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PUPPETS OF FATE
Wen Ning looked at the darkening skies and sighed. Rain. Why did it have to rain? The wind whipped his hair and dumped a dry leaf on his face, earning an irritated click from him. Throwing the offending leaf on the road, he bundled his cloak more tightly and lowered his head against the steadily increasing gust. Wen Ning tried to ignore how, with each step, his mood grew darker, mirroring the sky.
Spotting a tavern further down the road, he quickened his steps intending to take shelter before the storm began in earnest. As he moved closer, tiny drops began to splatter on his hands and face. A particularly strong gust of wind tugged at his straw hat, making him slap a hand on top, lest it flew off. Wen Ning’s luck ran out just ten steps away from the tavern’s entrance as it began to rain heavily. He quickened his steps but could not stop a few drops from snaking their way down his neck before reaching the door, making him shiver from head to toe. He bit back a growl.
Stepping inside, Wen Ning wiped his face with his hand and shook off the droplets. He was running his fingers through his hair when the server approached him and led him to a table. Mumbling an order for tea, Wen Ning lowered himself to the ground and dropped his bag next to him, glad that he was not soaking wet. The dampness on his clothes and skin would dry off soon. He debated on taking off his hat but ultimately chose to keep it on. He preferred to remain hidden. Traveling alone for over a year, he had learned the hard way that the black marks on his neck drew attention and not of the good kind. Once, he had even been recognized as the Ghost General, and that was an experience he was not keen on repeating.
For a man of his size, folding in on himself was not easy but he had a lifetime of experience to fall back on. If there was one thing that he was an expert at, it was blending into the background. Wei Gongzi had once pointed out how he always, instinctively, chose the corner spot; so as to avoid drawing any attention to himself. Being aware of this little quirk of his had given him no desire to change, however. He hunched down, letting his hair form a barrier between him and the world outside. The rumbling thunder drowned the hubbub of the conversation around him, further solidifying his seclusion.
Wen Ning took a deep breath, smelling the rain. Once, in what was truly another lifetime, he loved petrichor. Even now he couldn’t deny that the sweet and refreshing scent made the otherwise gloomy evening seem more pleasant, if only by a small degree. But he could no longer draw the innocent, childish joy from it that he used to.
For with the rain came visions of the past, memories reflected to him in every drop. Scenes of sorrow and slavery, of blood and death. Every puddle became a portrait of faces from a bygone era. Faces twisted with malice and hate. Faces full of love and fondness. Faces he would never see again. Except when it rained.
Wen Ning closed his eyes against the barrage of memories and focused on his breathing. Having gotten a modicum of control on his wayward thoughts, he turned his attention to the mundane. He sipped on the tea, relishing the way the warm liquid felt in his throat. A drop of tea on the table caught his attention and he brushed it off with his fingers, only to be fascinated by the trail left by the liquid. To him, it looked like an eyebrow, begging for an eye to finish the look.
As a child, Wen Ning drew eyes. Hundreds of them. Over and over again. Once, he’d had an entire book filled with half-drawn, single or pairs of eyes. Just eyes. Nothing more. While the children around him played, he would sit under the shade of a tree and sketch. He wondered what had happened to that book. Last he knew, it was at the Yiling Supervisory Office. Perhaps some cultivator had chanced upon it? Knowing how anti-Wen the sentiments had been back then, he was almost certain that the book had been burned.
Despite his best efforts, Wen Ning could not stop himself from feeling a smidgen of resentment. Why would they feel the need to burn a sixteen-year-old boy’s sketch book? His hand hovered over the table fingers still damp with rain. Should he complete the image? Pair the brow with an eye? But what would that eye be but black? He had had enough of black eyes.
A loud boom of thunder broke his miserable and ultimately pointless train of thoughts. With one gulp, he drained the tea and lowered the cup to the table. Using his sleeve, he wiped his face, hoping to get rid of the moisture that still clung to him. Not that it helped any. His sleeve was wet too. He was examining his sleeve with mounting annoyance when he spotted a shadow fall on the table. Figuring whoever it was would move away, Wen Ning did not pay them any attention.
But then, the owner of the shadow lowered himself down to sit across from him. Wen Ning whipped his head up, not bothering to hide his irritation like he would have not so long ago. But the harsh words he had planned on saying died on his tongue when he spotted the man sitting there.
