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Zolf drains the glass of bourbon and sets it down gently on the bar, holding up another finger at the bartender, an orc with a surly expression that softens when he notices its Zolf. It hasn’t been Zolf’s first visit to the bar this week, and it probably won’t be the last. A lot of his evenings are spent like this, now. His Ancient Greek has come in handy enough, now that he’s here in Piraeus.
He’d attempted to go back to London, by way of the same airship that had brought them to Prague. Amelia had been nice enough (Harlequins help Harlequins, after all), but explained that they were heading on toward Greece, and regardless of his… family connections, she couldn’t divert the entire smuggling operation for one person. So, Zolf had gone to Greece. He didn’t want to stay in Prague longer than he absolutely had to, not when he’d found it hard enough to leave Sasha and Hamid behind. Amelia invited him on to the ship, and he’d taken the offer. London was apparently a nightmare; according to a few of the Harlequin contacts she has in the city, it’s been overtaken by riots. Seems like Barrett is losing control over Other London and it’s spilling out to affect the rest of the place. Shame. Such a nice man. He spares a thought for Sasha, anyway. Barrett might be a complete and total arse, but it’s still Sasha’s home.
Amelia says that they’re not planning on heading back that way anytime soon, and Zolf at least knows Ancient Greek, so it’s not the worst place he could go. And there were no clues from the notebook leading the party here, so the chance of them showing up unannounced is… unlikely, to say the least. He doubts either of them would try and chase him, anyway, not when they’re on a mission to research the simulacrum and maybe save the world again.
… He’s sure they’re fine, without him. Sure, Hamid had cried and all, but Hamid was just, was like that , about things, he doesn’t… there was nothing special about Zolf that made him any different. Hamid would have felt that way about Sasha and Bertie leaving just as much as Zolf. Zolf was a blip on the radar of their life, and they might miss him for a bit, but he’s just. Forgettable. They’ll be fine.
He wishes he’d been able to apologize to Sasha, before leaving. Been able to find some help for her, now that he’s gone. But she’s smart, she’ll be able to figure it out, and whoever she finds will maybe actually know what’s going on with her, the way Zolf didn’t. Maybe they can actually help.
So he’s wallowing. He thinks he’s earned it, a bit.
He’s been in Greece for nearly a week, now. He’s been drunk, for, well. Nearly all of it, probably? Close to all of it for sure. Not during the day - his meritocratic pay is basically locked up in a bank in London, thanks to them breaking the entire world , and the single bag of coins that he brought along with him after leaving the brewery isn’t going to last him as long as the bender he wants to go on will. He gets a day job, if he can even call it that - helping down at the docks for a few hours, all tasks that he knows well enough from his days as a sailor, and then spending a sizable chunk of what he’s got at the tavern, anything that doesn’t go toward paying for his room at a nearby inn.
The weather’s been just as shite here as it has been across the rest of the world, but it hasn’t stopped Zolf from going and sitting in the local pub until all hours of the night, every night.
This night is no different, although he might have had a little more than usual. He stumbles out into the rain, water dripping off of the rooftops and soaking him through, but he doesn’t much care. So Poseidon’s angry, yeah? Wouldn’t be that much of a change. And, hey, look at that, something they can agree on. Zolf’s angry too. Angry, and guilty, and regretful, and so fucking tired of not knowing which way to turn, which way is right.
He doesn’t know how he finds himself at the docks, standing alone among ships that tower above him. The ocean is furious, a roaring screaming mess of black waves and wind howling through the air, and Zolf stands on the edge of the docks and stares at the water below. It’s churning, crashing against the docks and splashing up against his thighs.
“Am I a good enough sacrifice?” he yells to the waves, standing there and swaying as the alcohol courses through his blood. “What if I just fell into the ocean right now, didn’t let myself swim? Would you like that?”
Poseidon never answers, but he never has, and Zolf just lets himself fall to his knees on the dock, head dipping forward. “Please,” he begs, hands resting on the weathered wood below him. “Tell me what to do.”
The only response is the sound of distant thunder and the crackle of electricity through the air. Zolf stays there for a while, legs feeling like the worst intrusion. the worst reward for something he fucked up.
He gets up, eventually. He’s soaked to the bone, and shivering slightly, and the alcohol has run its course through his blood and… and he’s just confused , just… just lost , without a sense of direction to lead him anywhere.
