Eric was unhappy.
Not irritated, which was common enough, or angry, but unhappy. Sad, in a 'needing a drink' and a 'wanting a fight' way, but not quite yet in a 'doing murder on the next superior who gives a stupid order' way. In the forgotten days of peace, Alan would have opened Eric's Death Book and figured out the problem. In these current days of horror, when the Books had been replaced by near-endless Lists which were turned over to the record-keepers of Admin upon completion, such research was no longer possible.
While it might have been individual cases— a poet or musician forever silenced; or a string of young men who had coaxed their sweethearts into farewell indiscretions, leaving them to rear illegitimate children in a society which would not ever forgive their choices— it was also possible that it was just the overwhelming numbers of shot and shattered dead.
Sadness was a common state of Reapers. Eric put it away, as an exemplary Reaper must, and presented himself to Alan as contented and at ease. He was not sleeping well, however, and seemed distracted. Sadness leaked through their bond.
Alan offered understanding, support and distraction. Sometimes it was not enough. Alan understood that Eric was going to erupt in a bender and a brawl soon. Hopefully they could keep it quiet. Eric was a quick-tempered drunk but usually not a mean one.
But Alan could not just take him out for a binge. Eric needed a companion to drink with, not a minder who stayed sober to get him home. Seven inches and five stone made a huge difference in their tolerances. Alan got sleepy before Eric loosened up. By the time Eric got reckless enough to talk, Alan was usually out cold; Eric would throw Alan over his shoulder and take him home. Moreover, Alan hated losing control.
The answer to that dilemma was simple enough. He'd enlist a guardian angel. Eric had a friend in the London Garrison, his equal in rank, age and capacity.
Alan asked Color-Sergeant Bourne to meet Eric at the Scythe and Skull on Thursday night. Alan would be on duty, managing a number of discussions and introductions. Eric and Frank usually shared drinks and stories there while Alan gathered information. Bourne's assignment was to get Eric well soused and talking.
"I'm a hopeless lightweight, Frank, and there is something bothering him badly. A whiskey lullabye won't do it. He needs companionable drinking over a few hours. If you can get him to unload while keeping him to ale, it will help enormously. After that I'll be able to help him recover."
Bourne understood and agreed. "I'll let him take me on a good old-fashioned pub crawl. To be honest, I can use one. If I can, I'll keep him out of trouble. May not be able to, of course, but I'll try."
"Thanks. If I let him out on a solitary prowl, Spears will know and come shouting when the fight starts. Eric will turn on him and clean his clock. You're saving lives here. Just call me when the fun begins. Spears will see that I'm joining him and let me deal with it."
Thursday Night at the Scythe and Skull was traditionally a social event where Reapers and Angels traded news and views. Alan attended every week to learn, listen and suggest. Occasionally he was able to solve or prevent problems as a result. Currently he was collecting opinions on demon behavior for a report he was writing for Will.
"Hey, Alan. Happy Thursday. Where's Eric?" asked Ronald Knox, coming in after a half-shift of management classes and looking for amusement.
"He and Frank Bourne are over there...Well, they were. They may have left."
"They went out a while ago, while you were busy talking to the Maritime crowd," said Kendall. "The barkeep cut him off."
"Thanks, Nick. Ronnie, they've probably decided to hit another bar or three." The Scythe and Skull was a fair riot on Thursday nights - reaping in wartime required a lot of alcohol - but the S&S knew better than to overserve Eric. Another two or three hours should do it. Alan returned to his networking.
Three and a half hours later, the call came.
"Alan!" shouted Ronnie over the din. "Phone message. Get down to the Waiting Grave, the Color-Sergeant needs you right now."
"Go," said Jacobs. "It's a bad crowd that hangs out there. We'll cover for you here. If we all show up in force, Spears will have to get involved."
Ronnie added, "Hurry! Eric's taken on the entire bar. The barkeep is unconscious, but if he recovers, he'll use a shotgun full of salt. If you can get the fight to move outside, the Sergeant says he will help you throw everybody into the river."
"Going," said Alan, and ran outside where he could summon his scythe to port away.
