"The road to success is stained with blood; a proper gentryman manages across without getting a single drop on him."
– DURAI, "The Truth of the Matter"
Year 676, Old Valendian Old Archades
Bacchus Caine knew his father would let nothing stop him from working, but this was extreme . As soon as he saw his father pull the hood of that ratty woolen cloak over his head, Bacchus sighed. "Must we?" He whined, helplessly watching his father open the front door of their run-down apartment in Old Archades. "A storm is promised our way!" He called out from his chair in the kitchen. "We would be fools to go out there! Can't we sit this one day out?" He was exhausted. He was only ten years old and he felt like an old man. He just wanted one day. One bloody day.
And as usual, nothing could get through his father's thick skull. "On the contrary, we would be fools to miss any opportunity, rain or shine." Chronas Caine always had a smile – that opportunistic grin and ambitious glint in his eyes never dimmed. Although stubborn and foolish, his father wasn't a quitter, that was for certain.
"But what about the grapevines?" Bacchus protested, "Shouldn't we stay home to protect them from the storm?"
Chronas waved a hand in dismissal. "I've paid our neighbor to do that," he said, "We've just finished tarping them down. Besides, we'll only be out a few hours."
Fine . Bacchus surrendered. If even father's precious grapes cannot keep him here nothing will. "Can I at least finish my oatmeal?" Bacchus gestured to the sad bowl of gray mush in front of him. If he was to slug through a work day in a storm he should at least have breakfast.
A bitter frown met him, and yet Bacchus knew his father was pleased. "Alright hurry up. Here-" Chronas tossed the keys to their apartment across the room, clashing against the wood of the kitchen table when Bacchus failed to catch them. "Lock up the apartment when you're done. I'll be setting up by the gates of Trant."
"Yes, father," Bacchus sighed heavily. His life very much felt like the bowl of oatmeal staring back at him: dull, flavorless, and oh so tired.
Bacchus scowled as he made his way up the hill towards the walls of the capital. The rising winds tugged at this wool cloak in all directions and yanked his hood off his head, thus rending the garment useless. It's freezing out here! He shivered. Father's gone mad.
Well, more mad than usual .
In lieu of any fastenings, Bacchus crossed his arms in attempts to keep the cloak on.
Chronas appeared to have found the ruins of an old brick wall still half-standing to serve as shelter for their shop stand. He had already set up the table with a display of their usual items: potions, ethers and other common necessities for the weary traveler. And then, of course, in the wagon beside the table was their side-hustle: jars and bottles of Chronas' homemade red wine. Most of their customers were hunters seeking refuge after a rigorous journey through Sochen Cave Palace; however, in this weather, who would dare to venture out into the wild?
"Why are we here, father?" Bacchus whined as he settled beside his father. "No one is out here," he gestured dramatically to the empty streets of Old Archades, "Even the vagrants have found a place to hide!"
"If we stop working, we will become vagrants once again – or have you already forgotten our old life?"
To that, Bacchus had nothing to say – his father was right.
"And besides," Chronas smirked the way he always did when he thought he was the smartest man in Ivalice. The wind whipped at his wavy brown hair and blew dust in his eyes, and yet the madman didn't seem bothered by it at all. "Do you remember that nobleman who bought a bottle of wine the other day?" he asked, and Bacchus nodded. "Every once in a while one of those gentrymen from Tsenoble will take a brief holiday from managing their empire to masquerade as a commoner, and one or two will dare to stroll through the old capital to get a taste of reality. These men only do so on dark days such as this, to hide in the shadows."
Hiding in the shadows? Sure, Bacchus could understand that, but a storm?
Just like that, the rain started falling, a slow drizzle promising to develop into a downpour later.
Whatever, Bacchus huffed.
The gray skies only grew darker as the hours passed, and Bacchus could see lightning flashing towards the south, in the Tchita Uplands. The wind howled, threatening to blow raindrops in his eyes if he were to dare let go of his hood.
As expected, most people hid from the rain, staying home if they were lucky enough to have one, and those that weren't huddled under broken archways and other ruins of the old capital. Only a few madmen here and there stopped by to pick up a potion or two before venturing off into Sochen. " Good luck, halfwit, " Bacchus wanted to say to each one of them, but was too exhausted to deal with the brawl that would follow from a jab like that. Other than that, it was a slow day with long, wasted hours of absolutely nothing.
The only redeeming factor of this job was the possibility that someone completely unexpected would come by: a traveling dance troupe, sky pirates, a talking cockatrice, a viera, foreigners, or a nobleman.