He… he doesn’t have anything, anymore. He thinks his heart broke long ago, when Feryn died, when he ran away from the only home he ever knew and joined up with the navy. But then he met Hamid and Sasha (and Bertie, but Bertie really doesn’t count) and it had felt like he was piecing himself back together, slowly, god, so slowly. But he was trying - he wanted to be… worthy of their respect, of their friendship, of their camaraderie. Not some… washed-up cleric of Poseidon who didn’t even know what he was doing.
And then the channel, and Paris, and Mr. Ceiling, and the airship, and… and - Zolf had broken, again. Crumpled under the guilt , the weight of the decision resting on all of their backs too strong for him to hold up anymore. It’s how he found himself here, alone in a random city in Greece, with his heart countries away, left with two people he never expected to care about this much.
It’s all his own fault, after all.
Zolf doesn’t have much left, but he’ll get up tomorrow and work and drink himself stupid again, and maybe one day he’ll have the courage to deal with the mess he calls his life.
—
He goes to the same tavern every night, like clockwork. The bartender knows him, by order if not by name, and Zolf takes his place at the bar and sits there, nursing a glass or two or five or bourbon before he stumbles off home, head spinning and spinning until he can barely think anymore.
The docks have become another frequent late-night stop, as Zolf screams and shouts and cries over the sound of the waves slamming against the wood. The thunderous rain nearly drowns him out each night as he shouts his voice hoarse, and then he leaves before the street lights burn out, blindly finding his way back to his room at the inn and collapsing back against the door, soaking wet. Some nights he strips out of his clothes and makes it to the bed; some nights the couch; and some mornings he comes to as the sun comes pouring in through the windows, water still dripping off of himself as he struggles to stand.
Zolf’s thriving, all right. And each night, he finds himself back at the bar, drink in hand.
Tonight, though… something’s different, even if Zolf doesn’t notice it at first. It starts off easy enough, a quick order or bourbon to shake it up, and then he’s knocking the liquor back like it’s a race, and the winner gets to easily solve all their trauma, boom, thank you, no need to worry any longer… doesn’t work as well when you’re racing against ghosts trapped inside your own mind.
“Oi, mate,” the bartender says, and Zolf snaps out of whatever stupor he’s in. The man’s never spoken before, not even to ask for payment, but he is now, cleaning glasses as the rest of the patrons head outside. “Last call. Close you out?”
Zolf nods, and downs the rest of his drink. He sets the glass back on the bar, and leans his head on his arms as he slouches. There’s a piece of dust sitting on his coat arm, and he plucks it off, flicking it off in no particular direction.
“Maybe it’s not my place -“ the bartender says, not hesitant as much as distracted, as though if both of them pretend it isn’t happening, it won’t be. “But I don’t think the drink is helping, mate.”
Zolf cracks one eye open, peering over at him. He’s standing halfway down the bar now, still cleaning glasses out - though the rag is nearly as dirty as they are, now - and not looking over at Zolf. He could let it go. Not respond, not say anything, and it wouldn’t matter. They could both go their separate ways for the night, and Zolf could come back and drink himself stupid tomorrow night and the night after and the night after and -
“Yeah, well.” He almost surprises himself by talking, but his alcohol-addled brain is a bit too slow to catch up with his mouth. “Maybe I’m not drinking to help.”
The bartender shrugs. “None of my business. Just can see something weighing you down, and drowning yourself in as much alcohol as you can have isn’t gonna change that.”
It’s really not any of his business but, well, he might have a point. Even Zolf, as fuzzy as his brain is right now, can understand that he’s got a bit of a problem.
“Why d’you mention?” Zolf asks, at a loss for anything else to say, and the bartender shrugs.
“Just a thought. Looked like you needed one,” he says, and Zolf shrugs slightly as he slides off his chair, pulling his thick, ratty coat tighter around himself.
“Er - cheers,” Zolf says, awkward even as the alcohol pulls at his brain. “I’ll - take it into consideration.” He heads out the door, and if the bartender says something after, he doesn’t hear it.
—
Zolf can’t get the bartender’s words out of his head for a week after the fact. They keep rattling around his brain, when he’s at work during the day and when he’s sipping habitually at a glass of whiskey after the day has ended.
He’s been here for about a month, at this point. Time passes… strangely, here. It might have been the nearly three-week-long bender he went on, or the general lack of attention to his surroundings apart from the immediacy of the job in front of him.
