. But I’m not helping. She can’t stand me. Even if I tried to explain how it really works in that... establishment, she won’t listen.”

“Ellie... she’s like that, yeah,” the chair creaked under Ed when he suddenly shifted again, grabbing his hair in despair. “I won’t forgive myself if she ends up there!”

Charlie didn’t want that outcome for Eleanor either, despite his lack of any affection for her.

“Don’t yell,” he tiredly rubbed his nose. “Just tell me... Is she already there or not? Oh, you’re stuck here, so how would you know. Anyway, there are two paths. The first one works if it’s already happened. We can break into that den and rescue your girl. But after that, they’ll beat us up, and you’ll lose all your teeth.”

The joke didn’t land, judging by how Edgar puffed up.

“That’s the first path. And the second?”

“Go back to Eleanor and tell her you agree, that you’ll try to become a royal minstrel,” Charlie decided it was time for some stew and started devouring it. “The contest is in a month.”

“It won't work,” Edgar grinned crookedly. “We fought because of that damn contest.”

What they originally had were only two options, so Charlie repeated, saying it in other words:

“We go back to work, we grind away like damned fools, entertain the common folk for a penny, but with heart and soul.”

“That won’t save Ellie. Anything else?”

And there was no arguing with that.

“Anything else...” Charlie suddenly thought it would be easier to eat a cow patty than come up with a plan that would satisfy his friend. The cold meat became unappetizing. “Uh... The only other option is someone bursting in here and offering you unimaginable riches, just like that.”

They sat in silence for a while, and Charlie remembered his promise to Uncle Clive. The clock on the wall showed it was well past noon, and he had come to “The Trail” around eleven. It was time to leave quickly. But where to? He gave a grim smile at the thought. If you don’t know what to do today, how can you decide what to do with your whole life? When you’re young, it seems like everything is ahead of you, everything will work out. Then reality smacks you in the face, and you become a shadow of your former self, losing something important that you can never get back.

He used to dream of adventures, faraway shores, but now Charlie’s dreams are filled his own death in strange circumstances. And how could he not wish for someone to appear and point out the direction that definitely makes sense to follow?

Finding meaning wasn’t his responsibility, just as turning over tables wasn’t his thing, but was Ed wrong?

“You know,” the latter spoke again, “I don’t love her. Haven’t for a long time, but I can’t bring myself to leave her. Even though I’m not her husband, I should have been responsible for her.”

“Yeah, you should have,” Charlie nodded. “But you got her hooked on rum. Sorry, but when I saw you both drunk off your asses...”

“I’m a fool,” his companion furrowed his brow, evidently remembering the moment when Charlie stopped visiting them. “Or maybe a scoundrel?”

“No, just a fool.”

“So, I can still make it right,” Ed decisively stood up. “Let’s go, we need to find out where she is. We’ll act without a plan.”

They started gathering to leave. Charlie glanced over at the bar and caught the grateful look of the tavern keeper.

As they were at the door, it opened on its own. Not by magic, of course, but by the efforts of the new visitor. Has Charlie seen him somewhere before?

“Ugh...” he looked around the room with a tired gaze. “Same circus, just no fools left who’d fall for this nonsense.”

The man entered, almost elbowing Charlie, and the young man noticed a scroll with a red ribbon in his hands. Right, a herald! That’s why it felt like déjà vu.

“Hey, Oswald, quit grumbling,” someone from the center of the room suggested. “Just say what you have to and get out of here.”

“Mission from His Majesty, no doubt,” James Green seemed far more interested in the pint of beer Daisy had just brought him. “No fools here!”

“First, they dissolve the adventurers’ guild,” chimed in Green’s friend, “and then they go looking for volunteers with no experience or brains. If I were an important official, I could understand this type of logic.”

“No, it’s just a lost cause, His Majesty doesn’t want to waste his valuable people on it!”

“It seems that...”

The noise rose. Everyone was eager to voice their opinion, leaving Oswald little chance to carry out his task. However, he bellowed loudly and began reading the contents of the scroll.

“Our benevolent ruler, His Majesty Aloysius the Ninth, addresses his loyal subjects and hopes to find among them a brave soul willing to undertake a mission of great importance and high secrecy. The deadline for completion is three moons, and the reward is thirty thousand gold!”

As expected, the regulars of “The Trail” lowered their volume. The amount wasn’t exactly large. Most of them wouldn’t earn that much in ten years.

“If...” the herald, sensing the change in atmosphere, sighed disappointedly. “Well, it’s always like this. Ahem... If the brave soul is not alone, and will embark on a distant and dangerous journey with friends, each of them will also receive thirty thousand gold. Additionally, they will be allowed to use a magical artifact.”

“Brother, I have no idea how you did it, but don’t stop.”

In the next moment, Ed rushed toward the herald, hoping to extract more information. The entire tavern listened intently until it became clear: Oswald himself wasn’t aware of the details. The brave soul would only learn them at the palace, in the presence of the king—after all, that’s why it was a secret mission.

“Scam,” someone from the crowd concluded. “You can’t agree in advance, especially when you don’t know what they’ll ask of you. It’s a set-up, lad! Forget this idea, no matter how bad things seem.”

“No one goes on royal missions anymore, they’ve learned their lesson!”

“This whole story smells bad, Eddie!”

“You’re not a suicidal, minstrel, for heaven’s sake.”

