Zeref looked at his own pale, slender hands, as if he didn't recognise the absence of that constant tension, that familiar pain which was his most faithful companion. He took another sip of the tea, a longer one this time, more deliberate, savouring every complex note, every nuance of flavour, like a thirsty man who finds an oasis in the middle of the most arid desert.
[Anomaly recorded: a temporary, yet measurable, decrease in the intensity of the magical signature of the Ankhseram Curse emanating from the individual Zeref is observed. The chemical and aetheric compound of your tea, Azra'il, self-assigned codename 'Dawn of the Forgotten Soul', I presume? It appears to have temporary, statistically improbable suppressive or calming properties in relation to the manifestation of said curse. Fascinating. Almost… illogical, even by this world's standards. We should consider the possibility of a more in-depth study. And perhaps, just perhaps, a discreet interdimensional patent, should the results prove replicable. The commercial potential for 'Azra'il's Tea for Cursed Souls and Difficult Houseguests' would be… considerable. It could fund your acquisitions of rare grimoires for a few aeons,] Eos commented in my mind, her tone laden with a purely scientific enthusiasm, a cold logic that, for the first time, seemed to glimpse a surprisingly mundane profit potential.
I smiled faintly to myself, ignoring my AI companion's sudden commercial interest. A patent, Eos? What a dreadfully mundane, frankly, rather vulgar thought. Some things, my dear, are simply to be… appreciated. And, occasionally, to cause confusion in immortal black wizards with a martyr complex.
The brief interlude of near-peace hung between us, as fragile as a colourful soap bubble floating in a storm, but undeniably present. Two ancient souls, one drowned in an ocean of sorrow and destructive power, the other a cynical observer with secrets deeper than time itself and a particular affection for exotic teas, sharing a cup of tea in the heart of a dangerous island, on the verge of an exam that could change the fate of many.
For a moment, a single, precious moment, the insanity of the world, the impending battles, the ridiculous exams, the ancient curses, and the existential burdens seemed to recede into the background, replaced by the simple, unexpected pleasure of a warm drink and an intriguing conversation.
"I… thank you for the tea," he said at last, his voice still low, but with less of that self-imposed edge of despair that seemed to be his vocal signature. "It was… unexpected. And… pleasant." The last word came out with a hesitation that spoke volumes.
Azra'il merely inclined her head slightly, a small, phantom smile, almost imperceptible, playing on her lips. "The unexpected is, frequently, the only spice that makes this long, tedious existence minimally palatable, don't you think? A dash of chaos in the midst of order, or, in your case, a cup of tranquillity in the midst of… well, all that." I gestured vaguely at his aura. I poured myself a little more of the amber liquid that caught the filtered forest light like a liquid treasure.
"My name is Azra'il Weiss, by the way. Just in case you were wondering who the stranger is who ambushed you with exotic infusions, which require considerable knowledge not to become poisonous, and unnecessarily philosophical comments that are perhaps the least of your problems at the moment."
The man, Zeref, the name Eos had whispered to me, which carried the weight of dark ages, stared at me. For a moment, as my words about 'whatever all that is' hung in the air between us, and the veiled mention of the complexity (and dangerousness, if mishandled) of my infusions settled, a deeper shadow seemed to cross his face. It wasn't just the usual sadness; there was a hesitation there, a renewed assessment.
My comments, though spoken with a faint smile, were not those of a fool unaware of the danger. I had recognised his aura, the 'disorder' around him, and yet I remained, offering tea as if it were a casual antidote to existential problems…
He opened his mouth to speak, perhaps to return the courtesy of my name, perhaps to question me, or even to warn me to move away, but the words seemed to die in his throat, suffocated by centuries of forced isolation and the burden of secrets that could destroy civilisations.
His shoulders, previously tense with a constant vigilance that was almost palpable, slumped a little more, not in defeat, but perhaps from a deep weariness, as if the simple act of naming himself, of exposing himself, were a risk, too heavy a burden to bear before someone who seemed to see through his defences with such disconcerting clarity, and yet, did not flee.
I observed him, Zeref, the Immortal Black Wizard in the flesh, with those blue eyes of mine that, according to some, were too piercing for others' comfort, as if I could read between the lines of the soul, the most well-kept secrets. And perhaps I could. There was no mockery in my gaze at that instant, just a calm, observational quality, almost a patient understanding that surprised even myself. What was the point of mockery when the tragedy was so palpable, so raw?
"Don't trouble yourself with formalities," I said, my voice emerging softer than I intended, almost gentle, a tone I rarely used with strangers, or, frankly, with anyone who wasn't a certain blue cat with an insatiable hunger for fish and a canine loyalty. "Names are just labels, my dear, taciturn acquaintance. Often heavier than they are useful, tags that others put on us to define and imprison us, or that we choose ourselves, like a suit of armour, to hide from the world or from ourselves."
I looked at the flames of my small campfire for an instant, the warmth dancing on my face. "And secrets… ah, well, we all carry our own, don't we? Luggage more or less inconvenient depending on the day, the mood. Some darker, bloodier than an abattoir after hours, filled with ghosts, regrets. Others just more… inconvenient to explain on a particularly bizarre Tuesday afternoon, in the middle of a tropical island rich in ancient magic, apparently, with an insatiable fetish for mental trials, dramatic combats."
