Cyril went down, and the tavern met him in a dim light. Usually two chandeliers with thick candles burned under the ceiling, and several oil lamps smoked on the walls. There were two or three candles on each table. However, the candles were now only lit behind the bar.
Dyck put a couple of candles on the bar, gluing each one to their own melted wax. The sight of such blasphemy above the wooden surface made Cyril's heart ache.
'That's a fucking shame.' He thought. 'Gurgle tried so hard to clean it all here.'
Cyril walked naked to the counter, his empty balls bobbing. There were no people in the room, and Dyck was sitting alone on a chair on the other side of the bar.
"Boss, gimme some meal." Cyril said, sinking into a high chair.
Cyril seemed to snap him out of his reverie when the bartender raised his bearded face. His eyes were sad.
"Oh, Cyril." He smiled sadly. "My good partner."
He drew out the last word with a peculiar longing that made Cyril feel uneasy. He felt refreshed after a good sex, and the bartender's melancholy state seemed to get in his throat.
"Have a drink with me." Dyck said more cheerfully and took a jug from under the counter.
"Boss, I wanna eat." Cyril said, but the strong smell of alcohol and pine needles hit him. "Is that moonshine?"
He expected anything but the smell of strong moonshine. The last time Cyril had felt such a smell, when he was still a teenager visiting his grandfather in a countryside.
"You speak weird again." Dyck shook his shaggy head. "We call it firewater here. This is a jug from my family's personal stock. However, my father never taught me how to brew this moonshine, as you call it."
Dyck lowered his head again and fell silent. Cyril looked around and saw a small porcelain cup next to him. He reached out, picked up the empty cup, and sniffed. The same smell that came from jug hit him.
'Well, all right.' Cyril nodded to himself. 'He's already drunk. Couldn't stand Freya's screams?'
Cyril couldn't help but chuckle as he remembered the waitress's wild, desperate screams.
"Boss, I need to eat." He said again, not daring to break into someone else's kitchen.
Dyck raised his head again, and Cyril hoped that his request had been heard.
"Why is the world so unfair, huh?" Dyck asked and belched.
Cyril winced.
'I was the same when I came here two days ago.' He said to himself. 'Maybe he'll cook something if I listen to him.'
"So, you wanna talk about justice?" Cyril chuckled, thinking of his wife and son. "Well, come on."
The bartender's eyes reflected the candlelight. It was hard to call his face beautiful. His thick beard hid half his face, but his crooked nose and deep-set eyes gave him an involuntary feeling of fear. So the rare smile on the bartender's face was like a butcher's grin in the face of a poor cow.
"You're a true friend, Cyril." The butcher smiled and belched into his beard. "I've been trying to pay off the Clean Heel clan for fifteen years..."
"That's a long time." Cyril said, but the bartender continued.
"But suddenly you come and bring money and gems as if they're coming into your hands! It's not fair!"
With that, Dyck slammed his fist down on the counter, and the porcelain cup bounced, and one of the candles fell on its side. The molten wax immediately hastened to permeate the tree that had been cleaned by the elemental.
Cyril listened to the boss without batting an eye, and only put back the fallen candle.
"Will you cook something?" He asked in a flat tone.
Cyril resisted an urge to grab the bartender by his beard and slam him into the mercilessly shitty bar. Dyck plunged into his thoughts again and with a sad look poured from the jug into a cup. Pushing the cup to his partner, he continued to complain about life.
"I could just give them the land, you know? But this is my father's land..."
"I don't know a damn thing." Cyril interrupted. "Don't give me a fucking drink on an empty stomach."
Cyril pushed the cup away. Although he had come to this city so drunk that he could not remember two days of his life, Cyril had never been an alcoholic. Back then he got drunk to numb the pain. It didn't help a bit, though. Now he was trying to live anew, to figure out what was happening to him, and how to get out of a series of unsuccessful attempts to die. He definitely didn't want to get drunk.
'Judging by his appearance, the boss is already drunk as shit.' Cyril realized and got up from his chair.
"You said you'd do it, Cyril, didn't you?" Dyck asked, and for a moment it seemed that this was the same giant with impenetrable logic as he was a couple of hours ago. "I'm a bartender, my job is to pour."
He shrugged and watched as Cyril got up from his chair to walk toward the kitchen.
"Where are you going, partner?" He raised a furry eyebrow.
"I'm not going to help you, you drunk bastard." Cyril muttered as he turned behind the bar and went toward the kitchen. The beer barrel to the right of him shone a polished surface. "I bet I won't achieve anything from you in this state."
He parted the rustling ribbons in the doorway and went into the kitchen. The stove had already cooled down, and Cyril saw no food anywhere. He was getting angry.
"I've been digging a well for you whole the goddamn day, boss! And you're drunk as hell and can't feed me."
'I need to calm down.' He told himself immediately. 'I can't be angry if I don't wanna lose control of my body. Fucking bearded asshole. Where is all the food?'
"A well?" The bartender's voice sounded surprised. "Where?"
"In the back yard, you idiot." Cyril growled, never ceasing to search for products.
"You know, Freya and I aren't siblings, actually." The bartender said from behind the bar and belched again.
Cyril heard the bartender take another swallow of firewater and set the cup down loudly.
"Where's your food? There's only dishes here."
"Freya's parents wanted to build a farm there." Dyck continued.
"Where!?" Cyril cried out.
He opened all the cupboards and looked on all the shelves, but nowhere did he even see a bread.
"Where you dug the well." Dyck suddenly laughed. "We bought water from them for fifteen years, even though the water was under our feet! Hahaha!"
"Where the food is, not the farm!" Cyril roared.
He immediately sat down on a stool near the sturdy table and began to breathe deeply.
'Don't break down, don't break down.' He thought. 'Anger activates my powers. This is not necessary now.'
"In that time we were children, me and Freya." Dyck continued to tell. "Not much elder than your girl."
Cyril tried to calm his growing anger. His empty stomach was aching with hunger, and it was driving him crazy. He knew that if he let his anger get the better of him now, he might lose control of his body, and then his body could do anything.
'To the point of ripping off the bartender's hand and eating it raw in front of him.' He thought, and Cyril couldn't help but be scared. 'That would be fucked up.'
"By the way, where's the girl you brought?"
"Forget the girl, where's the food?"
"Oh, Clara took her to the clan." Dyck recalled their morning conversation with Clara. "It was them who gave us the money."
"What money?" Cyril asked, more to distract himself. In fact, he didn't care about other people's problems right now. He was hungry, and his hunger grew every minute.
"Freya's family borrowed that money from us to build the farm. They bought our land where you dug the well."
Dyck behind the wall laughed again. Cyril caught his breath and felt calmer. Hoping to maintain control of his body, he slowly got up and left the kitchen.
The bartender leaned over the bar, resting his forehead on it. The cup lay upside down in front of him, and the candle had fallen again. The melted wax of the fallen candle fell on his hair, but Dyck did not notice anything. Being drunk, he only giggled to himself.
Cyril came close to him, leaned over, and whispered as calmly as he could into the bartender's ear.
"Boss, where's the food?"