The silence in the shop after Finnian's latest tutorial in catastrophic literalism was profound, yet unsatisfying. It wasn't the peaceful silence of desired solitude; it was the tense silence after averting one minor disaster, while keenly aware that several larger, more complex disasters were likely queuing up just outside the door.
Gnome-things playing with energy fields. Glowing shovels achieving religious significance. Perceptive blacksmiths conducting subtle paranormal investigations. Enthusiastic apprentices charting moss with potentially infinite dedication. Fabricating storytellers turning everyday annoyance into heroic myth. And an entire village eagerly misinterpreting my every grunt, sigh, and reluctant repair job as profound mystical guidance.
My retirement plan hadn't just failed; it had achieved escape velocity from reality altogether, soaring into the stratosphere of pure, unadulterated farce.
And through it all, the most pressing, most immediate, most fundamentally insulting problem remained: I was out of tea. Proper tea. The extortionately priced, likely stale, but undeniably caffeinated Dragon's Leaf.
The three silver pieces and assorted coppers felt heavy in my pocket. Ill-gotten gains, skimmed from the chaotic foam of local probability. It was demeaning. Like a god reduced to picking pockets. But needs must. Survival – or at least, the ability to tolerate survival on Aerthos – demanded caffeine. My internal reserves of cosmic indifference were running dangerously low without it.
Operation Dragon's Leaf Procurement (Mark II) was go. Time to brave the Oakhaven ecosystem once more.
I checked the door peephole (a knothole I'd subtly widened). Dawn was breaking properly now. Thin, watery sunlight illuminated the dust motes performing their morning aerobics outside. The village was stirring. Fewer shadows for gnome-things to lurk in, at least. Small comfort.
Strategy: Direct route to the General Goods stall. Head down. Avoid eye contact. Minimize atmospheric interaction. Exchange currency for dusty leaves. Retreat. Maximum efficiency. Minimal engagement. It could work. Theoretically. If a rogue turnip cart didn't intercept me, or if Gregor wasn't already performing a sunrise ode to my alleged battle prowess.
Pocketing the coins, I took what I hoped was a final fortifying breath of stale shop air (it tasted faintly of existential dread and possibly mildew) and opened the door.
The air outside was… crisp. Almost pleasant, if you ignored the lingering smell of woodsmoke and underlying hint of dubious sanitation. A few villagers were already out, fetching water, tending to livestock (hopefully not sourcing bruised apples). They glanced my way. Some nodded respectfully. Some averted their eyes nervously. A few just stared, mouths slightly agape, as if expecting me to spontaneously levitate or turn a nearby chicken into a teapot. Gregor's influence was already palpable. Annoying.
I focused on my destination. The stall run by the perpetually harried merchant of everything. Walked briskly. Ignored a child pointing excitedly ("Look, Mum! It's the Guardian!"). Ignored a hopeful wave from Councilor Willowbrook (still likely pondering turnip essence). Ignored the faint, mournful twang of the eternally tortured lute starting its daily lament.
Almost there. The stall was open, the merchant already arranging sacks of indeterminate grain with an air of profound weariness. Victory seemed possible.
Then, he saw me approach. His eyes widened slightly. He straightened up. A complex expression flickered across his face – a mixture of avarice, fear, and grudging respect. Like encountering a potentially rabid badger that might also know the secret location of buried treasure.
"Ah! Guardian Bob!" he greeted, his voice a half-octave higher than usual. He wiped his hands nervously on his apron. "Early start for… uh… guarding things?"
"Tea," I stated flatly, cutting through the inevitable preamble. Show me the leaves. Take my ill-gotten silver. Let me leave.
The merchant blinked. "Ah! Yes! Tea! The… uh… Dragon's Leaf?" He fumbled under the counter. Produced the familiar, small, dusty pouch. Held it almost reverently. "Finest brew this side of the Whispering Woods! Full of… dragon-y goodness! Vitality! Vigour!" He was channeling Gregor now. Wonderful.
"Heard you… uh… calmed the spirits down the cellar last night," the merchant continued, lowering his voice conspiratorially while holding the tea hostage. "Impressive stuff. Very… quiet. Gregor says you commanded the very resonance of the earth!"
I just stared at him. Let my silence convey the profound depths of my unimpressed lack of commentary.
He swallowed nervously. "Right. Tea." He placed the pouch on the counter. "That'll be… seven silver pieces, Guardian."
Seven? It was five yesterday! Had Gregor's heroic inflation extended to commodity pricing? Or was this just blatant opportunism?
"It was five yesterday," I pointed out, my voice dangerously flat. I could manipulate probability, yes. But generating two more silver pieces on the spot, unnoticed, felt like pushing my luck and potentially destabilizing local causality just for tea. There were limits. Even for caffeine.
The merchant winced. "Ah, well, yes. Demand, you see! Supply! And… and the quality, Guardian! This batch… it felt particularly potent after… after you know… last night's… calming. Seems to have absorbed some of the… ambient potency?" He smiled weakly, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple. He was inventing magical justifications for price gouging on the fly.
