In the tavern, Ed Tonor couldn't contain his astonishment.
"You… knew how to read at just three years old?" he asked. His drunk expression was a comical grimace of utter disbelief. His eyes were so wide they looked like they might pop out. "Because you haven't told me if you had another tutor! Was there someone else living with you? A teacher? Anyone?"
Samael took some grapes from the plate he had ordered and popped them into his mouth. He chewed calmly, savoring the fruit's sweetness, before responding.
"No. I didn't have another tutor. It was my grandfather who taught me the letters, the sounds," he clarified, his voice neutral, as if talking about the weather. "But it's not like I could understand all the content of a book like that at three years old. That would be… ridiculous."
He paused. His eyes drifted into the memory of the book's weight in his hands, the smell of old paper, the texture of the pages under his fingers.
"There were many words I didn't know. Concepts that completely eluded me. But I could spend hours… looking at the letters, tracing the lines with my finger, trying to decipher the world through those pages. The drawings helped me. And my grandfather was there, for when a word got stuck in my throat."
"Incredible," Ed murmured.
His voice was low, almost a whisper of respect. His eyes, glassy from alcohol, now held the spark of a child listening to a fairy tale. But there was a fundamental difference, and Ed, in some sober corner of his drunken mind, knew it.
What Samael was telling him wasn't a fairy tale.
It had no princesses kissing frogs. It had no benevolent dragons giving away treasures. It had no guaranteed happy endings.
It had blood. It had sweat. It had a scorching sun that punished mercilessly. It had the overwhelming weight of knowledge, of expectations, of responsibility. It had the lengthening shadow of a grandfather whose very gaze contained universes of experience.
And, though Ed didn't know it yet, it also had a relentless countdown. A silent ticking that Samael carried etched into his soul.
Outside, the night was deep. The moon, a thin silver blade, had risen over the city. The gas lamps and magical bulbs still illuminated the cobblestone streets. A tram passed in the distance, its bell announcing its presence.
But in the corner of that tavern, at that table worn by years of use, the light of Samael's childhood—an extraordinary and terrible childhood—was just beginning to shine for Ed.
And it cast shadows.
Shadows that promised to be longer and darker than Ed, in his state of drunkenness and wonder, could even imagine.
---
"What content was inside that bound book?" Ed Tonor asked, leaning over the table as if he were about to fall into the story. His elbows hit the wood with a small thump, and the empty beer jug trembled slightly.
The question caught him off guard, though he had expected it. He had already commented on some things that seemed nonsensical. Something that, far from being annoying—well, for some it would be—was very good. Because Samael realized that Mr. Ed truly, genuinely, enjoyed the story he was telling. It wasn't drunken politeness. It was genuine interest.
"Well…" Samael paused deliberately, letting tension build in the already thick tavern air. Like when you know a truth but pretend you don't, so that when the moment comes, it lands with more impact. Like when his grandfather taught him that a revelation with poor timing is a wasted revelation.
"Well… well!" Ed repeated, tapping the table softly with his palm—thump, thump—unable to contain his intrigue. His face, once gloomy and defeated, now held the expression of a child on Christmas morning. "Are you only going to say that?" he protested, his complaint sounding ridiculously childish for a man his age and build. Mid-twenties, the physique of a manual worker, and there he was, like an impatient kid when his favorite hero was about to take the stage.
"It contained, within it, about beasts…" Samael began.
Another strategic pause. The same tactic his grandfather used against him during lessons, when he wanted Samael to think before asking. Now he was exacting it on someone else. On a drunken man, yes, but also on a man who was listening with an attention few had ever given him.
Ed didn't let him finish calibrating his thoughts.
"Hey, are you trying to kill me with suspense, huh?!" he interrupted, pouring more liquor into his empty glass with hands that trembled slightly. Now not just from alcohol, but from anticipation. After so many impromptu pauses, it was like when a predator toys with its prey. Simply exhausting. And exciting.
Truly, this man's character doesn't match the first impression he gives, Samael thought mentally, while holding the pauses with the patience of a fisherman. He's like those people you can lean on, even if they can't be of much use with your problems. He has that presence that doesn't intimidate, but…
He searched carefully for the words before saying them.
But makes you feel safe, even though you should actually be terrified. Although, I also think he's a bit naive, in my opinion.
"Stop interrupting me already… Mr. Ed," Samael said, putting an ironic emphasis on the courtesy title. His tone was that of an older brother, patient but firm, scolding the younger for his lack of composure. "Well, let's continue," he concluded.
And for a fleeting instant, a faint flash of something resembling amusement crossed his dark eyes.
He paused again, more briefly this time, and a shadow of sadness—or perhaps just fatigue—clouded his expression.
"I thought this would be worse," he murmured, almost to himself, "but I am…" he hesitated, searching for the word, "…enjoying myself a bit. Reviewing these events. Remembering these times."
But even if that's so, it might only be because it's just the… beginning of the story. Because when I get to certain parts, maybe even he won't want to keep listening.
Then, his voice cleared, taking on a definitive narrative tone.
"They were mythical beasts, legendary," he declared at last, and the words fell into the air like precious and dangerous stones. Like jewels that weigh more than they seem.
Ed swallowed. The sound was audible in their isolated corner of the tavern.
"My… mythical? Le… legendary?" he repeated, as if the full meaning of the words couldn't immediately fit into his mind. As if his brain, accustomed to mundane worries like debts and women who leave, didn't have enough space for concepts so immense.
Curiosity, which had been a simple entertainment to pass the night, transformed into something deeper. A fascination that quickened his heart and dried his mouth.
"Yes, mythical," Samael confirmed with a simplicity that made the statement even more grandiose. "So, let's continue with the story," he added, closing the topic like a sealed pact.
---
It was then that both of them realized something.