Smiling beatifically at him was the last person he expected to run into. Dressed all in black, save for a single shock of white from one of the two swords strapped on his back, dark hair framing his pale round face, the man was a sight to behold.
Song Lan.
Gathering his wits, Wen Ning gave a hasty bow and broke into what felt like his first genuine smile in a long time. “Song Qianbei! It is such a pleasure!”
Song Lan nodded, smiling, and pulled out a book, brush, and a jar of ink. His hand flew across the paper and then handed the book to Wen Ning.
Wen Gongzi, it is good to see you. Are you well?
Smiling widely, Wen Ning said, “I am, thank you. I have been traveling the world. And you?”
Likewise. Shuanghua and Xingchen travel with me.
“How is he?” Wen Ning asked, making sure to keep his voice lowered as a mark of respect.
He is healing. I saw you entering the tavern and came to talk. I hope you don’t mind, Song Lan wrote.
“No, no, not at all. Please, stay. Share some tea with me.”
Outside, the skies lit up with a bright streak of lightning that was followed by a deafening crack of thunder. For a moment, he was back at Qiongqi Path, cradled in Jie’s arms while the rain drenched them both. Shaking his head, Wen Ning forcibly pushed the painful thoughts down and turned his attention to the person sitting in front of him.
Song Lan was looking out of the window, his face a picture of peace and tranquility. Of their own accord, Wen Ning’s eyes dropped to his neck where he could see the telltale black lines that marked Song Lan as a fierce corpse. However, unlike Wen Ning, his lines were so faint that you could only see them if you were looking for it.
Wen Ning’s lips thinned, and his heart twisted. We are both fierce corpses. Why does he get to walk around as a regular person while I am saddled with these infernal marks and the reputation of the Ghost General?
Almost instantly, Wen Ning bit his tongue. What are you doing, Qionlin?
This was Song Lan. Song Zichen. The man who had seen his master and his juniors killed, just because Xue Yang was a demented asshole. Xue Yang’s malice had taken everything from him, including the most important person in his life- Xiao Xingchen. Then, to add insult to injury, he had turned Song Lan into a fierce corpse, hammering nails into his head to make him obedient. Wen Ning’s pang of guilt at his misplaced anger.
As if feeling his eyes on him, Song Lan turned to look at him. Embarrassed by his less than charitable thoughts, Wen Ning poured a cup for Song Lan. The cultivator bowed his head to thank him and sipped on the tea.
How does he drink his tea without his tongue? he wondered.
With their pleasantries exchanged, Wen Ning had no idea what to say to the man. He was not a good conversationalist on the best of days, and today he was at the lowest point he had been at in a while. The directionless, victimless, and impotent anger that had been building inside of him for a while was bubbling over, making him far more irritable than usual. To make matters worse, his companion could not even talk, so it was not like Song Lan could break the awkward silence. Casting his thoughts around, Wen Ning picked up the first thread of discussion that occurred to him.
“Song Qianbei, I owe you an apology.”
He did not have to write it; the confusion was evident on Song Lan’s face.
Wen Ning gave a small, half-hearted smile and said, “For attacking you back then.”
Song Lan shook his head and scribbled a response for him to read. Please, do not apologize, the note read. You saved me.
“Did I really? Or did I condemn you to something worse?” The words slipped before Wen Ning could stop himself.
Song Lan tapped on the edge of the table, looking at Wen Ning for a long time before writing, It is not easy, is it?
“No,” Wen Ning replied, startled at how easily the admission came to him. Both A-Yuan and Wei Gongzi had asked him about it, but he had shied away from the topic, not revealing his thoughts or feelings to them. Yet, here he was, saying the one thing that he had not dared to admit even to himself, and to someone who was essentially a stranger. “It is not easy.”
Do you remember what happened while you were a puppet? the new note asked. A frown creased his previously calm visage, making Wen Ning think that perhaps Song Lan was not as at peace as he had originally assumed.
“Some things,” he responded, rubbing his chin in thought. “More memories come back as time passes. Do you remember anything?”
Fractured bits. I find it disconcerting to have large gaps in my memory.
“That’s because it is,” Wen Ning answered, finding the words with an unprecedented ease. “You are missing years of your… life.”
