“The wise man watches others gamble with their souls, but he never bets more than he can afford to lose.” - The Tao of Idleness, Book 7, Verse 12
I had a bit of a bad history with casinos. Nothing spectacularly stupid – we’re not talking Ocean’s Eleven here, or anything – but I tend to avoid them whenever possible. However, when your crush’s father has literally climbed down off the cross and run straight inside, well, the day can take a turn. As soon as Lia and I walked in, it was clear this wasn’t some high-end den of sin. More of a low-end, dirt-cheap, rent-by-the-hour kind of place. The clatter of dice, the clinking of mugs, and the strained laughter of people who had nothing left to lose filled the room. I mean, I was sure I’d been in worse places, but you’d have to give me a minute to think of when.
The air reeked of cheap booze, desperation, and stale regret. And that was just the people who worked there.
I was still getting the lay of the land whilst Lia scanned the space, her glare causing any number of patrons to veer off out of her line of sight. The moment she spotted her father, already slumped at the bar with a half-empty mug of something noxious in front of him, she made a beeline for the bartender. I followed at a more cautious pace, keeping my distance in case things took a turn. If there was going to be violence, I certainly didn’t want to be in the middle of it. Yeah, no one was going to mistake me for a white knight in this particular situation.
Without a by-or-leave, Lia leaned across the bar and took hold of the tunic of the barman, lifting him several feet off the ground. “Listen very carefully. I’m not going to say this again. Anyone in here even thinks about giving him credit, and you’ll wish you were never born. Anyone. Your place. Your rules. And it’s you I’ll come looking for. Do we have an understanding?”
The bartender, an older guy with greasy hair who looked like he'd be swept away by a stiff breeze, swallowed hard and nodded quickly. “No credit. You got it, Lia. I’ll let everyone know.”
Her eyes flicked toward Jorgen, who hadn’t even bothered to acknowledge her presence even though she was only a couple of feet away. I could see the range of emotions spiralling behind her expression, but instead of letting them go in a short explosive demonstration of hurt, she abruptly turned on her heel and stalked toward the door.
“Don’t you fucking let him dig himself any deeper or the Maker himself won’t be able to put you back together again,” she shouted back to the barman, not bothering to look back. Her voice was tight with controlled fury, but there was something else beneath it—something profoundly sad.
I watched her go, the tension completely leaving the room with her. It was like everyone could suddenly breathe a little easier now that she was no longer standing there, radiating barely suppressed violence. So much so, in fact, I wondered how often that little scene had played out over the years.
For a moment, I made to follow her, but then I looked over at her father, and something stopped me. Jorgen was a wreck—dishevelled, bloodied, and nursing what had to be the cheapest whisky in the whole of this realm. He didn’t appear to have said much to anyone since being pulled off that cross. Can’t really blame him, I guess. Getting crucified isn’t exactly a minor inconvenience. Particularly when it seemed to have been a spectator sport for everyone in Eldhaven. Probably didn’t do much for his sense of community cohesion.
I really had no business getting myself involved here, but – then again – I had no real reason for being in this fucking world, anyway. Why break a habit of a new lifetime? I made my way over to the bar and perched on the stool next to Jorgen, gesturing for a drink of my own. The bartender looked at me warily – glancing up at my title – but as he was still recovering from his near-death experience with Lia, he decided not to make too much of it and poured me something vaguely alcoholic.
“Providing you understand that anything she’ll do to you, the Rogue of Eldhaven will do a million times worse, I’ll cover his tab,” I said, tossing a handful of gold coins onto the bar. The bartender snatched them up like a starving man grabbing at the last loaf of bread. I still hadn’t got a handle on the exchange mechanism here: it might well be I’d just bought the whole fucking casino.
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
Mind you, if Jorgen was grateful, he didn’t seem that keen to show it. His focus remained on his mug, his fingers tracing the rim like it held all the answers to his problems. Considering what he had just been through, he might well have been right.
“Bit of a rough night, huh?” I said, plumbing the depths of my renowned conversational ability for an opening gambit. Jorgen snorted but didn’t respond, which was probably fair enough.