Speaking of which…
That's a lord if I ever saw one.
Slow, careful footsteps clicked against broken cobblestone; a pair of fine leather boots avoided puddles of mud. A tall, hooded figure stood before them, imposing in both his height and commanding presence. The cloak was deep indigo, clasped by an impressive broach: a silver Cherybterix with a large sapphire in its talons. It was an obvious flaunt of wealth, and Bacchus gave a pitying smile to their customer, who obviously didn't get the memo that gentrymen were supposed to wear a disguise when venturing into the lowers.
How lucky he is to not have been robbed yet.
Chronas, however, was wide-eyed.
"S-Senator!" Chronas gasped when the stranger pulled back his hood about an inch, just enough to reveal a pair of indigo eyes framed by dark curls. "Senator Rhys," Chronas pulled back his own hood and bowed, his hair getting soaked in the process. "To what do I owe the honor of your presence?" His hands gripped each other, trembling. Meanwhile a bead of sweat dripped down his forehead despite the cold air – and no, that definitely wasn't the rain. Bacchus had never seen his father like this.
The senator held his hand up in protest, shaking his head. "That title belongs to my lord father," he insisted. "Please, call me Claudias. Today I am on holiday." His smile was a warm embrace from the sun after a storm, his teeth immaculately aligned and bright. Bacchus had read in the papers about Claudias Rhys' notorious good looks and charm, and now he finally had the chance to see if the stories were true. "Might you be the merchant, Chronas Caine?"
"Y-yes, lord Claudias."
Claudias observed the wares on display with a gaze as sharp as a Cherybterix searching for prey. "A potions merchant, I see," he said, nodding. "A sensible choice, I must admit: after all, there will always be demand for healing items. And yet…" he returned his gaze to Chronas. "It is your passion that gains you notoriety, even in Tsenoble."
Chronas furrowed his brows, trying to guess what the senator was referring to.
The timbre of Claudias's voice was deep and smooth as he gave a chuckle. "I heard a rumor that buried deep within the old capital was a very rare and valuable gem, and you were just the man to see about that."
From the corner of his eye, Bacchus saw his father's eyes light up. With both hands, Chronas reached over into the wagon to carefully retrieve a large glass jar of Red. He placed it onto the table with a smirk on his lips and a gleam in his eye. "You mean this gem?"
Ah, there it was: his father's usual fire. Just in time for business.
The senator's eyes lit up, two dark sapphires gleaming even in the darkness of the storm. "Yes, this is the gem in question. Now tell me, Chronas, how does a man such as yourself come into this craft?"
Pride swelled in Chronas' eyes. "I learned from my father; he was a farmer in Dorter, near Landis. He wanted to start a vineyard, however, soon our village was overrun by famine, and we had no choice but to leave."
The senator frowned, soft and compassionate. "I am very sorry to hear that," he said. "The Great Famine of Dorter was a tragedy. The circumstances that led to it, I'll have you know, my lord father voted against."
"I have no doubt," Chronas shook his head. "I know well that when House Rhys owns the Senate, taxes are low and pockets are fat." He chuckled wickedly, as though he were in a position to know if any of this was true or not. Bacchus never took anything his father said about politics seriously. "'Tis a shame what the Solidors have done, channeling all of the funds into the military, as though we had some war to fight."
"I concur!" the senator laughed, "Archadia has been at peace for decades!"
Together their laughs were thunderous, and there was no need for this storm to produce actual thunder. Bacchus rolled his eyes.
Just buy something already and get on with it.
"Well, perhaps your father's efforts were not in vain," Claudias offered, gesturing with graceful hands at Chronas. "His legacy is within you," he said, then pointing to the wine, "and this beautiful jar of Red." He smiled. "Would you honor me with a sample?"
Chronas carefully poured the wine into a small glass cup and offered it to the senator.
Sipping slowly, Claudias swished the wine around in his mouth, his eyes narrowed, savoring the taste and analyzing it like some Draklor potion chemist. Bacchus always found it pretentious when nobles did this, like some expertise on wine somehow made them better than other people. Only winemakers should drink it this way.
After finally swallowing the wine, the senator smiled victoriously. "Exquisite," he said. "The tartness of the cherries is balanced out by sweet grapes and… a hint of cinnamon?" He looked to Chronas for confirmation, and he was granted with a nod. "I thought so," Claudias nodded, smiling down at the glass of wine. "This reminds me of my years spent in Bhujerba when I came of age… a splendid time that was," he chuckled. "However, dare I say it, this is even stronger than madhu. How did you accomplish this?"
