It's good to meet old friends, even in the back room of a tavern...
"Magrik!" Fam exclaims in surprise as he brushes the dust off his coat. At the same time, he catches a glimpse of a long, gray hand slipping through the door crack, and suddenly realizes that only what can be touched by one's own hand is real; illusions are not worth pursuing.
"Hey, hey," says Magrik skeptically but with a friendly tone, "Something ominous is brewing under the beautiful sun here, it sends shivers down your spine, but it's a joy to see you guys after a long time." And he extends his scarred arms.
"A draft," says Axir, closing the door with a bang.
They embrace, and Magrik tells how he met Iiloi just at sunrise the previous day. "We didn't talk much."
"Think about it, holy son, ruthlessly murdered," Fam can't get the thought out of his head that his best friend and companion is no more. His soul tightens, and the internal voice is silent in grief, a cramp and emptiness. Axir keeps his eyes on the ground, as if reciting a prayer or mantra, although he knows it won't bring Iiloi back. "Go bury Iiloi as duty commands," says Magrik, but something remains unsaid; his mouth seems glued shut, and the words are stuck in his throat.
BANG-BANG-BANG.
The house trembles, and dust falls from the ceiling. Beer barrels standing in the corner one after another shake ominously.
"Do you hear?" Mrs. Alfons finally opens the door and disappears into the tavern's dining room. The door slams shut, and a refreshing spring evening breeze is felt playing in the storage room. Tonight, they drink, drink abundantly, and fight; when the old devil has been driven out, let it be for all the gold coins. They play dice, just like back then...
Towards morning, two tired shadows stagger along the tiny main street of Downfield. They head to Famrich Puusepp's workshop, rolling a large oak barrel in front of them, dragged from the tavern.
"Think, all of this is created by me here," Fam proudly says as he kicks the workshop door open. Axir gives the barrel a push, and it rolls through the door, stopping with a loud thud against the wall. Now Fam sits on the barrel.
"Ah, darn," he has to get up, then takes a wooden mug from the shelf, and sets himself again with legs apart on the barrel. Friend Axir is sitting on the floor.
"Here, take a sip," he offers the drink to his friend. Axir greedily sips the wine, letting it flow down his chest.
"Phew," sighs the helpless brother and stays in the same slouched position, dozing off; the wine jug falls with a clatter. Drunk Famrich the carpenter picks up the jug from the ground, fills it with foamy wine, drinks. He sobs, mourning not only for his old friend Iiloi but also for the wasted life. A respected carpenter and brave soldier who has lost everything, forced to be a gravedigger in his last distress; he might as well dig a hole for himself and cover it with soil. That's how lonely he feels in the kingdom he has created for himself. Blueflower Valley. He looks at the tools neatly hanging on the wall of the workshop: the planer bench in the middle of the spacious room and the pile of wood from which stairs, window frames, and doors should emerge in the future. That's all that's left for him. A honest worker? He broke a promise once in his life, the one he made to his beloved Fija. But he is weak and stayed here. Even love cannot illuminate that dark otherworld, neutralize the plague. That which takes away all the gold coins and service and brings dark forces to the door. That which makes you lonely and sad. Every day given by the Creator, he longs for his little rascals, although they have probably grown into giants.
He takes a big sip from the jug and then forcefully smashes it against the wall, shards scattering. He covers his eyes with his hands, and painful tears flow from his eyes into his face and into his red-bearded braid. And then he collapses from the barrel to the floor, succumbing to a deep drunken sleep, witnessing the worst nightmares of his life.