The Waiting Grave was a dark and dirty riverside dive. It was barely big enough to contain the battle going on inside; the walls fairly bulged with conflict. Fortunately, the no-scythes-in-bars geas was holding. Bourne was outside the door in a battered chair, leaning back comfortably against the wall, listening to the fray.
"Status, Frank?" asked Alan.
"A good fight," said Bourne, with the air of a connoisseur. "Pretty evenly matched, all needing the same release for the same reason. Barkeep said he didn't serve my kind. Eric went up like a rocket. He was already well-to-go, as were all the other patrons. The room was fully involved before I got out the door. Nice of them to throw a chair out for me. There's another over there if you'd like."
Alan inspected the chair, which seemed sound enough to hold his weight. He set it upright next to Bourne and sat down with a sigh. There was a cool breeze off the river. He looked up at the Milky Way spreading across the heavens. The moon was a dreaming oval near the horizon. Really, he should stop and look up more often.
"Thanks for calling me. D'you think it's time to intervene?"
"Almost. They've already done all the damage possible in such a dump. Don't even have the traditional light fixture suitable for swinging on; have they no pride? The barkeep started it, after all's said and sorted, so he won't be reporting this. He's out of the fight. Eric took his shotgun away and smacked him with it. Wait a bit longer. Wouldn't want you to get hit by flying furniture."
"Very kind of you. Did you find out what was bothering him?"
"It's been cooking for a while. He's worried about you. He's worried about Sandriel's interest in you, because he's had bad experiences with other angels. He's worried about your branch and his students. He's worried about this outbreak of Thorns. He gathered up most of a Pals unit a year ago. Wiped out by artillery. Quite a few of them had lied about their ages to enlist with their friends. Basically, every young man in their entire town. It brought on memories from the plague years. The battlefields continue in horror. He's been hiding nightmares; he couldn't see any way this might end well. He's better now. We talked it out in the last bar but one. I believe he was almost ready to return to you but decided to try the ale here."
"I'm glad," said Alan. "A good fight does wonders for him." The noise level appeared to be declining. "They are slowing down now. If I can bring him out, I'll be able to port him home and put him to bed."
"If I go in there the fight will restart. Will you be safe, bracing him alone?"
"I'll be fine. If you will just manage anyone who follows us out?"
"With pleasure."
Alan entered the bar, after checking for airborne infrastructure and glassware. Eric's fight was winding down, although two other altercations continued in the rear. Neither of Eric's remaining opponents were at their best. Alan waited until both were on the floor, then spoke softly. "Eric."
Eric looked round and started like a child caught with a hand in the shortbread tin.
"Come on out, Eric, Bourne wants to say good night before he goes on duty."
Eric looked around at the general devastation with deep personal satisfaction. "Aye, ah think ah'm done here."
"Feel better?"
"Aye. Ever so. Let me get me coat."
"You're wearing it. Most of it. It's your oldest and most mended anyway. Come on, do, we don't want Frank to be late."
Eric laid a hand on Alan's shoulder for balance. He stepped carefully around the bodies and upended furniture. "Are ye done at the Scythe and Skull? They've stopped serving me for the night, the prissies, but the Twa Corbies will still be open if ye'd like an ale. They serve Angels too, and demons, and anyone else who has the price of a drink."
"Frank is going on duty. Careful, that fellow's trying to get up. Outside now. Ah, Frank, the fight's done. Thanks for staying with Eric."
"Always happy to toast a friend, as many times as necessary." A last opponent staggered out of the bar, charged Bourne, and flew in a graceful arc over the guardrail into the river. "It's been an entertaining evening. My thanks. Good night, Eric, see you next Thursday if not sooner. 'Night, Alan." And Bourne was gone.
Alan summoned his scythe and laid a hand on Eric's arm. "It's late, I'm tired, and we have beer at home. Will you come? I can heat up some soup if you are peckish."
"I'm ready for home. Thanks for the transport, me love. We'll go to bed and I'll take you to breakfast in the morning. Ah, look at the stars. Such a beautiful night. Such a beautiful night."
Alan made Eric drink a tall glass of water disguised with lemon and sugar. It would minimize his hangover in the morning.
"So tell me. Demons drinking in Reaper bars? Give."