Recently, the torrential downpour of the past few weeks has let up finally, and Zolf feels like he can think again. Something about the rain endlessly pouring down on the city had forced him down into the hole, confronted with memories of Dover and the channel when it was the absolute last thing he wanted to be reminded of.
He doesn’t drink as much, now. It’s helped, a bit, and he thinks he can see the bartender giving him encouraging smiles from across the way, and he never acknowledges it, but they do… help, in a weird way.
It’s not a magical solution - stuff like this never has that. Zolf grew up in a mining town, he knows how your brain can pop a bit. His brother, Feryn, used to be in all sorts of moods during the winter, when he’d be stuck underground for hours at a time. There hadn’t been a quick and easy solution for him to dig himself out of that hole, and Zolf isn’t naive enough to think that there’s one for himself either. Life is - Zolf’s life has never been easy, not before Feryn died, and not after, either. It’s gonna take work, but, gods…
Zolf is so goddamn tired of feeling broken.
—
He writes the letters. Of course he does. It’s - he knows he’s not going to send them at the onset, has no plans to ever do so, but there’s something cathartic about spilling his thoughts out on the page, the way he’s never able to when he’s speaking. He doesn’t have to second guess what he’s saying, doesn’t have to worry about how the other person is going to react.
Three letters. Three people - two people he cares about, and one he feels obligated to warn. Bertie’s is the easiest to write, a mix of vague threats and warnings that Zolf never was able to make to his face. He doesn’t care how strong Bertie is, now; if something happens to Hamid and Sasha, be it Bertie’s fault or not, he’ll find him and make Bertie wish he hadn’t.
Sasha’s is… hard. He knows he left her in the lurch, but he gets all the guilt on the paper, stabbing at it with the quill as ink drips along the side. It’s messy, it’s sloppy, it’s not flowery, because he isn’t Hamid . He and Sasha haven’t always been the best at talking, but they’ve always been good at communicating. Words weren’t either of their forte, but Zolf tries.
Hamid’s takes the longest. Not because Zolf - it’s just because he doesn’t know what to say. What do you say, to someone who tells you that they don’t believe in much, but they do believe in you? How do you respond to that? Gods. There… there was so much left unsaid between them at the end of it all, so he puts it on the page, and locks it away in his mind.
He burns the letters later that night, sitting in front of a small fire, and feels like a weight’s slowly being lifted off of his chest. It doesn’t move far, not in the slightest, but Zolf takes a deep breath after the last of the letters have curled into ash, and feels ever so slightly lighter.
—
Zolf looks at the postcard that’s been pushed under his door. It’s got a picturesque drawing of Damascus on the front, and some unnecessarily flowery script on the back with a date and location. The handwriting is… familiar, and it takes him a moment to place it as Wilde’s. Who’s sending him a postcard from Damascus, for some cryptic reason that Zolf can’t fathom.
… He really hadn’t expected to hear from Wilde. Not after Hamid had taken him off the meritocratic contract they had, not after he’d basically fucked off to a new part of the world, intending on leaving that entire part of his life behind. He still could. Could rip up the postcard, feed it to the fish, leave it behind as he disappears again, to somewhere Wilde won’t be able to find him this time. A clean break - that’s what he’d asked Hamid for, pretending like that’s what him leaving had been, instead of jagged claw marks across the inside of his chest as he’d walked away and left them both behind.
He could ignore it. He really could. Maybe he should, even. He left that part of his life behind him for a reason, and even though he’s doing better now, he wouldn’t call himself okay. Recovery is a process, and it’s long and bitter and Zolf still has a ways to go before he can even remotely consider calling himself okay. But.
Gods. There’s always a but .
Hamid and Sasha were - are - were… he still cares about them, okay? Doesn’t matter that he hasn’t seen them in about two months, doesn’t matter that he walked out of their lives with the intention of never coming back.
They’re still his friends.
So he goes. Of course he does. If nothing else, to satisfy his morbid curiosity, maybe to drown Wilde in a bucket, Zolf can’t be sure which he’ll be tempted to do first. Depends on how Wilde Wilde is being, he supposes.
The meeting place turns out to be a small-ish house just off the main strip. It’s nice, too nice for a place like this, and Zolf has to wonder if Wilde has connections around the entire globe that just give up their space for him when he asks. Maybe it’s a benefit of being on the side of the meritocrats - unlimited coffers and enough confidence and literal firepower to back you up that you can make as many ridiculous requests as you like.