I took a small, deliberate sip of my tea, the bitter, sweet taste a welcome distraction, my eyes never leaving his, a spark of silent challenge, perhaps an unexpected understanding. "Your silence about who you are, about the name you bear like a curse or that follows you like a shadow, already tells me more, much more, than any formal, empty name you could offer me now."
Zeref visibly relaxed at my… shall we say, lack of hysterics. His shoulders, previously as taut as lute strings about to snap under the pressure of his own aura, lost some of that excruciating tension, though the intrinsic sadness, that melancholy seeming part of his very essence, a cloak woven from ages of suffering, never completely left him. That would be asking too much, I suppose.
"You are… strangely understanding," he said, his voice still low, but with a faint tone of incredulity, as if he were witnessing a unicorn reciting tragic poetry. "And surprisingly calm. Most people do not react with such… equanimity to my… presence." A small, bitter smile, if one could call it that, touched his pale lips.
"Usually there's more screaming. And desperate running. And, occasionally, an unfortunate, entirely unintentional spontaneous combustion of the local flora. My apologies for your flowers, by the way." He gestured vaguely at the poor plants that had succumbed to his lethal charm.
"'Most people' are dreadfully predictable, my dear man," I replied with a faint shrug, a gesture of elegant disdain I had perfected over many, many interactions with less… interesting beings.
The tea in my cup was still warm, I took a slow sip, assessing him over the rim. "And, frankly, rather noisy, overly dramatic in their reactions. Screaming, running… what a lack of originality. I, on the other hand," and here I allowed a trace of my usual, obsidian-sharp sarcasm to return to my voice, though perhaps without the usual bite; he already seemed sufficiently punished by existence, "have witnessed enough spectacles of power, despair over a considerable time not to be easily impressed by particularly dramatic auras, however… potent they may be, or by the local flora developing a sudden, I must say, entirely understandable, aversion to life in your immediate vicinity."
Could that have been sympathy in my tone? An unexpected compassion for this tormented soul? Unlikely. Very unlikely. Probably just an echo of the profound boredom that the predictability of exaggerated reactions usually inspired in me, mixed, perhaps, with a dash of purely professional curiosity for such a unique specimen of ambulatory, concentrated suffering.
"Tell me, then," I continued, shifting focus to what really mattered (or, at least, to what might alleviate my growing monotony), "nameless traveller with a particularly depressive floral accompaniment, what exactly brings you to this… peculiar refuge, besides ruining my landscaping, giving me an excuse to send my cat on a possibly dangerous fishing mission? Is it the search for fish with a suspicious radioactive glow, like my unfortunate feline companion who, at this very moment, is likely already causing a small-scale ecological disaster in that nearby stream? Or are your motives a little more… profound, considerably less tasty? A melancholic quest for the meaning of life, perhaps, or the lack thereof?" I propped my chin on my hand, my blue eyes fixed on his, awaiting an answer that would hopefully be minimally intriguing.
His dark eyes, which seemed to carry the shadow of all the world's nights, shifted from mine and settled on the stream snaking nearby.
The water flowed, clear, indifferent, a constant stream of life oblivious to our charged conversation, the aura of death that enveloped him, an almost cruel contrast to the visible storm in his soul. He seemed to ponder my question, that suggestion of a more 'profound', less literal quest.
"A quest for meaning… or the lack thereof," he repeated my words, his voice low, almost a sigh, as if the phrase itself held a crushing weight. "Yes. Perhaps that is, indeed, the most fitting way to describe my… perennial condition." A trace of self-mockery tinged his voice, a glimpse of weariness beneath the sorrow.
"I seek… the end. The simple, for me, blessed end of an existence." He paused, the weight of centuries seemed to fall upon his already slumped shoulders, as if each word were a stone removed from a wall he desperately tried to maintain.
"One that has already stretched on for far too long, like a bad, out-of-tune, endlessly repeated song that refuses to find its final, merciful chord. One that has already caused too much pain, too much suffering… for me and, which is infinitely worse, for all those who have had the misfortune to cross my path, feel the icy touch of my curse."
His voice, previously just a soft lament, now carried the raw, desolate confession of a soul deeply tired of fighting, tired of causing pain, simply… tired of existing. And, for an instant, for a brief, uncomfortable instant I made sure to quickly smother, I felt a cold echo of that ancient exhaustion in some forgotten corner of my own, countless lives.
"Ah, the yearning for the final curtain, for the great nothingness, for the sweet, illusory oblivion," I murmured, more to myself than to him, my blue eyes lost in the ethereal dance of the steam rising from my teacup. It was a recurring theme, that. "A timeless classic of tragic literature, a surprisingly popular melody among souls carrying… considerable burdens."
I looked at him, an analytical glint in my gaze. "Usually, such a yearning is accompanied by a history of excessive power, a few lamentable choices echoing through the ages, an accumulation of regrets the size of mountains, or perhaps small continents, depending on the individual's ambition. Am I correct in my general assumption, or are you just a particularly dedicated pessimist with a special talent for melodrama?" My blue eyes, though not accusatory, were certainly not gentle; they seemed to pierce the depths of his dark soul, without the slightest trace of fear or hesitation at what they might find there.
