Faebreaker

2.1: Father

Erik was getting to the point where he didn't want to do this anymore.

Lia watched him, waiting for an answer to her request, a look of genuine concern across her face. He felt sad for it, but the weight of over two years of running the place almost solo was starting to bear down on him. The business kicked him like a half dead horse, as though to get him to push the carriage just a bit more before finally dropping dead for good.

"Can you take the counter for a minute? I promise you can head up soon." He hated doing this to her when she looked ready to drop, but it wasn't like he had a choice in the matter.

She smiled. "I'm not just another hand, you know."

"Ah..." Erik shook his head. "It's fine, go to sleep then. I'm sure I'll manage somehow. " He understood how she felt, being on the frontlines. He'd done work cleaning the tables when the family business was, well, still a family business.

She shook her head. "No, I mean...I'd do anything for you."

He cocked a brow.

She flushed red, putting both her hands across her mouth. "I mean—I mean I'll do you any favor—"

Erik chuckled. She was beginning to sound like him at a slightly younger age. "Hey."

At that point, Lia was covering her eyes. She parted two fingers, taking a peek. "Huh?"

"I always liked you too, you know."

Her lips parted, and apparently she decided it would be a good idea to crumple onto the floor. "I'll take the counter," she said, out of sight. "I'll take it anytime."

He almost wanted to say, "I'll take you anytime as well," but thought against it. I wonder if that's too forward...or do girls like that kind of thing? He shook his head, heading to a door behind the counter that led to the tavern's private set of quarters.

Leaving the cacophony of the patronage behind, he trailed up a dark stairwell lit by a sombre lantern waiting for him at the top. The staircase creaked as he stepped up it, and the rain that had merely made a pattering earlier had turned into a torrential storm. If there was any a day or night to be sad on, Erik thought for certain this would be a good one.

Going up the rest of the way, he walked down a short hall before making a sharp right into father's room. Father always preferred that his door be left open a crack, and so Erik inched his way in slowly, making sure not to cause a disturbance beyond the crying of the wooden floor. Father snored, fast asleep, under a heaping pile of blankets mother had sewn together way back before Erik had even been born.

A fading candlelight set atop a dusty old drawer lit father's room, and as Erik stepped in, he went towards an open window that overlooked the rest of the main road. While one couldn't see it in the pitch dark of night, the Westerland capital of Hillford sat far in the distance, carved right onto the face of a mountain with two snowy peaks. At first it'd started out as a small settlement, but outgrew its namesake quickly as time passed and the kingdom of Westerland bore more ambitious heirs.

Erik closed the shutters and locked them, as to not let any ambient light and rain inside.

Going over to father's bedside, he took a seat. He seemed fine tonight, drooling onto his pillow like Erik expected him to. His hair, entirely grayed at the age of fifty, made him look a lot older than he actually was. Erik wondered why his father hadn't had more children. They had all the coin in the world to house and sustain a family, and to have more helping hands would have made this life a lot easier (if not a bit harder for a time before those hands could be put to use). Those seeking work seldom chose to settle permanently into jobs like this, so finding hands that would stay from abroad was next to impossible.