Three short knocks on the door, just like the postcard requested. Zolf stands there, hands in his pockets, and rocks back and forth. It doesn’t take long for the door to open, and he’s face to face with one of his least favorite people in the world. Except, well - doesn’t look it, right now. Wilde’s hair is shorter than Zolf remembers, more of a buzz than anything else, but that smug smile is all Wilde. He lets Zolf in without a comment, which is probably the best for him, considering how already-on-edge Zolf is.
Wilde doesn’t speak until they make it through the hall and into a cozy little room.
“Sit,” he says, gesturing to one of the comfy-looking armchairs in the room. It’s less of a suggestion and more of a request, and Zolf complies for now. He sits on the edge of the seat, giving the room a quick once over. There are no photos on the walls, nothing to give him even a hint at who might actually own his house. It’s as sparse as something newly purchased, and Zolf has to wonder if that’s exactly what this is.
Wilde sits forward, interrupting his thoughts. His arms rest on his knees and Zolf’s eyes drift to his wrists, where he’s wearing familiar-looking silvery cuffs around both wrists. They’re not ostentatious, looking more like jewelry than anything else, but Zolf can feel the spells coming off them. He knows them, as well - work for a pirate ship for long enough and you’ll see the anti-magic shackles come out. Theirs were less… pretty . Solid iron with a chain in between, finger traps to keep them from breaking out, and a gag if necessary. It hadn’t been a nice ship.
“Are those - Wilde, why the hell are you wearing anti-magic cuffs?” Zolf asks, raising an eyebrow, and Wilde’s face, already a mask, hardens.
“Why, Mr. Smith. I thought you’d never be interested,” Wilde says, but it’s cold and clipped, nothing more than an imitation of the quips Zolf’s used to.
“Trust me, I’m really, really not,” Zolf deadpans, honest as ever. There are a few reasons why not, but he’s a bit more interested why Wilde’s face hasn’t dropped the scowl since he came into the house. “What happened?”
“Long story. Tragic, really,” Wilde says, another attempt to be airy, but Zolf’s always been good at seeing through bullshit.
“Shorten it,” he says, and Wilde gives a silent sigh.
“Long-distance fatigue spell. This is the only thing that helped,” he explains, and Zolf frowns.
“What -“ is the only thing he’s able to get out before Wilde is waving at him to stop.
“We don’t have time to get into it,” he says. “I need your help.”
Zolf can’t help it; he laughs. Two fucking months later, and Wilde comes out of the woodwork to, what, offer him a job? “You’re not serious,” he says, crossing his arms. “You show up out of the blue to ask a favor and then tell me it’s too long to talk about? Fuck off, mate.”
”If you want to leave, I won’t stop you. But at least answer me one question,” Wilde says, and Zolf shrugs.
“Sure. What could it hurt?” He doesn’t really care what the question is; he’s already got half a mind to just ignore it and walk out of the door anyway.
“Have Sasha or Hamid contacted you recently?” Wilde asks, and Zolf hates that he feels almost defensive about it. He’s a little thrown, honestly - it hadn’t been what he’d been expecting Wilde to ask.
“No. I haven’t heard anything,” he admits, and if he hadn’t already been looking, he might have missed the almost-imperceptible twitch of Wilde’s cheek. “Why? Shouldn’t you be in better contact with them than me?”
“One would think so, yes,” Wilde says, sighing, and he leans forward rubbing at his temples.
“What’s - just - gods . Nevermind. This was a stupid idea,” Zolf mutters, standing up. He has better things to do with his time that sit here and listen to Wilde be cagey. “Good luck with whatever the hell you’re working on.” He gives Wilde a sarcastic two-fingered salute and turns on his heel, planning on forgetting this entire conversation ever happened.
“They’re missing,” Wilde says, cutting through the silence, and Zolf stops, halfway to the door. “They went into Rome and didn’t come out.”
Zolf turns to face him slowly. “You - they - what?”
Wilde isn’t lounging anymore, and there’s a serious expression on his face that Zolf hasn’t seen since they left him behind in Paris, when he said that Amelia would kill them for being with the meritocrats. “You heard me.”
“Yeah, I -“ Gods, he forgot how irritating - “I know what you said , why the hell did you tell them to go to Rome?”