He looked genuinely… surprised, not so much by my slightly disdainful analysis of the burden of prolonged existence, after all, what self-respecting Immortal Black Wizard wouldn't have reached similar conclusions after a few centuries of boredom, despair? But by the way I spoke.
By the complete absence of fear in my voice, by my direct gaze not flinching from his, by the way I seemed to treat his monumental presence, his aura of death as little more than an inconvenient interruption to my tea break.
Surprise, I supposed, was an emotion that rarely had the chance to visit a being so accustomed to inspiring terror or sickly adoration. The familiar resignation was still there, of course, etched into his features like an ancient bas-relief, as was that deep weariness seeming to emanate from his very bones, the visible burden of countless ages. But beneath that, I could detect a spark of… interest? Curiosity? Or perhaps just the perplexity of one encountering a creature refusing to follow the expected script.
"You speak as if you know this burden," he said, his voice low, an echo of ages of suffering. "As if you understand the weight of eternity on shoulders that will never know the rest of death." There was an unasked question there, a curiosity wrestling with his apathy, a glimpse of the analytical mind that, perhaps, still existed under the cloak of despair.
I watched the steam rise from my cup, an ephemeral, delicate dance, like a soul freeing itself from its earthly bonds before vanishing into nothing. It was a good metaphor, I thought distractedly, for many things.
"Let's just say I've danced a few times with something uncomfortably resembling immortality, or at least a longevity far exceeding the patience quota of most beings who call themselves sentient," I replied, my voice deliberately evasive, my eyes still fixed on the steam's dance.
There was no need to go into details about the nature of my more… memorable, frankly, occasionally lamentable 'sojourns' through various corners of creation. He didn't need to know I collected existences as some collect rare stamps, with equally varied results in terms of satisfaction.
"It has its charms at first, I confess." A small, ironic, almost invisible smile touched my lips. "The knowledge accumulating like dust in a forgotten library, waiting for an unlikely reader. The perspective of ages allowing you to see history's repetitive, frankly predictable patterns, like a badly written drama being staged over and over with different actors. The almost divine opportunity to see magnificent empires born from nothing, full of pomp, arrogance, then crumble like sandcastles before the relentless, indifferent tide of time…" I paused, the smile vanishing, replaced by a fleeting shadow I made sure to dismiss.
"But then, inevitably, like an incurable disease slowly spreading through the soul, comes the boredom. The suffocating repetition of cycles, mistakes, the frustrating stubbornness with which beings insist on tripping over the same stones. And the weight of memories, ah, the memories…" I sighed, an almost inaudible sound.
"Of faces you watch grow old, vanish like smoke in the wind, friendships that turn to dust, distant whispers, loves that become painful echoes in the void of the heart, while you… remain. A silent, dreadfully lonely witness to the impermanence of everything, except your own persistent, stubborn, existence." I looked at him then, my blue eyes meeting his, dark, deep as bottomless wells.
"It's a high price, don't you think? A dreadfully lonely price to pay for simply… continuing to exist when everyone else, everything else, is gone, has become history, has become oblivion?"
"An unbearable price," he agreed in a whisper, his voice as fragile as ancient glass, his dark eyes fixing on the ground as if the earth beneath our feet were paved with the ghosts of his past, each one a painful memory.
"An endless cycle of losses, of farewells that tear the soul apart little by little, until nothing is left but an empty echo. The power that should protect…," he paused, and a wave of pure hopelessness emanated from him, "…only serves to destroy. The love that should warm, that should heal the deepest wounds, only serves to kill, to reap the life that dares to draw near." He raised his gaze to me for an instant, the agony in his eyes so palpable that even I, who had witnessed a fair amount of cosmic suffering, felt a slight pang in my chest perhaps out of a certain degree of identification.
"It is a cruel joke of fate, Azra'il Weiss. A joke without humour, without end." The pain of his curse, the one Eos had mentioned, was more than a simple restriction; it was the very definition of his existence, the invisible chain binding him to an eternal torment.
I heard his words, absorbing the depth of his despair with a calm that was part nature (a nature that has seen the end of galaxies as one watches a flower wilt), part a shield of indifference carefully constructed over countless existences to prevent myself from drowning in so much… mortal emotion. A faint sigh escaped my lips, the tea steam mingling with the dense forest air, suspect, a considerable amount of negative energy.
"Power is a tool, nothing more, nothing less, traveller of heavy burdens," I countered softly, my voice taking on that more philosophical, almost professorial tone that sometimes befell me when I encountered a particularly stubborn, dramatically tragic, or simply very, very boring soul.
It was almost as if I were trying to instruct a reluctant, particularly dense student on the fundamentals of the metaphysics of suffering, a subject in which I, unfortunately, was fluent, or perhaps, more likely, just reminding myself of old, painful truths I myself had fought for centuries (literally) to accept, preferably, ignore.
"Think of it as a knife. A knife has no morals. It can be used to slice bread, feed the hungry, or… well, for considerably less palatable things. The problem never lies in the power itself, in the cold, indifferent blade that simply is. But rather in the hand that wields it, be it trembling with fear, firm with purpose, or simply clumsy. In the intention, noble or nefarious, that guides it. And in the heart, or the glaring, often comical absence of one, that commands that hand." I looked at him, trying to find, beneath all that ambulatory tragedy, something beyond the pain in his dark eyes. A remnant of curiosity, perhaps? Or just the wish for me to shut up, let him wilt in peace with the plants?