The silence stretched on between us, thick and uncomfortable. To be honest, it was made all the worse by the generally cheerful atmosphere of the casino since Lia had left. And the plinky-plonky piano music as certainly a less than foreboding backdrop to what felt like it was going to be an important chat. I took a sip of whatever the bartender had given me—it burned going down but didn’t seem immediately poisonous, so I figured it was safe enough. Certainly for a third or fourth sip. Beside me, Jorgen continued his silent communion with his mug, his eyes distant.
“You know,” I said after a while, “I get it. I mean, I’m not saying I’ve been crucified—though I’ve actually had a few close calls—but, uh… I know what it’s like to feel like you’re out of options. Like there’s nowhere left to go.”
Jorgen didn’t respond, but his fingers tightened around the mug, just for a second. After sitting in a brooding silence for so long, that was him being positively chatty. That felt like progress, right? Fuck, I really wasn’t good at this. I mean, if I had to describe my skillset in my last life, “drunken father-terrifying daughter mediator” wouldn’t be anywhere near the top of the list. But there was something about the guy—maybe it was the fact that he’d just been horribly tortured and wasn’t whining about it, that made me feel bad for him. Or maybe it was the look in Lia’s eyes when she’d left? Either way, that made me want to at least try and get a bond going.
I drummed my fingers on the bar, trying to think of how to keep the conversation going without sounding like an idiot. “You, uh… you ever wonder how you ended up here?” I said, trying to meet his eyes in the reflection of the mirror on the other side of the bar. “Like, this place—this exact moment in time—how it all came together?”
Jorgen gave a low grunt, finally lifting his head just enough to look at mirror me. His eyes were bloodshot, and his face was gaunt, the kind of gaunt that came from years of hard drinking and not enough sleep. And being crucified. Definitely being crucified. The man was handsome, with more than a little of his daughter showing, but he had that rough-around-the-edges look that came with a lifetime of bad decisions and even worse luck.
For a second, I thought he might actually say something. His lips parted like he was about to speak, but then he just shook his head and downed the rest of his drink in one go. Okay. So much for that. I leaned back in my chair, staring up at the stained ceiling.
My mind drifted to my own father, not that there was much to think about. The man hadn’t exactly been a stellar presence in my life, more like an occasional cameo in a very bad sitcom. We didn’t have the best relationship, and he definitely wasn’t the type to sit at a bar and chat about life. He hadn’t even bothered to wave me goodbye after I was sent down.
Clearly, Jorgen and Lia were clearly a whole different level of mess – I’d never had to accept a contract to murder an alchemist to get my own father out of trouble - but I could see the echoes of my own past in the way they avoided each other’s gaze. The unspoken awkwardness, the wounds that hadn’t healed but were too old to bleed anymore.
“Look, mate,” I said, smashing into the silence again like an unstoppable moron, “I don’t know what’s going on between you and Lia, but . . . she’s out there, you know? She’s trying. And, uh, you don’t have to be a saint or anything, but maybe… maybe just try to meet her halfway?”
Jorgen finally turned to look at me properly. For a moment, I thought he was going to tell me to piss off. Instead, he let out a long, tired sigh and muttered, “You don’t understand. You don’t understand a damn thing.”
He pushed his stool back and stood up, swaying slightly on his feet. Without another word, he stumbled across the room toward the gambling tables, leaving me sitting there with my half-drunk glass and my good intentions.
I watched him go, a sinking feeling in my gut. I’d thought maybe—just maybe—I could get through to him, but it seemed like Jorgen was beyond help. Or at least, beyond any help I was capable of giving. Still, I wasn’t going to leave him hanging. I tossed another handful of gold onto the bar, probably enough to cover a few more rounds. Or buy the rest of the town. One of the two. “Keep him in whatever he needs,” I said to the bartender, “but remember what Lia said. No credit.”
The bartender nodded quickly, his eyes flicking nervously toward Jorgen.
As I stood up, I glanced back at the door, wondering where Lia had gone. I didn’t like the idea of leaving her alone out there. She might be tough as nails, but everyone had their limits. And judging by the look on her face when she saw her father hanging on that cross, I wasn’t sure how much further she could go before she hit hers.