Wilde holds his hands up defensively. “I didn’t tell them to do anything. I don’t think they’d have listened if I did. As Grizzop explained to me before leaving for Rome himself, the Cult of Hades was involved. They had hostages - I believe you met Bi Ming with Sasha, yes? They all had family taken, and went after them.”
“You almost sound disappointed,” Zolf says, and Wilde shrugs.
“I wish they had discussed it with me beforehand, but there was no way I could have stopped them.” Well, that’s - Wilde has a point, Zolf begrudgingly admits.
“Who’s Grizzop?” Zolf asks, instead of anything else. The name is unfamiliar to him, but if he was in Rome with the rest of the party, then he must have been somewhat important to them.
“He was your replacement,” Wilde says, and it’s mild but Zolf doesn’t miss the pointed dig. He also doesn’t much care. “He was… fine. Efficient.”
“You sound like you didn’t like him much,” Zolf muses, and Wilde doesn’t flinch, but it’s a near thing. “Guilt getting to you?”
“Let’s say we had a mutual dislike, but that he probably saved my life before he chased your friends to Rome.” Zolf doesn’t miss the emphasis on ‘your’, but he isn’t going to rise to the bait. Not this time - even if his fingers are positively twitching as he refrains from summoning another bucket’s worth of water on his head. “Now. Will you help me?”
Zolf doesn’t answer for a second. “Why me?” There’s another beat of silence.
“I don’t… have many people I can trust, anymore,” Wilde admits, begrudging. “Something is coming. I don’t know what it is, but I don’t like it, and my best people are missing.”
“...Fine. What do you actually need from me, Wilde? Am I going to Rome to look for them? Nothing comes out of Rome, the Cult of Mars makes sure of that,” Zolf says, and Wilde folds his arms, leaning back in a chair.
“It’s not going to be all fun and games, you know,” Wilde says, and Zolf swears he’s going to drown him in a bucket if the man doesn’t speak clearly for once.
“I left fun and games behind when my brother died years ago. The ask , Wilde,” Zolf says, feeling that all-too-familiar irritation slowly creeping up on him. Seems like Wilde hasn’t gotten less cagey in the few months that Zolf’s been out of contact.
“I need you on a team. Investigating. You’ll be doing most of the work alone, each of you looking into something specific. I’m not telling you more until you agree,” Wilde cautions. “This is far too big for any of us to be… reckless.”
Zolf gives it a second, knowing Wilde isn’t going to be sweating in the silence. Whatever’s happening, it’s got Wilde on edge. He almost seems… spooked isn’t the word, not really , and Wilde’s never been desperate, but… he’s acting like a man on a deadline, and Zolf isn’t entirely sure he wants to know what he’s counting down to. But if something big is coming, something that’s got even Wilde, with all his fancy meritocratic resources, reaching out to a dwarf who’s steadily chipping away at the guilt sitting in his chest and fighting off feelings of uselessness, well. Zolf thinks that they all should be worried. And if no one else is going to help, it might as well be him.
“Can you get me new legs?” Zolf asks, giving him a sidelong glance. Wilde looks almost taken aback but covers it well.
“What, are those too wishy-washy for you?” he asks, and Zolf shakes his head.
“I just… don’t think I’m gonna be having them for much longer,” he admits, and doesn’t unconsciously grasp at the spot where driftwood dolphin used to sit on a chain around his neck. Wilde, in a rare display of restraint, doesn’t comment. “Can you?”
Wilde considers him for a moment. “I’m sure something can be arranged,” he offers, and it’s as good as Zolf is going to get, right now. He’s felt his magic fading slowly, his connection to Poseidon growing weaker each day, and he doesn’t know why the legs haven’t just dissolved by now, but he wasn’t going to complain about it, not when he didn’t have a back up plan.
“Fine. I’m in,” he says. He might regret it later, but he can’t think about that right now. Maybe this is his chance to atone, to make up for them breaking the world.
“I need your trust, Mr. Smith,” Wilde says, serious. “This is bigger than me, bigger than all of us. I can’t have people who will turn on me.”
Zolf takes a deep breath. He still doesn’t - okay, look, it’s not that he distrusts Wilde, he just doesn’t much like spending time alone with the man, but… he trusts that Wilde knows what he’s talking about, that this something big enough to affect the entire world.
He holds a hand out - an offer - and after a beat, Wilde takes it, giving him a single shake. Zolf decides not to comment on how his shoulders, tense just until that moment, drop. He pulls his hand back and sticks it in the pocket of his coat.
“What do you need me to do?”