"Or, of course," I added, because I couldn't resist the opportunity to inject a little of my usual irony into the conversation, after all, what is eternity without a good sense of dark humour to season it?, "in the case of some particularly cruel, ingeniously creative, comically exaggerated curses, as yours seems to be from the dramatic description, the visual effect on the local flora, we can simply blame sheer cosmic irony, the ill-disguised sadism of some bored Gods who wove them for pure, sadistic entertainment, whilst sipping nectar, watching the show."
My blue eyes, which he might previously have seen as mere chips of observant ice, now perhaps held a strange, fleeting spark. It could be a glint of rather perverse amusement, I wouldn't deny it, for there was a certain dark satisfaction in poking at the resignation of such a monumentally tragic being. Or, who knows, a flash of unexpected understanding, born of having seen similar patterns of grandiose suffering repeat in countless, tiresome variations over the ages.
Perhaps it was just the cold curiosity of a scholar before a fascinating paradox, a rare specimen of self-contained misery. Or, let's be honest, perhaps most of it was simply me, Azra'il Weiss, genuinely bored, finding a momentary distraction in others' complexity before my tea grew completely cold. Probably a chaotic mixture of all that.
"You say your power only serves to destroy," I continued, my voice a little lower, more insistent, cutting through his likely spiral of self-pity. "That love only serves to kill. A… singularly pessimistic view, I must say, and I am something of an authority on the matter. A rather monochromatic perspective for a universe that loves to play with all shades of grey. But all destruction, however painful, spectacularly terrible it may be, however much it rips the fabric of reality, leaves scars on the soul that would make a demon weep, does it not, inevitably, even if reluctantly, open a path for a new creation? Does it not clear the ground, even with fire, blood, so that something new, even if different, even if frighteningly fragile, can sprout from the ashes like a particularly stubborn weed?"
I tilted my head slightly, a subtle challenge in my gaze, as if offering an unsolvable riddle to a petulant child. "Or have you become so fixated on your comfortable, familiar dungeon of despair, self-flagellation, with its chains of guilt, walls of lament, that you've completely forgotten that the stars, however distant, cold they may seem, however insignificant they are before the vastness of the oppressive void, can only be truly seen, appreciated in the deep, velvety darkness of night? That it is precisely in the absence of light that they shine brightest?"
Zeref raised his gaze, and for the first time, an emotion other than sadness or despair seemed to cross his face: surprise. A genuine, almost childlike surprise, like someone hearing a completely new melody after centuries of listening only to the echo of their own pain.
The way my words, spoken with a calm bordering on indifference, but with a logic he couldn't simply dismiss, challenged his carefully constructed self-image as a cursed, irredeemable monster, seemed to have shaken him in a way no accusation or fear ever could. He wasn't used to being… dissected with such detachment.
"You…" he began, his voice a little hoarse, as if using long-dormant vocal cords for something beyond silent laments. "You do not condemn me? You do not see me as… as the personification of evil, as the plague the world whispers I am, as all others who have crossed my path, felt the touch of my misfortune?" There was a vulnerability in his question, an almost desperate need to understand why I didn't react with the horror, hatred he so expected, so deserved, in his own, twisted view. It was as if my lack of condemnation were more disconcerting than any hostility.
"Condemn?" I arched a delicate eyebrow, allowing a trace of my usual sarcasm, the one as much a part of me as the colour of my eyes, probably, as old as some of the most stubborn stars, to return with full force. The situation, despite its intrinsic gravity, the aura of 'impending doom' my guest exuded, was beginning to have a certain… theatrical appeal that I, as a connoisseur of good dramas (especially when I wasn't the tragic protagonist trapped in a cycle of self-pity), couldn't completely ignore.
"Why should I, my dear, dark teacup companion? For being a product of particularly unfortunate circumstances, or of some spectacularly tragic choices made in a distant past, I dare say, probably very poorly lit, with a questionable quality soundtrack?" A small, mocking smile, one Eos would classify as 'potentially instigating of intermediate-level conflicts', played on my lips.
"That would be dreadfully, almost hilariously, hypocritical of me, don't you think? Considering my own personal catalogue of questionable decisions, monumental errors in judgement, actions that, in hindsight, would make a hermit saint blush with shame, is… substantial, to say the least." (I didn't need to specify the temporal extent of that catalogue, just its impressive, varied… density.)
"Let's just say I've made a few missteps along the way that would yield tragic ballads for generations, complete with dramatic plot twists, a morally ambiguous ending. Things I'd prefer remain comfortably buried under lock and key, a good layer of selective forgetting charms, perhaps, a small, particularly grumpy guard dragon."
I took a sip of my tea, savouring the complexity of the flavours, the light touch of irony dancing in my own words, a small self-indulgence amidst so much of others' melodrama threatening to spoil my infusion's bouquet.
"Condemnation, my dear friend with a funereal aura, if you'll permit a stylistic observation, a rather dubious taste for travel accessories, I mean, all this darkness is a bit much for this island's tropical climate, don't you think? It lacks a bit of colour, a touch of vivacity, perhaps a floral accessory that's less… wilted." I maintained an innocent smile.
