A Story About the Weight of Life
"The most ordinary alcohol?"
Jim, who was working as the bartender, glanced at the girl whose face was hidden by her robe. Only her silver hair matching her snow-white skin and her lips were visible... but even with those peanut-sized eyes, she had an alluring lower face. Clearly born into nobility, raised with endless affection. Probably off on a secret journey out of sheer boredom. Unaware that not a single one of his guesses was right, Jim brought over a fruit wine that young ladies often ordered.
"How about this?"
"...Fruit wine?"
Philia stared at the glass for a moment. Inside the transparent glass was a red liquid. Sunlight filtered through the window, thinly coating its surface. The liquid rippled subtly. Light fractured faintly within it. A sweet aroma rose ever so faintly. The scent of fruit. Slightly tangy, slightly sweet, with almost no trace of alcohol's harsh bite.
Philia inhaled it briefly.
"...Is this ordinary?"
Jim shrugged.
"Young ladies usually pick this for their first drink."
His tone was light and natural. He seemed utterly convinced. Of who she was. What kind of life she'd lived. Why she was here. His expression said he knew it all. Sensing this, Philia gazed at his face for a moment. And nearly laughed. He was way off. But there was no reason to correct him. So Philia said nothing. Instead, she picked up the glass.
The glass was lighter than expected. Cold touched her fingers. The liquid inside rippled slightly. Philia hesitated briefly. She'd hardly ever properly drunk alcohol before. Her movements slowed a bit because of it. But in the end, she brought the glass to her lips. Tilted it slightly. The liquid flowed into her mouth. Sweet. Far sweeter than she'd thought. The fruit's sweetness hit first. Then a faint bitterness of alcohol followed.
Heh. She'll hate it now.
Before Jim's confident gaze could fade...
"...Is this alcohol?"
She asked lowly. Jim laughed. A light, easy laugh.
"It is."
He leaned on the counter, answering leisurely.
"If you want something stronger, we have others."
The girl made no reply. She just looked down at the glass again. The red liquid rippled faintly inside. Watching her, Jim felt confirmed once more. Definitely a first. Or at least that clueless about the world. She carried an air utterly unlike the villagers. Her speech was quiet, her movements oddly precise, even the way she directed her gaze was far from a typical traveler's. Jim often found amusement in such guests. There was something curiously entertaining about the innocent encountering the world's trifles for the first time.
He picked up a cloth and began polishing another glass. The soft scrape of cloth on glass. Yet his eyes flicked toward the unfamiliar girl now and then. She stood still, glass in hand. Amid the inn's clamor, laughter, booze and meat smells, she seemed detached, alone.
...I see. So 'drunk in a fit of anger' comes from this stuff.
Philia sipped the fruit wine bit by bit, then pushed it away with her hand. Extreme flavors always palled quickly.
"What's the alcohol that gets you drunk fastest?"
The moment the question dropped, the bartender's hand paused ever so briefly. Jim stared at her, cloth still gripped around the glass he was wiping. A flash of bewilderment crossed his eyes. The young lady who'd just sipped fruit wine was now asking for the fastest intoxicant. The shift felt abrupt. But the surprise didn't linger. Jim soon twisted his lips into a grin. The face of a veteran merchant. Odd customers were common. Quirky tastes, sudden mood swings too. What mattered wasn't the why, but the order.
He slowly set down the glass. Reached under the counter to a lower shelf lined with bottles. His fingers drifted slowly between them. As if dragging out time on purpose. To gauge her eyes. To see if she truly wanted it. If it was a rash outburst. Or a test. But Philia's expression barely changed. Her exposed lower face under the hood remained calm, a few silver strands tousled by her cheek. She was simply waiting.
Jim finally pulled out one bottle. Dark brown glass. So opaque even faint sunlight barely pierced it. Short neck, cork plugged haphazardly—but with signs of frequent opening and closing. He set it on the counter with a thunk. Tapped it once with a finger.
"If you want to get drunk fast, this is the quickest."
Philia's gaze settled on the bottle. Utterly unlike the fruit wine. No sweetness even from the look. No comfort, no playfulness. Just liquid that screamed harsh and swift ruin. Jim continued slowly.
"Not much aroma. Hard to call the taste good."
He shrugged.
"But the effect? Guaranteed."
Philia stared at the bottle. Sunlight thinly reflected off the glass. Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
"...Name?"
Jim laughed.
"Not fancy enough for a name."
