MONTHS have passed since the bandits’ attempt to wrench the planeswalking engine from its rightful place, and the inescapable truth lingered at the back of the throat like the echo of a bitter, acidic aftertaste. It was the truth that, from that day onwards, Captain Jéne E. Ilk would have to mistrust everyone and everything that sought to come close to him. He realised that his most profound creation, the planeswalking engine, was also his most cursed damnation.
During the journey back to safer territory after the attack by the bandits, Jéne E. was struck by the understanding that his beloved engine, an object of his affection and of noble profit, had become the target of military organisations who sought to have the technology for themselves. Ever since The Tavern opened for business, spies have been infiltrating his ranks with the intent of discovering the secret to The Tavern’s locomotion. It was a secret well guarded, no arguments there, but every secret had a weakness that could be exploited.
The more valuable the secret, the more passionate were the infiltrators who wished to discover it.
Jéne E. had his share of close comrades, people that he had trouble believing were out to sabotage him. In many ways he was a good judge of behaviour, understanding a person well enough to determine his or her loyalty, but he was also a man of intellect and knew that as the tides of war shifted, so did friendships and allegiances. Those that can colloquially refer to him by the moniker ‘Genie’ and get away with it every time were amongst his most trusted personnel, but even then a number of them fell under his close scrutiny.
The Planeswalking Tavern was, for lack of a better word, at war. And in times of war you can never assume too much.
Fatigue had begun to overcome his senses as Jéne E. rested himself into an armchair inside his private quarters, trying to enjoy the drink he had brewed himself. It was supposed to revive his strength and return his mind to full capacity, but his concoctions have been failing him lately. No, that wasn’t right. It was just that he has been overly exposed to work and exhaustion these past few days, unable to rest and unable to find calm.
People, whether bandits or some kind of military movement, were out to get him and steal away his prized invention. But, no, he would not let it happen, not even if it meant mobilising his small security force against an entire army just like he had done before. The planeswalking engine was his child, and will always be his.
Bring it on, he said. Bring it on.
So muddled was his mind, as though he was constantly thinking through a veil of mist and smoke, that he didn’t even realised he had actually articulated those words. He tipped his glass upwards and let the liquid flow past his lips, then set it back down onto the table in front of him and went to his bed, intending to obtain a fraction of the rest that he so dearly required.
A clockwork machine sounded its chime all of a sudden. Jéne E. ignored it and remained in bed, not realising that a full two hours had elapsed since he first lay down his head, loosing consciousness immediately.
And then a number of knocks were heard, as though someone had the audacity to visit him so early in the morning bringing terrible news. It must have been one of Jéne E. most trusted staff members, since the man was able to undo the lock into the room and walk in.
“What?” cried out the Captain of The Tavern in a half-frustrated, half-defeated manner.
The man that entered bore with him a tray of food and drink which he placed gingerly upon the table Jéne E. had previously sat at. He commenced his duty without a single complaint, removing the used glass from sight, but stopped himself from leaving the room when he saw the amount of paperwork that lay unattended on that selfsame table.
He said in a somewhat timid manner, “Genie, we worry for you. So the board of directors have come to a decision: we are giving you the day off today. Your breakfast will be waiting for you when you feel better. Sleep well.”
And again the man was prevented from leaving. Jéne E. threw his pillow down from his bed and sat up quickly, causing his head to spin and he tumbled back onto the mattress.
“What?” he said once more, struggling to sit himself up. “I never get the day off. What’s going on?”
The man that delivered the breakfast smiled and faced the Captain. Then he spoke with a voice that sounded of both sincerity and warmth, “Work has taken its toll on you. You’ve been working yourself to death, and we can’t have that.”
From a blazer pocket the man produced a letter with the official Tavern seal securing it shut. Knowing that Jéne E. wasn’t in the right frame of mind to read it, the man placed the letter onto the breakfast tray.
He said, “For all you’ve done for us, Genie, for all the adventures that you’ve given us, we would like to say thank you. So, thank you. Now get your much needed rest.”
The silence that emerged out of Jéne E.’s mouth as the man made his way to the door was deafening to the point you could cut it with a knife and it would still be rock solid.
When he reached the door, Jéne E.’s companion placed his hand onto the handle but didn’t turn it. Instead, for some reason that escaped logic, the man sighed and turned to look at the captain who was still struggling to manage his words.
But the captain did manage to speak. His mind, overwhelmed by physical weariness, didn’t fully register what had been said, so he repeated the question that need not be repeated: “What’s going on?”
The smiling companion flicked the captain a simple salute and whispered, “Happy birthday, Jéne,” before leaving the room and closing the door silently following his departure.
Jéne E. Ilk picked up his pillow from the floor and sat there on the edge of his bed in disbelief. He was somehow dejected, mainly because his brain was taking up to a minute to reboot. But then, once his sleep-deprived wits managed to piece together the words that had been brought into his room, a soft smile invaded his face and he realised that not everything was beyond reasonable.
“Happy birthday, Jéne,” that man had said.
Well… so be it, Jéne E. thought and lowered himself back onto the softness that was his mattress.
>End of story.
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