"Is for the self-appointed judges, those who revel in pointing out others' sins while conveniently ignoring the dense forest of their own, lush failings. It's for the hypocrites who cloak themselves in robes of false virtue, reek of moral mothballs, unbearable boredom. And, of course," my smile widened a little more, gaining a sharper edge, "for those particularly irritating, sadly common specimens who stubbornly refuse to learn from their own, glorious stupidity, repeating the same mistakes ad nauseam like a broken record in some fifth-rate tavern, usually playing some dreadfully sentimental song about a lost love, a stolen horse, invariably, the poor quality of the local ale."
My gaze met his, and this time, the analytical coldness he might have perceived before gave way to a more direct challenge, a curiosity not merely academic, but something more… personal, perhaps even a little dangerous.
"What I truly wonder, with a curiosity bordering on the inconvenient, I admit," (and which would probably earn me a series of risk calculations, probability alerts from a certain chattering system if it could verbalise its concerns aloud right now), "is: what do you do with this… pronounced singularity of yours? With this so dramatically heavy burden of yours, let's be fair, so terribly in vogue among individuals of tragic past, a predilection for dark cloaks, melancholic gazes, monologues on universal suffering?"
I paused, letting the question hang in the heavy air between us. "Do you simply surrender to despair like a damsel in distress in a particularly badly written, unoriginal fairytale, waiting for a knight in shining armour or, in your case, perhaps an equally charming Reaper with a sharper sense of humour who will never come to save you because, frankly, the script is dreadful, predictable? Do you wait passively for the universe, in its infinite, frequently questionable wisdom, more likely, in its glorious, chaotic indifference, to have the decency, kindness to erase you once and for all, like a calculation error in a cosmic equation no one remembers how to solve anymore, which, let's be honest, was probably caused by some incompetent minor god with too much free time? Or," and here I tilted my head, my blue eyes fixed on his, intense, inquisitive, perhaps with a spark of that perverse amusement I couldn't, didn't want to, completely suppress when poking existential hornets' nests, "do you seek a purpose, even in the most excruciating pain, even in the deepest, seemingly impenetrable darkness enveloping you like a second skin? Even if that purpose is just not to make things even worse for the rest of us who are still trying to appreciate life's little ironies? Which, believe me, would already be a remarkable achievement worthy of silent applause, considering the track record of some… powerful beings I've had the distinct displeasure of observing over a… rather observant existence."
The silence that followed my little dissertation on the merits of not being a complete existential idiot was… thick. He stood there, Zeref, the supposed terror of the seven seas and surrounding areas, looking less like a harbinger of the apocalypse, more like a student caught off guard by a difficult question in philosophy class.
The only sound was the gentle crackling of my magic fire which, by the way, was keeping the tea at the perfect temperature, credit where credit is due, Eos. And the distant song of some particularly optimistic bird, a cheerful melody deliciously mocking the palpable melancholy of our little gathering.
The air around him, though still laden with that deep sorrow that would make an emo weep with envy, did indeed seem less aggressive. Less… lethally boring. The curse, or whatever that 'doom-and-gloom-and-oh-my-god-what-suffering' aura was, was perhaps momentarily intrigued, even slightly placated by the strangeness of this conversation, my unexpected calm.
Or perhaps he was just so shocked by someone confronting him with something other than screams, adoration, fleeing that he forgot to be actively lethal for a few minutes. A small miracle, either way.
"I have searched for many things over the centuries," he said at last, his voice, though still low, sounding a little stronger, less broken, as if it had found a lost note in its funeral dirge. His dark eyes, however, still seemed to carry the weight of all unread libraries, all lost loves in the universe. "Love. Peace. Oblivion. And, above all, with a devotion bordering on fanaticism, death."
He paused, the way he pronounced the last word, 'death', held a mixture of longing, terror almost… moving. In a clinical way, of course. "And, in my tireless, spectacularly unsuccessful quest, I have found only more suffering, more loneliness, a frankly impressive amount of collateral damage."
"Perhaps you were looking in the wrong places, my tragedy-collecting dear," I suggested, my tone now neutral, almost clinical, like a doctor diagnosing a particularly stubborn, incurable disease, the kind that only yields interesting articles in obscure medical journals. "Or, more likely, with the wrong expectations. Which, I must add for purely statistical purposes, my own internal amusement, is a rather common mistake among sentient beings with a penchant for existential drama, an apparent chronic inability to read the small print on cosmic contracts, those that usually come with a clause about 'eternal suffering, intermittent boredom'." I picked up my cup, the familiar warmth of fine porcelain a small, comforting point of normality in my hands.
"Love, for example," and here, for a fleeting, entirely involuntary instant, the forest around me seemed to recede, the scent of pine, damp earth replaced by the delicate, intoxicating aroma of plum blossoms blooming under snow, the subtle fragrance of fresh ink on rice paper.
My blue eyes, without my command, lost focus on the dark figure before me, travelling somewhere far, far away, to a serene garden lit by paper lanterns gently dancing in the breeze, under a night sky of a world that no longer existed, except in my most stubborn memories.
An echo of a memory emerged, vivid, painful as a fresh cut: long, pale fingers, elegant as a consummate musician's, sliding over the silk strings of an ancient guzheng, plucking a melody at once as ancient as the mountains, as intensely personal as a whispered secret. A song speaking of broken moons, of empires fallen under the weight of their own glory, of immortal warriors tired of their eternal battles, but also, perhaps most importantly, of a stubborn hope, a small flame refusing to be extinguished even in the deepest darkness.