This was intolerable. Exploiting fabricated heroism to inflate the price of stale tea leaves? The sheer, naked gall.
I placed the three silver and handful of copper I possessed onto the counter. Five silver's worth. Maybe slightly less, depending on local exchange rates for dented copper. Then I fixed him with a stare. Not the mythical 'steely glare' of Gregor's tales. Just a flat, cold, utterly empty stare. The kind that hinted at infinite boredom stretching across cosmic voids. The kind that suggested I could unravel his constituent atoms and barely register the effort.
The merchant's weak smile froze. His eyes darted from the coins to my face and back again. The bead of sweat became two. He swallowed again, audibly this time.
"Ah," he stammered. "Right. Five silver. Yes. A special… Guardian discount! Of course! My mistake!" He hastily scooped up the coins, practically flinging the pouch of tea towards me in his eagerness to conclude the transaction. "Always happy to serve Oakhaven's protector! Pleasure doing business!"
I snatched the pouch before it could fall onto the dusty ground. Turned without a word. Walked away. The merchant's relieved sigh was audible even over the background noise.
Success. Operation Dragon's Leaf (Mark II) complete. Achieved through a combination of dubious probability manipulation and sheer, unadulterated intimidating boredom. A new low. And a new high, potentially, as I now possessed actual tea leaves.
Back in the shop, the door bolted firmly behind me, I practically ran through the tea-making ritual. Stove. Kettle. Slightly questionable bucket water. The precious, dusty leaves spooned carefully into the mug. The pouring of actually hot water. The blooming colour – still pale amber, still faintly disappointing, but real.
The aroma filled the air, weak but present. Dust. Old leaves. And the faint, beautiful promise of caffeine.
I took the first sip. Held it. Savoured it.
Adequacy. Beautiful, soul-soothing, barely-passable adequacy. It wasn't ambrosia. It wouldn't win awards in dimensions with actual taste buds. But it was tea. Hot. Caffeinated. Mine. Earned through metaphysical petty theft and psychological intimidation. Truly, the nectar of the gods. Or at least, the marginally acceptable beverage of a profoundly grumpy retired cosmic entity.
This moment. This fragile moment of near-contentment. This was what retirement was supposed to be about. Quiet contemplation. Simple pleasures. Ignoring the universe.
Knock. Knock.
The moment shattered. Irrevocably.
Not a loud knock. Not a panicked knock. A polite, almost timid knock.
I closed my eyes. Took another sip of tea, trying to absorb its meager fortification before facing whatever fresh absurdity waited outside.
Who now? Not Grumbleson, too timid. Not Elara, too enthusiastic. Not Borin, too direct. Not Hemlock, wrong time of day for agricultural angst. Not Finnian, hopefully learned his lesson (temporarily).
I opened the door a crack.
A small, elderly woman stood there. Wrinkled face. Kind eyes. Clutching a small, lumpy bundle wrapped in cloth. Someone I vaguely recognised from the market or the festival meeting. Maybe Councilor Willowbrook's chronically confused wife?
"Guardian Bob?" she asked softly, her voice thin and reedy.
I braced myself. What did she want? A blessing? A ward against mildew? Interpretation of a dream involving turnips?
"We... the ladies of the Village Sewing Circle... we made you something," she said, holding out the bundle shyly. "As thanks. For... you know." She gestured vaguely, encompassing glowing shovels, silenced cellars, pacified signs, metaphorical bridges, everything. "Protecting us."
She unwrapped the bundle. Inside was… a cushion. A small, round cushion, crudely stitched from what looked like recycled flour sacks. Embroidered on top, in uneven, brightly coloured thread, was a picture. It took me a moment to decipher it.
It was meant to be me. Standing heroically. Possibly sighing profound wisdom, or glaring steelily. In one hand, I held a wobbly hammer, radiating golden light. In the other, a single, equally radiant daisy. Behind me, a schematic-looking bridge stood firm, and a stylized compost heap emitted respectful-looking steam clouds.
It was the single most horrifyingly inaccurate, yet strangely touching, piece of folk art I had ever encountered across countless realities.
"It's for your stool, Guardian," the woman explained softly. "For comfortable... guarding."
My stool. The one that had collapsed. The one I hadn't bothered replacing properly. They'd made me a cushion. Embroidered with my fabricated legend. For comfortable contemplation upon my failed furniture.
The absurdity. The kindness. The sheer, overwhelming wrongness of it all crashed down on me.
I took the cushion. Murmured something that might have been "Thanks." Closed the door.
Stood there, holding the lumpy, atrociously embroidered cushion of lies. My moment of tea-fueled adequacy had been utterly annihilated by an act of simple, misguided, craft-based gratitude.
I looked at the cushion. Looked at my empty mug.
This dimension wasn't just trying to annoy me. It was trying to kill me. With kindness. And terrible needlepoint.
The tea tasted bitter now.