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“Another beer, please,” Dobby shouted to the barmaid across the pub. Then she glanced at Connor. She had already downed three beers this evening. He, however, was still nursing his first one. He seemed to enjoy the sight of gold-white foam on the amber liquid, the earthy scent too, but not the smooth flavour or the intoxication.
This wasn’t the first time he appeared so in front of a glass of alcohol. In fact, Dobby had never seen him having more than a few drinks in one evening, no matter how light the drink might have been. It’s not that he disliked alcohol. Unless he was on a mission or otherwise occupied, he never said no to a drink. But it was usually that, just one drink, two or three on special occasions, but never any more.
The barmaid walked towards them and put a beer in front of Dobby. “Wouldn’t you like another drink too, sir?” she asked Connor.
“No, thank you. I would rather not get drunk,” he shook his head. The barmaid left the table.
“Want to keep your wit about you, I see,” Dobby chuckled a little, “I see no signs of enemies here, though.”
“No, it’s just that…” Connor averted his eyes, paying more attention than usual to the amber swirl in his glass, “… I get emotional when I drink too much.”
Connor felt that his face was reddening a bit. He did not volunteer this information too often. But after all these years, Dobby had become his close friend, an almost-lover even. He felt safe with her, safe enough to divulge this intimate detail to her.
“We all do, Connor,” said Dobby.
“No, you do not understand. I get distressingly, embarrassingly so.”
“Now you make me curious. I’d love to see that! Let me buy you another drink, then. Please?”
“No!” he cried out, “But… I can tell you what happened on this one evening when I had too much drink, so that you will give up the idea of trying to get me drunk. Just promise me that you will not judge.”
“I promise. Do tell.”
Connor took a deep breath, and recalled the story of his inebriated adolescent self.
"I was just a boy then, barely sixteen," Connor began, "I was angry at Achilles. He made me do an exercise on strategy, and it seemed that, no matter what I came up with, I could not please him. He scolded me and called me an imbecile several times. So that afternoon, I decided I would not take it anymore. I left the study, slammed the door shut, and just ran into the forest without direction.
"I ran until I reached the other side of the bay. You remember it, yes? It was late afternoon, almost evening. Faulkner was there with his bottles, alone, so I sat there with him. He asked me about my day. I complained about Achilles. He then handed me a bottle.
"I gulped down half of the content in that bottle. I remember that it was cheap, horrible wine that tasted way too sour, but I was thirsty."
"Had you had any drinks before? Or was it the first time you drank?" Dobby asked.
"I had had a few celebratory drinks here and there, never really got drunk. That was not my first drink, and I had always liked the effect of alcohol," he answered her question, "But then I had never drunk anything so fast before. The bottle was rather large, too. I suppose it was too much for me."
"So you got drunk, I see."
"That I did. That I sure did. I started ranting and whining about Achilles. I said, ‘No matter what I do, it is never good enough! I’m sure he HATES me!’ I think I repeated something to that effect several times, to the point that Faulkner had to say, ‘Achilles loves you. If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t have named you after his dear son.’
“I know now that Faulkner was right, but I could not see it then. Instead I snapped, ‘Ha! If he loved me, he would have tried to call me by my real name! For six months, he called me nothing but ‘boy’. Six months! Can you believe that? He does not even care! Nobody ever does!’ Then… well, this is embarrassing… I cried.”
“You cried?” Dobby’s eyes widened. She tried to keep a straight face and stifle a laugh. The thought of Connor as a young boy, with childish tantrum, drunken tearfulness and everything, was just too… adorable. In fact, he was adorable now too, with red cheeks and a shy grin.
“Well, yes, I did. I bawled, actually. Then I proceeded to whine about other things. And you know what was funny? I cried, ‘Everyone thinks I am mad! Even my people think I am mad! I am not mad!’ yet I probably looked raving mad then!
“Faulkner must have been mortified. He tried to take the bottle back from me, said I was already too drunk. I think it was more symbolic than practical, because there was only an eighth of the original content left in the bottle. I hugged the bottle and said, ‘See? Even you! I speak my mind and you say I am drunk! You are all the same!’ Then I threw the bottle into the sea, and said ‘I cannot drink now. Are you happy?’”
Connor paused to take a careful sip from his glass. Dobby could not help herself now. She snickered. “What’s next?” she asked.
“I got up and decided to leave. Faulkner asked if I wanted him to accompany me home because I could barely walk straight. I told him I wanted to be alone, and he persisted no further. After all, it was just a short distance from there to the Manor.
“Still, I got lost. It was getting dark. All the trees looked the same to my intoxicated eyes. I even bumped into a few trees because of my compromised vision and motion. I tripped and fell, and could not get up again. I fell unconscious in the middle of the forest.”
Dobby put her drink down, “So, how did you get back home?”
“I was lucky, that’s how. Hours later, I heard the familiar sound of horse hoofs, so I opened my eyes and saw Achilles and Faulkner. It turned out that Achilles was worried that I was not yet home, so he and Faulkner rode to find me,” Connor said, careful not to tell Dobby that they could track him down because he left a trail of vomit behind, “I realised then that Achilles cared about me.”
“Were you punished for that?” Dobby asked.
“Here’s the thing. I was not. I actually begged Achilles to punish me, but he did not. He said that the hangover I would have the next day would be enough punishment. In a way, he was right. It was even worse than the worst flu I have had. But then Faulkner told me later that Achilles too felt sorry for his unkind words, so he called it even.”
Connor sighed. Dobby caught a few tears in his eyes. He wiped them with his fist. “Sorry. I just miss Achilles so much. I told you, I get emotional when I drink.”
“You know what, Connor?” Dobby said, leaning forward, “I’d rather be with someone a little emotional than someone cold any day. Don’t be ashamed.”
“Really, you think so?”
“Of course!” Dobby reassured, “Well, I’ll buy you another drink. Feel free to be as emotional as you want, as long as you don’t throw things or walk away and be lost in this damn city, of course.”
“I will not. Thank you,” said Connor, and Dobby was glad that she could put a broad smile on his face.