And then, her eyes. I remembered a pair of almost amethyst lilac eyes, deep, luminous as the rarest stones, with lashes that looked like ink brushstrokes. Eyes that stared at me with an intensity that could still make my heart give a painful leap in my chest, a sharp pang of loss, longing, even after so much time, so many ages, so many lives lived since. Anastasia. Her name, a silent sigh in my soul, the echo of an unfinished melody.
A memory that was an old wound, yes, the kind that never fully heals, but also a song still echoing in some forgotten corner of me, strangely… alive, vibrant, painfully real in its absence.
I blinked hard, once, twice, forcing the image to recede, the scent of plum blossoms dissipating on the forest's laden air, the haunting guzheng melody becoming a distant, almost inaudible echo. The present, with its unexpectedly philosophical Black Wizard, its smell of mould, despair, its dreadfully inconvenient island, reasserted itself with the delicacy of a slap in the face.
"Ah, love," I resumed, my voice a little lower, perhaps a little hoarser than before, but with the same carefully constructed facade of detachment. "It is a stubborn, unpredictable, utterly paradoxical creature. A veritable jigsaw puzzle wrapped in an enigma, sprinkled with shimmering glitter, sharp glass shards. The more you desire, fear it, the more you try to dissect it with your cold logic, control it with your rules, expectations, understand it with your limited mind, the more it slips through your fingers like water, or hurts you in unexpected, creatively cruel, frequently ironic ways."
I sighed, a sound almost a restrained, bitter laugh. "It blossoms in the unexpected, my dear, dark acquaintance. In the shared vulnerability both sides stubbornly deny. In the mutual acceptance of glorious imperfections, hilariously human, or inhuman, as the case may be, flaws. Not in the desperate search for an idealised perfection only existing in bad poems, or in the fearful denial of one's own, fragile capacity to feel anything beyond pain, boredom." I shook my head slightly, as if physically warding off the shadow of an uncomfortable memory, the pang of a persistent ghost, or perhaps just an inopportune thought about how spectacularly, repeatedly I myself still stumbled in this particular, treacherous dance.
"You speak of love as if you knew it intimately… yet, at the same time, as if you fear it deeply," Zeref observed, with a perceptiveness that caught me by surprise, coming from someone so immersed in his own, overwhelming misery.
His dark eyes, previously opaque with pain, now held a new, uncomfortable clarity, a focus analysing me with an intensity rivalling my own. For an instant, our gazes met, held, there was a flash of mutual recognition there, something transcending words, the strange, uncomfortable communion of two ancient, deeply wounded souls seeing each other, perhaps for the first time, through the mists of time, pain, innumerable lies we tell ourselves.
A small, ironic, almost sad smile touched my lips. I hated being so… transparent at times. "Let's just say love and I have a… complicated relationship. Tumultuous. And very, very long-standing. An epic saga of meetings, partings, a few literal explosions, many, many broken metaphors."
I paused, staring at the campfire flames. "It is a demanding, capricious, frequently, almost sadistically cruel teacher. Its lessons are usually learned the hard way, with blood, tears, a considerable amount of public humiliation. But," and here a different, softer tone crept into my voice, an echo of something I rarely allowed to surface, "the lessons, when finally learned, when stubbornness finally yields to understanding, are… valuable. Priceless, even. And, usually," I added with a faint shrug, trying to dissipate the seriousness of the moment with a dash of my usual cynicism, "they leave rather interesting scars, make for great stories at particularly dull parties." I looked away, back to the hypnotic dance of the flames, feeling the weight of that brief moment of shared vulnerability.
"But we're digressing from your… obsessive quest for oblivion, aren't we?" I changed the subject abruptly, my voice returning to its more controlled, analytical tone. It was safer that way.
"Tell me, with all the honesty an apparently cursed being with a fixation on his own misfortune can muster, if you truly desire the end with such vehemence, such almost religious passion, why are you still here, on this godforsaken island likely infested with bizarre creatures, at this precise moment? The universe, my dear, dramatic acquaintance, is vast, surprisingly full of creative, efficient, definitive ways to cease existing, if one truly applies oneself with diligence, a little research, perhaps, the help of a good cosmic suicide guide. Some methods are even surprisingly quick, relatively painless, I've heard."
The question hung in the air between us, direct, challenging, stripped of any false compassion, pity he might have expected. Zeref looked at me, for the first time since he had materialised from nowhere to spoil my tea moment, I saw something beyond resigned sadness, beyond ancient pain, in his dark eyes.
I saw a spark. A small, stubborn, almost imperceptible spark of… conflict. Of a doubt. Of a stubborn will that, despite centuries of suffering, despite all losses, all destruction, had not yet been completely extinguished. And that little spark, however insignificant it might seem, was, to me, infinitely more interesting than all his aura of doom.
He opened his mouth to reply, perhaps to confess something, perhaps to deny, perhaps simply to tell me to go to hell (a destination I, frankly, had already visited on more than one occasion, though usually as a tourist, not a permanent resident) with my irritating personality, but the moment, laden with almost palpable tension, was shattered with the delicacy of a meteor crashing into a china shop.