"Well now. Ye puir wee innocent. Ye know well those times when reviewing countless life records leaves yer brain sae crowded with memories that ye cannae tell which are yer own? When yer heart breaks for the sadness and cruelty of it all? Time and rest make it better. But for those who are given neither time nor rest, the answer is madness— or alcohol in wholesale lots.
"These bars are few but special. No entertainment, not the place ye go with yer mates for a jolly evening, ye see? Quiet conversation's the limit. It's where ye finish the night.
"Now ye mustn't assume that burnout is the exclusive lot of Reapers. Everybody can reach that point. Angels do not have dark bars. Demons do not have quiet bars.
"Demons and angels do not go into each other's Realms, too opposite, too poisonous, too dangerous. There are ancient taboos and political treaties and Orders from the Bosses and all that tosh. And they're obligated to fight if they meet in the human realm 'cause it's assumed they are only there to save or steal souls from each other. There's always a snitch who'll rat ye out if ye don't, in order to win special treatment. Ye've seen this at the Academy. It's universal.
"But here, in our shadowy and silent realm, the realm of the truly neutral reapers, down in the crossways where the dark alleys meet, any entity who is just sick unto death of it all can get quietly and anonymously sloshed. The best place is the Twa Corbies. That means the Two Crows and refers to a gruesome old folksong in which everybody dies.
"The Twa Corbies is a very old Reaper bar, dim and restful. No bloody musicians. No people failing to be amusing into microphones when ye want to be left in peace after months of double shifts plus overtime. It's a quiet place for all folks when they're at the end of their tether. The angels sit and commiserate with the demons and reapers. The ales and beers are always good because the angels bless the brewing, the water and the kegs and the mash. They bless the wines, too. The hard liquor is always better than it should be, because the demons use their human-tempting skills to improve the taste and alcohol content. The Reapers drink alongside them all, in comfortable peace. It's where I fill me flask. It helps me reaping. Also benefits anyone I offer it to. Remember Malpas, the demon I met in the field? He particularly dislikes us for escaping Hell; he feels our superiors' intervention was cheating. I offered him a sip or two. He settled right down and told me all about his current Contract. Avram says he's not entirely happy with it. The point being, I got away without a fight.
"Many just stay for a glass or two, then leave. That's fine, and a good way to end a night. But if yer in desperate need, ye go in, tell the barkeep what time ye have to leave, give him yer money and agree he'll cut you off when it's gone. If ye pass out ye'll be rolled to the wall, covered with a blanket, and protected from thieves. They bring you your choice of caffeine at the specified time. You, and all the other customers of whatever alignment and species, are safe while on the premises. All hostilities are dropped at the doorstep. In a way, it's a peace treaty, a nonaggression pact. Violating it can get the bar closed down, and then everyone's out of luck. Tattling on the people ye see there will get ye banned.
"Mostly we all get along, and if there's an argument others step in and cool it down. Demons have been coming here forever. The angels started at the Scythe and Skull, and most stay there. But for some it's too bright. Cheerful and popular. Noisy. When yer worn out, noise hurts. You know.
"I took Frank to the Corbies tonight. I'm sure he has known the place for ages. We sat and drank, and spoke until we both felt better. Poor fellow is distressed about the death rates among the newly-fledged, and a few talented youngsters who have Fallen under the weight of the war. On the way back we hit a couple of smaller places. The Doornail's host brews an exceptional malt stout. The Waiting Grave, though, seems to be under new management. Gone to seed, it has. I should hae backed out, but here's a whole roomful of people needing hitting. A sin to waste such a gift, truly. D'you think I should apologize to Frank for hogging the whole fight to myself?"
"I think he was perfectly happy to sit outside. A rest is as good as a vacation sometimes. Let's go to bed, it's very late. I'm so glad you're feeling better."
"The next time yer depressed, I will take you there and stand you a pint. The blessing on the brew will heal your heart."
"That sounds wonderful. May I have a sip from your flask?— Oh, my. I see."
"But we must be careful. The demons have put a price on yer sweet soul. The truce only applies within the walls, d'ye see. We'll take Frank with us, and Grell, and see ye safely home."