At Song Lan’s sardonic laugh, Wen Ning chuckled. Not being particularly good at jokes, his wit was not exactly something Wen Ning was known for. But this was a gag that he found funny and had laughed at in solitary moments. The people around him, however, had varying reactions. Huanguan Jun, for example, had no idea how to respond, and had stared at him with mild befuddlement etched on his face. A-Yuan had offered some kind words, while Jin Ling had huffed. He knew Wei Gongzi would probably have chuckled, but there was also a chance that the joke would hurt him. Wei Gongzi carried a lot of guilt for what had happened to his friend in the sixteen years that he had been dead. This little dark pun could hit too close to his heart and that was something Wen Ning could never do to him. Thus, after the first few failed attempts at saying it, he had stopped.
But sitting in this darkening tavern, with Song Lan sitting across from him, his inhibitions melted, and the words came out naturally. And this man, serious and stoic as he was, saw the humor in it.
Yes, life. Such that it is.
The two of them fell into silence again, but this time the quiet was not a rock – heavy and physical in its manifestation – but rather a comfortable calm that felt akin to the shade of a tree in a hot, sweltering summer day.
The wind blew in a spray of drops from the window, a couple of them making their way onto Wen Ning’s face. He had to struggle to keep his face impassive, hiding the agitation he so easily felt at such a small inconvenience. But even still, he barely managed to suppress a growl as he impatiently wiped off the drops with the back of his hand.
He turned to find Song Lan studying him keenly. Before he could say anything to cover his slip-up, the older man raised his hand to summon the server. He wrote something on a piece of paper and handed it to the server, who nodded and withdrew. He was back moments later with alcohol.
“Song Qianbei,” Wen Ning said as the other man poured the liquor. “Ummm…I don’t really drink.”
His raised eyebrow and tilted head were enough to ask why.
He gave a nervous laugh and rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. “The one time I drank, I got really drunk and embarrassed myself. It was not pleasant.”
Song Lan gave a small laugh and wrote something. I am assuming this was before you were turned?
Wen Ning cocked his head in confusion. “How did you know?”
I just do.
With an inviting nod, Song Lan picked up his cup and downed its contents, leaving Wen Ning to make his own decision. Feeling intrigued and more than a little rebellious, Wen Ning picked up his own cup. He had been looking for ways to drown out the noise in his mind, and he figured liquor would do the job, to hell with the consequences. Taking a deep breath, Wen Ning gulped the liquid. He scrunched his eyes against the sting on his tongue before lowering the cup on the table. It was then that he noticed that Song Lan had added a new note.
Don’t worry, you will not get inebriated. The alcohol won’t impact you.
“It won’t?”
Song Lan shook his head. Somewhere in his mind, he could hear Jie saying that he was being reckless, but Wen Ning brushed the thought aside. He was here. Now. Free to make his own choices. He was no longer someone’s younger brother. Someone’s knife. Someone’s senior. He was Wen Ning. It was high time he made his own decisions and be his own person – undead as he was – and face the aftermath of the choices.
This was something he had worked hard at – accepting and doing things for himself. Wen Ning had had a long chat with Wei Gongzi about this, who had been emphatic in his words that Wen Ning needed to find his own path and could not spend his life beholden to him. Wei Gongzi had gone out of his way to reassure Wen Ning that he would always, always have a place in his heart and life, because they were family. But it was time for Wen Ning to discover himself.
To hear Wei Gongzi agree so unequivocally with what he had in his mind was just the boost he had needed. After spending a while reconnecting and bonding with A-Yuan, and paying respect to their deceased family, the duo had walked back to Gusu where he had spent a week with Wei Gongzi and Hanguang Jun before starting on his own journey.
It had been more than a year since then, and the path to self-discovery was proving to be more challenging than he had anticipated. He was not quite certain what he was looking for. He had traveled far and wide, had seen many things. Yet he found himself looking inward with disturbing frequency. Questions about his individuality plagued him. For as long as he could remember, his identity had been tied to someone else. Wen Qing’s younger brother. The Yiling Patriarch’s Ghost General. Xue Yang’s toy. Jin Guangshan and Jin Guangyao’s pawn. Wen Yuan’s uncle. But who was he? Who was Wen Ning? He had asked himself the same question over and over again but had failed to come up with an answer he could be satisfied with. Now that the war was over, the futility of his existence plagued him. Especially during the long, lonely, sleepless nights.