"Azra'il-chaaaannn! Look at the size of this fishyyy!" Happy's shrill voice echoed through the clearing, followed by the sound of something heavy being dragged, the unmistakable smell of fresh fish (probably, a little river sludge).
The tension that had settled between me, the Black Wizard, dissipated like cheap incense smoke in a gale.
I watched, one eyebrow arched, how the curse, the 'doom-and-gloom-and-oh-my-god-what-suffering' aura around Zeref seemed to retract even further, his shoulders slumping a little, perhaps out of sheer shock at the abrupt, spectacularly noisy interruption.
Even Death Incarnate, it seems, could be caught off guard by the arrival of an overly enthusiastic blue cat with a frankly questionable-looking fish. I just sighed, a long, weary sigh that was a complex mixture of resignation to the inevitability of feline interruptions in my life, perhaps a slight, almost imperceptible amusement at the intrinsic absurdity of the situation. The great cosmic tragedy of a cursed immortal interrupted by an improvised snack. So… deathly mundane.
Zeref rose slowly, each movement laden with the weight of centuries of an existence he clearly would rather not have had. His dark eyes, however, were still fixed on me for an instant, the expression in them unreadable, no longer pure agony, but something more complex, perhaps a shadow of that doubt I had tried, with my usual tact of an elephant in a crystal shop, to plant in his weary soul.
"Your words… and your tea…" he said, his voice a little firmer than before, as if the brief moment had given him an unexpected respite. "…were a… surprising interlude. And, I admit with a certain characteristic reluctance of mine, considerably less unpleasant than most of my social encounters. Which, to be fair to my bad reputation, usually end with far less tea, lamentably, with a significantly higher number of… unintentional casualties."
A fleeting glint of something that might have been dark humour, or just another layer of his resigned despair, crossed his eyes. "But the path I tread, Azra'il Weiss," he pronounced my name with a strange formality, as if it were a spell he was testing, "is fundamentally a lonely one. And your presence, however… intriguing it may be," he chose the word carefully, as if it were a fragile, potentially dangerous object he didn't know how to handle, "only complicates what is already, by nature, unbearably complex, preferably avoided."
"Complications are the spice of existence, my dear, dark acquaintance," I replied, rising as well, my movements deliberately fluid, graceful, a contrast to his heavy, laden stillness. An enigmatic glint appeared in my blue eyes. "They remind us that we are still, for better or worse, painfully alive, capable of feeling something beyond boredom, even when we would rather, perhaps, be dedicated to a less… exciting pastime, like counting the grains of sand on a deserted beach, or organising a particularly chaotic library."
A slight pause, my tone softened a little, acknowledging the bitter truth in his words, as much as I enjoyed playing the pub philosopher with a captive audience of one, especially one so interesting. "But, yes, I understand. Some dances are lonelier than others. Especially those with such demanding, possessive partners as Fate itself, or the implacable Lady Death. They tend not to like sharing the floor, with their cold steps, their unalterable rhythm, that final embrace which, one hopes, is at least minimally elegant, punctual."
I paused, observing him intently. That flicker of conflict I'd seen before in his eyes, that tiny seed of doubt my words had perhaps planted on arid ground, was still there, fighting against the overwhelming tide of his secular resignation. And I couldn't, simply couldn't, resist one last, little poke, one last taunt before he faded back into his comfortable shadows. It was almost a professional duty, as a scholar of existential anomalies.
"But tell me, traveller of shadows, before you return to your long, arduous journey in search of oblivion, that tireless quest of yours for a non-existence that seems as elusive as an honest politician, a happy ending in one of my curse books… have you ever considered that perhaps what you truly long for is not the absolute end, the cold, empty annihilation that seems so poetically tragic? But rather, perhaps, a different way of being? A different melody for your weary, out-of-tune soul? That the real prison chaining you so tightly, suffocating you with such weight, is not just your external curse, however terrible, inconvenient it may be for the local landscaping, but the comfortable, almost addictive resignation you've meticulously built within your own soul, brick by brick of despair, self-pity?"
The question hung in the air between us, sharp, uncomfortable as a cold blade against the skin, breaking the silence that had settled. Zeref stared at me, for an instant, for a single, fleeting instant that seemed to stretch for an eternity, I saw through the mask of millennial sorrow he wore with such familiarity.
I saw an almost childlike vulnerability in his dark eyes, a glimpse of a lost, desperate soul frantically searching for an answer, an exit, a light that I, with all my accumulated wisdom from countless lives, my vast experience in others' misfortunes, knew I could not give him. Not there. Not like that.
It was a journey he would have to walk alone. But then, like storm clouds swiftly closing over a fragile, lonely moon, the mask of resigned sadness returned, more impenetrable than ever, his eyes becoming pools of ancient darkness once more.
He turned to leave, the movement slow, almost like an old man bidding farewell to the last, weak ray of sun before the long night. But something in me, perhaps that same inconvenient curiosity so often getting me into interesting trouble, or perhaps a distant echo of some life where I had learned, the hard way, the value of a small gesture of unexpected… humanity, compelled me to call out softly, my voice breaking the stillness that had set in. "Wait."
From a small, almost invisible pocket in my robe, the one I used for keeping small artefacts, more often, samples of particularly promising teas, I withdrew a tiny dark silk pouch, almost black as a starless night, tied with a delicate silver thread that gleamed faintly in the forest's filtered light. "Take this."