What the advisers didn’t know were two things. First, Edgar hated being called Eddie. Second, the more you tried to influence him, the less likely you were to succeed.

Undoubtedly, concerned citizens probably started gossiping about them later, or someone suggested they should be preemptively mourned. Charlie didn’t care, and neither did Ed. Ed had his own way of interpreting advice.

“They're doing it on purpose! On purpose! They want to be the first to see the King,” he was full of energy, completely transformed compared to the man who hadn’t known whether he should live or not. “Charlie, holy smoke, this is a sign of fate!”

Another seeker of signs. It would’ve been funny if it wasn’t so damn sad. Most likely, the people were right, and there was some trickery involved. But it felt so good to see his friend back to his old self! For that, Charlie was willing to shove his own opinions aside.

“Well, you really outdid yourself!” Ed couldn’t stop. “You mentioned wealth, and bang! Look, it’s falling right into our laps! I don’t believe in higher powers, of course, but if I did, I’d think they love me! And you, and Ellie. Ellie definitely won’t want to do any more mischief now! She doesn’t want to, it’s just that I drove the poor thing crazy. She wasted her time on me, I broke her heart, but I… I’ll fix it all… Oh, can you say something to make her come here?”

Charlie was momentarily stunned. Does he really think this is no coincidence?

“Listen, I swear I did nothing…”

“Didn't you?” Ed looked at him the way children look at their parents when asking for sweets at a fair. “You sure? Well, just try once, brother! What’s it gonna cost you?”

“It’s impossible to convince a stubborn mule. Gods, even though you’ve been banned, please help somehow!” Charlie thought. “I promise not to anger you or bother you with trivialities.”

Though this alone is already a trivial matter on the verge of absurdity.

“Well...” he took a step back and took a deep breath, then said with emphasis: “We'll meet Eleanor at the main square, though I personally doubt it.”

“Now that's more like it!” Ed, with the suddenness of a whirlwind crashing into a defenseless tree, squeezed his friend in a hug. “I know, you are the best, kindest wizard ever!”

“With just one miracle in my track record,” Charlie chuckled.

“No,” the whirlwind of a man released him and smiled broadly. The absence of the tooth became noticeable. “There were many more miracles.”

And what was he trying to say? Charles decided he could live without that information.

There were fewer people at the main square, and a man selling kites, whistles, and other clay trinkets had taken the musicians' spot. While Charlie was examining the items, Ed was scanning the square.

“Need help choosing?” the vendor asked eagerly.

“No, I’m just looking... Nice work, I’ll tell you as an artist. But the choice has already been made for me,” he sighed. “It seems like I’m off on a mission. You’ve probably heard about it.”

“Of course!” the vendor swapped his usual politeness for sincere involvement. “The royal herald’s been through every alley in town. There aren’t many volunteers. The conditions... hmm... Many years ago, a brave carpenter went on a mission, came back but refused the reward. He said the greatest reward was surviving. Soon after, he died, and we didn’t hear anything more. Sir, you should think twice.”

The minstrel, though a chill ran down his spine, was about to reply that he hadn’t thought twice even once, but he was forced to excuse himself quickly.

“Charlie, it worked!” Ed came rushing toward him, parting the crowd and holding Eleanor’s hand. “You did it, Charlie!”

Charlie barely had time to step aside so that the three of them wouldn’t block the view.

“She hasn’t gone there yet, can you believe it?!” Ed swept both his friend and his former lover into his arms. “That’s it, now she’s with us,” he looked at the girl apologetically. “Ellie, you can start a new life now. What was it you wanted, a tailor shop? You’ll have a tailor shop. I’ll give you my ten thousand.”

Eleanor winced, feeling his breath, and wriggled out of his embrace.

“This is why you’ll never get out of the dirt,” she shrugged. “Are you going to leave anything for yourself? No? You, Harding, are an idiot the world has never known.”

“We’ll split my part of the reward,” Charlie said, “don’t worry.”

“Your Archie’s an idiot too.”

“I’m Charlie.”

“Could be Andrew for all I care.”

“Guys, come on!”

Ed let go of Charlie, adjusted his cloak, and sniffled. He clearly was about to say something philosophical, judging by his expression.

“Ellie, life’s not that simple. Life... it’s... not an easy thing,” and there it was, “I won’t force you, but please, don’t go where you said you’d go. I let you down, but I don’t want anyone to hurt you. I want you to live your dream. And for him I want the same,” he nodded at Charlie, “Join with us?”

Pure naivety. A woman — now, that’s difficult. You can’t expect her to forgive you, even if you spend your whole life atoning for your past sins. If respect is lost, it’s gone forever. Even with someone as unscrupulous as Eleanor. Charlie would’ve preferred to travel without her, but for his friend’s sake, he took the situation into his own hands.

“What did he tell you about the reward?”

“Ten thousand,” Eleanor replied through gritted teeth. “But I wouldn’t go with you for a hundred thousand...”

“They’re also giving us some magical artifact,” Charlie tried to hide a grin, “to use.”

Eleanor, as much as Charlie could tell, had a weakness for anything related to real magic. Women weren’t allowed into the academy, and you wouldn’t get far with fortune-telling potions or spells.

“A powerful artifact?” she raised an eyebrow.

“We’ll find out at the palace.”

“Well... more information wouldn’t hurt.”

That’s how you solve a problem by picking the right words. However, Charles Blanc doubted that he hadn’t created a new one.

#wildfieldz writing #do not repost

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