“I can’t take the nights,” Wen Ning whispered, realizing belatedly that he had spoken aloud. Before he could apologize for voicing out such a personal thought, however, Song Lan’s hastily written note was slid towards him.
Me neither. They feel insurmountable.
‘Of course!’ Wen Ning thought with sudden clarity. He was sitting across the only other person in the world who would know what he was talking about. They were both sentient fierce corpses. They were bound in ways far more complex and intimate than anyone else.
“They do,” Wen Ning said, refilling their cups. “I sometimes wish I had stayed dead.”
Death would be preferable, yes, Song Lan wrote. I wonder, can we die?
“I don’t know,” Wen Ning admitted. “I have wondered about it. But technically, we are dead.”
True. Does Wei Wuxian know?
“I haven’t asked him about it,” Wen Ning said slowly. “I think it would hurt him to know that I think of death.”
Song Lan’s brows tightened to a frown and he began to write furiously. Wen Ning realized that this was the strangest conversation he had ever had where he had to sit back and wait for the other person to respond. And yet, somehow, this was also the most important and intimate conversation of his life and he the quiet pauses that gave him time to think, instead of the hasty exchange of words that he wasn’t so skilled at.
Everybody dies, Wen Gongzi. Death doesn’t consider people’s feelings. I think Wei Wuxian, of all people, would understand the desire to die. Besides, we both have died already. What we are left with, is a cursed existence that was thrust upon us, against our own wishes. We are neither living, nor are we dead. We should not exist.
The words on the paper rained on Wen Ning’s heart like droplets of fire. Every thought he had buried inside his own mind was written out in Song Lan’s crisp, rapid strokes. Things that he hadn’t even admitted to himself, were laid out so clearly before him and Wen Ning could no longer deny the truth in those words.
“We shouldn’t exist,” Wen Ning said slowly, thumbing the edge of the paper. “We are an affront to nature. Tainted by the Yin Iron’s resentment. We shouldn’t exist.”
He slowly pushed the book back to Song Lan and spoke in a low and heavy voice. “But we do exist, Song Qianbei. Twisted and perverted as our existence might be, we are still here.”
For Wen Ning, the sound of Song Lan scribbling his answers overpowered the noise of the storm outside. He drained the contents of his cup, realizing that Song Lan was right. He had not felt even the slightest tingling of the alcohol, let alone the haziness of being drunk. Giving his head a slight shake, he turned his attention to the new note in front of him.
And that is the part I am seeking to change. Right here, right now, you and I are sentient and in our own control. But this control and peace is tenacious, as you and I both know. What happens if we lose control at this very second? Wei Wuxian isn’t here to help us. The damage the two of us can unleash is enormous.
Wen Ning nodded, chewing his lip. “I know. I am perpetually scared of that.”
I am too.
At that moment, a server appeared to ask if they needed anything. Without taking his eyes off his companion, Wen Ning ordered another wine.
When the server was out of earshot, Wen Ning leaned forward and asked in a low voice, “Song Qianbei, have you ever lost control?”
Song Lan opened his mouth and then abruptly closed it, as though remembering belatedly that his tongue was missing. He frowned, nodded, and began writing.
Yes. The note read. Once. I went into a blinding rage and frightened a whole village into running up a mountain to hide. I should let you know, however, that some mistook me for the Ghost General then. I apologize for that.
Upon reading this, Wen Ning began to laugh, much to Song Lan’s surprise. “Apologies, Qianbei,” he said waving a hand in front of his face. “I am not laughing at you. It’s just that of all the things attributed to me, true or false, simply scaring some people is the least of my offenses. There is no need for apologies.”
You are not upset that you were blamed for something I did?
Wen Ning shook his head. “I have been blamed for so many things over the years, yet another addition to my name doesn’t really mean anything.”
Are you certain?
A loud clap of thunder drew Wen Ning’s eyes to the sky before he turned to look at Song Lan.
“After the events at Guanyin Temple, I had foolishly hoped that my name would have been cleared of all past faults. And while the major clans have accepted that I am not to be blamed, the cultivation world is made up of hundreds of smaller clans. Not everyone knows what happened in the Guanyin Temple and I can’t spend the rest of my days explaining to everyone, even if they’d listen to me. Besides, I have learned that, people don’t like being contradicted. The Ghost General’s name is already so sullied that one more stain will hardly be noticed.”