"Only hard work, dedication to my late father, and a garden forged from the ashes of the old capital."
"Your perseverance is admirable, Mr. Caine," Claudias glanced down at the last sip of wine in his cup and swirled it around. "And you certainly have something really special here. I have a proposition for you…"
Bacchus glanced at his father, then back to Claudias. "Mr. Caine, if you grant me ten percent equity of your wine business, I will fund your endeavors: your very own shop, vineyard, and of course: citizenship in Archades. First, we shall start you in Trant, and then if all goes well, we can move towards Tsenoble."
Through the raindrops and wind, Bacchus heard his father gasp. He would have done the same if he believed any word of what the senator was saying. Was this a joke? He raised a brow quizzically, turning his head to see his father's face.
As expected, Chronas' jaw had dropped, trembling as he grasped for words. "Y-you honor me, my lord," he blinked rapidly, as though trying to wake himself from a dream. "I most certainly accept your offer." He bowed.
Claudias' fierce eyes melted into a welcoming smile. He gave Chronas a firm handshake. "Excellent. I am pleased to hear that. I promise you are on a journey towards a better life." The senator glanced down to acknowledge Bacchus. "And perhaps you will attend classes at the Akademy one day, just as I did."
"You hear that, son?" Chronas let go of the senator to clap a hand on Bacchus' shoulder. "The world is within our reach now; we needs only grasp it."
Bacchus couldn't gather himself to meet his father's level of excitement. He still didn't believe any of this was really true – why would a senator give all of this to some random nobodies? And for practically free, no less. This man was likely a billionaire; surely ten percent was nothing to him. This was a charity case, so what could he possibly gain from this?
And yet, the look of pure joy and relief on his father's face melted his guard. Father has worked tirelessly day and night for this, even dragging me into his endeavors. And after losing Mom… he deserves a break.
And so Bacchus Caine put on a performance.
Lips spreading into a grin, Bacchus hugged his father fiercely. "I'm so happy for you, father," he exclaimed, letting go after a moment. "You've worked so hard for this; no one deserves this more than you."
"And you as well, my son," Chronas looked so happy he could cry. "You have been a most loyal business partner from the very beginning." Chronas turned to Claudias. "My lord, I cannot thank you enough."
Claudias shook his head. "Nay, there is no worry," he said, pausing. "However, I do ask for one small favor."
"Of course."
The senator directed his gaze to the jar on the table. "A colleague of mine is having a birthday soon. I should like to gift him a bottle of red, if that is possible." He looked down at the glass in his hand, raising it to drink what little remained of his sample, clicking his tongue after. "A wine as strong as this, so that no other flavor could be worthy of note."
"That can certainly be arranged," Chronas bowed again.
Thunder erupted above them as lightning flashed in the darkness, shaking Bacchus to the core.
A Week Later
The early sun's rays bathed the streets in gold as citizens of Trant flocked to the newspaper stands, grabbing copies of that morning's issue of The Trant Tribune. Nothing but gasps, hushed whispers and deadly silence filled the air. Bacchus wanted to see what all of the fuss was about, and so he snagged his own copy for 10 gil.
Upon reading the headline, his body went cold.
SENATOR TRISTAN LIRSCHELL FOUND DEAD IN CHAMBERS MORNING AFTER 56TH BIRTHDAY CELEBRATION, SERVERS IN CUSTODY ON SUSPICIONS OF POISON.
"A wine so strong no other flavor could be detected…" Bacchus mumbled into the paper as his eyes viciously tore through the article.
Chronas caught up to him. From the corner of his eye, Bacchus could see his father's hand, now adorned with rings of gold and rubies, slowly emerging from behind to take the paper out of Bacchus' hands. "Do not allow yourself to be weighed down by such grim thoughts," he said. "We must only look forward . Understand?"
Bacchus felt he could choke. He heaved out a sigh, gaze lost in the pristine cobblestone below. A reassuring hand rested on his shoulder. "You must think of it this way: our only job is to make and sell the wine, what people do with it is out of our hands. Whether they drink themselves to death, or others…"
Bile burned its way through his stomach, and suddenly Bacchus wretched, soiling the centuries-old cobblestone, painting it red: like this morning's wine sample, or the poison served to Senator Lirschell, or the blood that Bacchus and his father would be forced to spill in the years to follow.
He knew it was too good to be true.