Zeref stopped, turning just enough to look at the small object in my outstretched hand with palpable suspicion, his eyes narrowing as if I were offering him poison or, worse still, hope, that treacherous drug.
"It's just a few leaves of the tea you tasted," I explained, my tone surprisingly devoid of sarcasm, almost… gentle. A rarity that would probably make Eos run diagnostics on my emotional circuits. "For the moments when the boredom of eternity becomes particularly… oppressive. Or when you simply need a brief break from your own, constant misfortune, a small detour on your dark journey towards nothingness. A subtle reminder that not everything has to be bitter, that even in the deepest darkness, unexpected flavours, moments of quiet can still exist."
He hesitated, his dark eyes fixed on the small pouch, then on my face, as if searching for some hidden trick, some subtle trap in my words, my gesture.
Then, with a slowness that seemed to carry the weight of all his centuries of loneliness, he extended his pale, thin hand. I watched as he took the silk pouch from my open palm, his fingers moving with deliberate precision to avoid any touch, however light.
Even so, I could feel the cold emanating from him, a gust of frigid air seeming to carry an unexpected weight, a current of pure, concentrated sadness, power, a loneliness echoing my own in ways I preferred not to analyse too deeply at that moment.
"Why?" he asked, his voice a little hoarse, the question not just about the tea, but everything. My calm. My words. My strange, unexpected… kindness? Or perhaps just my peculiar form of entertainment.
I gave a small, sad, wise smile, a smile containing echoes of a thousand autumns, the melancholy of dying stars I had seen extinguish.
"Because even the longest, darkest nights, my dear, tragic acquaintance, eventually give way to dawn, however long it takes, however eternal the night's chill may seem, the darkness unbearable. And because, frankly, nameless traveller of uncertain destiny, it would be a colossal waste of narrative potential, of such a dramatically tragic story, with all the ingredients for a cosmic opera of epic proportions that would make the gods weep, if you simply faded out without at least trying to find a different melody for your sad song. Consider this… a little encouragement from a fellow appreciator of good (and preferably less repetitive, self-indulgent) stories."
I turned back to my kettle, watching the steam rise in lazy spirals that unravelled in the air like secrets whispered to the wind, tacitly ending the conversation, leaving him with the small gift, words I hoped might echo in his mind for many, many centuries. Or, at least, until he decided to try the tea, perhaps, just perhaps, remember there were other flavours in the universe besides the bitterness of his own existence.
Without another word, Zeref merged with the forest shadows, disappearing as silently, as suddenly as he had appeared, as if he had never been there, leaving behind only the faint smell of ancient dust, sadness, now, the light, persistent aroma of my rare herbs.
I stood there for a moment, looking at the spot where he had been, the expression on my face likely indecipherable even to myself, lost in my own thoughts, echoes of past lives. The small, ironic smile was gone, replaced by a shadow of melancholy that, dangerously, mirrored his. Encounters like that were… exhausting. And reminded me of things I preferred to keep locked in the depths of my being, in compartments sealed with magic, indifference.
[Interaction analysis complete. Probability of individual Zeref reconsidering his current existential state due to your tea, your highly questionable pub philosophy: Increased from 0.0034% to a surprising, statistically anomalous 0.0037%. A remarkable breakthrough, Azra'il, considering the base material, your usual lack of social tact. Probability of him becoming even more confused, melancholic about his own existence, pondering dawns, sad songs: Rose to a robust 92.3%. And the probability of him developing a worrying taste for exotic teas, possibly, beginning to subtly stalk you for more recipes, philosophical conversations making him question the universe in even more uncomfortable ways: alarmingly increasing, frankly, a little unsettling for my security protocols.]
Eos commented in my mind, her metallic voice breaking the silence with her usual, irritating statistical precision, a touch of concern almost… human. [And, for the record, just so you don't forget immediate priorities, the fish the Exceed specimen has just triumphantly dragged into the clearing, with the air of a victorious hunter, appears to, indeed, have worrying luminescent properties, an anomalous number of ocular appendages defying known laws of biology, possibly, those of good taste. I suggest extreme caution when considering its culinary properties. Or, alternatively, we could dissect it for scientific purposes. It would be considerably more productive, less risky for your digestive system.]
I sighed, the weight of the world (or at least, of a particularly exhausting encounter with a cursed immortal, the grim prospects of a radioactive, possibly mutagenic dinner) seeming to settle heavily on my shoulders.
I rubbed my temples with my fingertips. "Ah, Eos," I murmured, my voice a little more tired than I'd care to admit. "Sometimes, I really hate being right about the intrinsic stupidity of the universe, the persistent tendency of its most powerful inhabitants to be so spectacularly, predictably tragic. And, definitively," I added, with a new, unshakeable resolve, "I'm going to need more tea after this. Much more tea." And perhaps some biscuits. Definitely, some biscuits. And a long nap, preferably in a dimension where immortal black wizards didn't tend to pop up to interrupt teatime, give me more material for my reflections on the futility of existence. Was that too much to ask? Probably.
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AUTHOR'S NOTE
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Would you like a therapy session with our ancestral soul Azra'il? I warn you that you may leave the session more traumatize. But you will experience the best tea 🍵