You are too kind, Song Lan wrote in response.
Wen Ning gave a shy smile just as the server returned with a new jar of wine. Thanking the server, he refilled their cups.
Good to see you embracing your immunity to alcohol. Song Lan wrote, making Wen Ning laugh.
“This body has to be good for something,” Wen Ning quipped, earning a snort from his companion. Draining the cup, he sat up straighter and decided to ask the question that had been playing in his mind from the moment Song Lan had joined him. “Song Qianbei, I apologize if this is too personal, but I must ask. How are you?”
Song Lan frowned. Didn’t you ask me this already?
Wen Ning shook his head. “That was a formality in response to your greeting.” He leaned over and placed a hand on Song Lan’s. “We are the only two people who understand what we both have been through. We have both lost more than just our families or our lives. We’ve lost ourselves. Our identities. I am asking – as one sentient corpse to another – how are you?”
Understanding dawned on his face as a frown creased his otherwise calm face. Song Lan looked down to where their hands met, and then back up at him. He chewed on his lip for a bit before he began to write. As the man wrote, Wen Ning drew back his hand, never one comfortable with making prolonged contact with people. The only reason he had put his hand on Song Lan’s in the first place was to make sure that latter felt his sincerity.
Wen Ning saw Song Lan scratch out his reply a couple of times, the lump on his throat bobbing up and down several times, and a muscle in his jaw twitching, before he finished his response and turned the book to Wen Ning.
I really don’t know how to
No one ever asked
That is a difficult question. This war took everything from me us. Families, loved ones, friends, life. Everything. I would be lying if I said that I did not feel resentful on occasion. In fact, I am should admit now that I did harbor some bitterness upon learning that you have Wei Wuxian and Lan Shizui by you.
“Bitter?” Wen Ning whispered, thinking back on his own envious chain of thoughts not so long ago. “Then that is yet another thing we share.”
Song Lan made a sound of surprise and Wen Ning pretended to not notice the dampness in his companion’s eyes. Instead, he chose to give a small smile and elaborate his words. “I did feel a stab of envy when I saw you. The marks on your neck are so much lighter than mine.”
Wen Ning made sure to keep his voice steady and ignore the prickling of resentment within him. Ever since he had turned, every negative emotion he experienced, felt heightened. He had to struggle a lot harder to get his emotions under control than he had before. He swallowed the indignation building within him and continued, “I thought you must have things easier because you can blend in. Me? I stand out no matter where I go.”
Song Lan nodded in understanding and wrote, We must be miserable if we are getting envious of each other rather than those around us who do not share out struggles.
Wen Ning gave a small chuckle. “Miserable? Why yes. I guess I am miserable. I don’t even know why I’m telling you all this, Song Qianbei, seeing as we are practically strangers, but you are the only one who I feel would understand.”
I do understand, Song Lan wrote. And sometimes, it is easier to confide in a stranger than in a loved one. Besides, even if I am a stranger, our lives are curiously mirrored. I do know the loneliness, the frustration and the anger that is in you. For it is in me, too.
“We have both been touched by the Yin Iron,” Wen Ning said, tracing a finger around the rim of his cup. “Resentful energy flows within us. Anger will always be a part of us.”
Song Lan nodded. I can feel it, you know. The rage. I can feel it running through me.
“Yes,” Wen Ning said, knotting his fingers together. “I feel it too. Every bad thought, every negative emotion… I feel it so strongly.”
It burns, doesn’t it?
“It does!” Wen Ning agreed, shedding all his inhibitions. For the first time, someone was vocalizing his deepest thoughts, understanding him in ways even Jie didn’t. “I never felt the blood in my veins. But this…this thing. I can feel it.”
It eats me up, Song Lan wrote. The hatred I harbor for Xue Yang still lives in me. Even though I killed him, my hate hasn’t died.
“Mine hasn’t either,” Wen Ning answered. “I…I hate that my entire family paid for the mistakes of a few. Wen Rouhan was the one who committed those atrocities. But the entire clan was killed for it. You can at least target your anger at Xue Yang. Me? Who do I turn this anger to? Jin Guangyao? But he did not do anything to me, except for keeping me alive in the bowels of Jinlin Tai.”
Putting nails in your head is “not doing anything”?
