It had been a long time since Zaire Glaive had been back home. Vel Ehn wasn’t close to the Academy whatsoever, and he knew it had been both his mother and father that had pulled all the strings they had to get their son back home, if only for a few days to participate in the Olive Festival.
The olive groves that took up more space than the people did were no longer heavy with their bitter fruit. Many trees still held plenty of the little green olives on their branches, which Zaire understood that they would be used to make the famous Glaive olive oils to be bottled up and sold all over. But for a good chunk of the olive trees, a month or so ago they had been stripped of their bounty during the night. Since that harvesting month, they had been cured with enough salt to compete with a ocean.
Zaire found himself licking his lower lip in anticipation. But the excitement fell flat.
Last night had been awful. And despite him being in the kitchen and shoving roasted garlic into the gaping hole of large green olives, his mother wasn’t saying anything to him.
She had served him breakfast— she made savory scrambled eggs like no other— told him his duties before the Olive Festival was in full swing, and then had busied herself within her work. It left Zaire with nothing to do but to think back to last night.
He had just come back into his room from his bath— a hot bath, not the cold baths with a horse-brush like at the Academy unless you knew how to work the system— and found his mother going through his belongings. Or rather, she had just finished going through him. In his defense, Zaire had thought it was a bit silly to be bringing his stash of “goods” to his family home. It’s not like his home was the Academy, it’s not like he needed to escape.
Or he shouldn’t have felt that need. But he did. Dakarai was gone. Still missing. And it was late at night that the other voice in his head got to work. He didn’t want to be moody but neither did he want to feel overwhelmed. But he couldn’t tell his mother that, even as she held up all four pouches. One had pills, other had herb, another had mushrooms, and the final one had a vial with pale blue powder— something he had picked up in Dornoch and only used for when he had to be in big group settings.
The conversation had ended with Maia Glaive slapping Zaire across the face before storming out the room. She had the four pouches, but she hadn’t looked through everything. Zaire had brought a fifth pouch, and that night, with his door shut, he got so high that he swore he could hear the moons talking to him. They told him about the olives, about the harvest, and most importantly, about how they really wanted to eat some grapes and dip bread into oil.
Zaire looked over to the other initiate that had been forced to tag along with him. It was the only way that Zaire could come, and perhaps if things were different, he’d have been sitting next to Dakarai instead of his classmate. He wondered if they had heard the fighting, considering they were given the guest room which wasn’t far from his room.
“Sorry this is so lame.” Zaire said, not having said much on the trip but really not having said much this morning. He actually felt rather guilty about it now. If it was Dakarai instead of him he could imagine the kitchen humming vibrantly with joy and fun and laughter. But somehow, he seemed to bring down the whole atmosphere in this kitchen, even the other works seemed to be just as glum as he was.
The olive groves that took up more space than the people did were no longer heavy with their bitter fruit. Many trees still held plenty of the little green olives on their branches, which Zaire understood that they would be used to make the famous Glaive olive oils to be bottled up and sold all over. But for a good chunk of the olive trees, a month or so ago they had been stripped of their bounty during the night. Since that harvesting month, they had been cured with enough salt to compete with a ocean.
Zaire found himself licking his lower lip in anticipation. But the excitement fell flat.
Last night had been awful. And despite him being in the kitchen and shoving roasted garlic into the gaping hole of large green olives, his mother wasn’t saying anything to him.
She had served him breakfast— she made savory scrambled eggs like no other— told him his duties before the Olive Festival was in full swing, and then had busied herself within her work. It left Zaire with nothing to do but to think back to last night.
He had just come back into his room from his bath— a hot bath, not the cold baths with a horse-brush like at the Academy unless you knew how to work the system— and found his mother going through his belongings. Or rather, she had just finished going through him. In his defense, Zaire had thought it was a bit silly to be bringing his stash of “goods” to his family home. It’s not like his home was the Academy, it’s not like he needed to escape.
Or he shouldn’t have felt that need. But he did. Dakarai was gone. Still missing. And it was late at night that the other voice in his head got to work. He didn’t want to be moody but neither did he want to feel overwhelmed. But he couldn’t tell his mother that, even as she held up all four pouches. One had pills, other had herb, another had mushrooms, and the final one had a vial with pale blue powder— something he had picked up in Dornoch and only used for when he had to be in big group settings.
What is this? What are you doing? Why are you going through my stuff? Zaire Liuni Glaive, answer me, now. Why are you sneaking in my room to go through my shit? Watch your mouth with me. You may be an initiate but I am still your mother! Whatever. Whatever? Zaire, this is serious. You’re ruining your life with this, you know addiction runs in our family, what do you think you’re doing? It’s just whatever! Everyone has their vice over there, drinking or using… I could get off while killing people. Zaire, language. I’m not talking about the other initiates, I’m talking about you. You need all of this? You come home and you think you need to bring all of this? What does that say about you? You’re dependent on this stuff! I’m not! I can stop whenever I want to! Is this because Dakarai is gone? Is this how you’re coping? I’m not coping! Then why are you doing this to yourself, to your future? Don’t you care what this is going to do to you? Why should I care? I’ll be dead before I’m twenty at this rate! If you keep using drugs and you will be! You’re a Glaive, you’re better than this, but if you keep using drugs then you’ll just end up as some… some loser! I’m already a loser! You’re not— Yes I am! I bet you’re thinking how Dakarai would never use drugs, and how much it sucks that he’s gone and now you’re stuck with the loser! The weaker twin, the loser twin, the short-ass twin, the twin with shit magic and shit smarts and shit everything! Zaire, I’m not saying you’re a loser. What I’m saying is— That you wish Dakarai was here and I was the one to be dead. Dakarai is missing, he’s not dead. Yeah, whatever, mom. If that’s what you think than you’re even stupider than me.
The conversation had ended with Maia Glaive slapping Zaire across the face before storming out the room. She had the four pouches, but she hadn’t looked through everything. Zaire had brought a fifth pouch, and that night, with his door shut, he got so high that he swore he could hear the moons talking to him. They told him about the olives, about the harvest, and most importantly, about how they really wanted to eat some grapes and dip bread into oil.
Zaire looked over to the other initiate that had been forced to tag along with him. It was the only way that Zaire could come, and perhaps if things were different, he’d have been sitting next to Dakarai instead of his classmate. He wondered if they had heard the fighting, considering they were given the guest room which wasn’t far from his room.
“Sorry this is so lame.” Zaire said, not having said much on the trip but really not having said much this morning. He actually felt rather guilty about it now. If it was Dakarai instead of him he could imagine the kitchen humming vibrantly with joy and fun and laughter. But somehow, he seemed to bring down the whole atmosphere in this kitchen, even the other works seemed to be just as glum as he was.