He said.
"Folks just call it rotgut."
"..."
Seeking booze to forget, only to remember it. Philia found her situation faintly amusing. Vowing perfect justice, her first stop a rural dive bar. Drink to forget. That's what people said. Alcohol erases sorrow, anger, regret. All gone, if only briefly. But to her now, it rang strange. Because she was already forgetting.
She'd lived with lost memories. Countless executions. Countless people. Countless necks. And. One woman's plea.
[...The child.]
That voice faintly resurfaced. Like sound rising from water. A threadbare tone.
[...Please... take care... of him...]
That, I must remember.
Thud.
Philia grabbed the unassuming rotgut and—
Splash!
—hurled it to drench the tavern. Thick alcohol stench filled the air. The rowdy bar fell deathly silent in an instant. Some froze mid-push from chairs. Others halted glasses at their lips.
"Anyone leaving this tavern from now on loses their legs. Put down your drinks. All of you."
"What the—!"
"I have much to say, but this village's peculiarity..."
Philia picked up a shard of glass.
"...is far more incoming traffic than outgoing. Abnormally so."
Tension gripped the tavern. Clink. Metal faintly struck somewhere. Philia's eyes snapped that way. Corner seat. A man deep in hood set down his glass. His hand twitched subtly toward his waist.
Philia's lips curved faintly.
"You there."
She said. His hand froze.
"Better put that down."
Brief silence. The man chuckled. Rough and curt.
"Traveler."
He said.
"You don't know the rules here."
Philia didn't answer. Instead, she lightly tossed the glass shard.
Whish.
It sliced air. And—
Thud.
—shattered right by his hand's knuckles. On the table. Drip drip... The flung glass, reddened, clung to the wall, hardening. Half the shards embedded in wood.
The tavern's air froze. His hand halted fully at his waist. Philia spoke.
"I don't."
Brief silence. Then she added.
"That's why I'm asking."
Her eyes slowly narrowed.
"About the abducted ones' whereabouts."
That low voice cut through the tavern with eerie clarity. Someone gasped. Another dropped their gaze from Philia to the floor. No one spoke. For a moment, the silence seemed it might hold. But the corner man moved first. He chuckled slowly. A one-sided lip curl. Rough. The laugh of one habituated to disdain.
"Amusing."
He said. Voice low, but feigning more ease than before.
"Barging into a rural tavern, not even finishing your first drink, and dropping that."
His gaze swept her. Hood. Robe. Waist. Back to face.
"Won't say nothing weird happens here."
He said.
"Where there's people, that's life."
A few nearby glanced at his words, gauging. No smiles. No agreement. That alone sufficed. Over half in this tavern knew something. Or at least pretended not to.
Philia tilted her head slowly.
"Where there's people, that's life."
She echoed lowly.
"Right."
He said.
"Some vanish, some leave, some don't return."
His eyes narrowed faintly.
"Not all called abduction."
She suddenly recalled Sepir de Hwan. The man lecturing on lying eyes' direction, sinking voices, trembling fingertips. Words she'd brushed off then. Now, oddly vivid. Philia's gaze drifted from his eyes to his fingertips. His right thumb brushed his waist ever so faintly. Weapon. Or signal. One or the other.
She said quietly.
"I see."
His lips curved up. Victory, he thought. Philia smiled faintly at that.
"...Makes it easier, then. I've confirmed three things."
Her gaze swept the tavern. Tables. Chairs. Bottles. People. And the road visible through the window.
"Too many wheel ruts on the approach."
She said.
"For a village this size."
"Second."
A pause. Her eyes flicked to the inner door, toward what might be a storeroom.
"For a village with missing people."
She added very slowly.
"Everyone here's far too relaxed."
As words ended, someone trembled faintly on a chair. Philia didn't look. She'd seen enough.
"Third."
She eyed the corner man again.
"You, from the start."
Her voice dipped lower.
"Didn't deny abduction the moment I mentioned it."
His smirk vanished. Eyes chilled. Now the real face. Philia thought.
The man rose slowly. Chair scraped back. Screech. Harsh sound. Simultaneously, similar noises dotted the tavern. Chairs pushed. Glasses set down. Hands to waists.
"Neutralizing all."
Philia clenched and unclenched her fist, expressionless, as if expecting it.
Power control might be tricky this time.
Not out of anger, absolutely. Drunk in a fit—because of the booze. Yes. That was it.