“Xue Yang did that, not him,” Wen Ning said, resting his elbows on the table. “And that man… He was not right in the head. He was sick. Demented. I somehow cannot target my rage to him. Besides, he is dead. Which means, my rage is directionless. Impotent.”
Yes, he is dead. But does that absolve him of his crimes? Does Jin Guangyao’s death excuse his transgressions?
“No. Not at all,” Wen Ning replied. “We of all people know that death stops nothing. I am not excusing either of them. But I am also not angry at them.”
Song Lan gestured with his hand, asking what he meant.
Wen Ning looked out of the window, realizing that the storm outside was starting to die down. He rubbed his hands together and proceeded to explain, words he had not dared to utter even to himself in the dead silence of nights pouring out of him in a torrent.
“What I mean is, I am angry. Very angry. I am angry about the unfairness of mine… our situation. The long, lonely nights where I watch the world sleep? I hate it. I hate the fact that people see my marks and know who I am. I have nowhere to hide. My identity as the Ghost General supersedes my identity as Wen Ning. I sometimes feel like I don’t even know who I am. Am I nothing more than the Yiling Patrirach’s sword? One of the last Wens? Is that it? What about me? Who am I? I was someone before I died and came back, and I lost my identity somewhere in the process and I don’t know how to find it again.”
It was as though the torrent of words that had been released from his lips had done something miraculous. It suddenly felt as though a band that had been tied around his chest had loosened, finally allowing him to breathe. Allowing his heart to beat. Somewhere in the tortured recesses of his mind, a sliver of light had broken through, cutting away at the darkness.
Song Lan sighed and patted his hand, letting the gesture take the place of words.
Wen Ning downed yet another cup of wine and slammed it back down on the table with more force than he intended to, cracking the clay in the process. He gave sheepish grin and turned to Song Lan. “And you? What do you feel?”
Song Lan looked out of the window, trailing the pitter-patter of rain with his eyes. After a long time, he wrote, I feel lost, just as you do. I feel alone. Left out. Forgotten. Unneeded. Useless.
The words on the paper twisted Wen Ning’s heart. Lost and bitter as he was, he still had people who cared for him. Loved him. Wei Wuxian was his guide. His anchor. His friend. His brother. And he had A-Yuan, the little boy who had grown into a wonderful young man. His kin. He had Hanguan Jun, a man he could look up to and a comrade-in-arms. In Lan Jingyi, he had found a defacto-nephew who, if not slightly annoying, was ultimately a lovable person. In short, he had a family. A roughly cobbled together jumble of people, but people who loved and cared about him, and whom he loved in return.
Song Lan did not have anyone. Xue Yang had taken everything and everyone from him. His loneliness ought to be consuming him.
“It must have been so hard to endure all this time alone. But Song Qianbei, you are not alone. I am here. We are kin.”
Kin? Song Lan mouthed, his eyes sparkling with unshed tears.
“We are kin, aren’t we?” Wen Ning said slowly. Outside, the rain had slowed down to a drizzle. He locked his gaze with Song Lan’s and said, “After all, in a way, we have the same blood in our veins.”
Song Lan gave a sardonic smile. If by “blood” you mean the resentful energy of Yin Iron, then yes, we are kin, he wrote.
Struck by a sudden inspiration, Wen Ning said, “Come with me, Song Qianbei! Let us travel the world and go on night-hunts together. If I ever lose control, you are the only one who can ensure that I don’t wreak havoc. I can do the same for you. We don’t have to spend the nights listening to the world sleep. We can keep each other company.”
Song Lan looked at him, shock written clearly on his face. Slowly, he ran a finger along the hilt of Shuanghua, tracing its name. Taking a deep breath, he wrote, How much company can I, a mute man, provide you with?
Wen Ning shrugged, recognizing the question for the feeble excuse that it was. Song Lan was stalling, trying to reach a decision. “I just had the most meaningful conversation of my not-life with that mute man. I don’t think it matters, do you?”
Song Lan gave a small chuckle and wrote, You are more like Wei Wuxian than people realize.
“That is a compliment,” Wen Ning replied with a smile. “But I am not nearly as brave as him.”
I disagree. But that is a conversation for another time. The storm has died down. Let us go.
Grinning, Wen Ning put down the money for their wine and the two of them stepped out of the tavern, together.