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“This is a story about nothing.”

Tiny waves of ale slosh around the worn wooden mugs, leaving sticky fingers grappling the handles in drunken fervour. A disgruntled rattle of chairs against greasy slabs of stone echoes on the soot-sodden walls, fluttering between the candlelight’s dance. A hooded figure mutters, as if to himself, his bony fingers tracing the rim of his jug, distracted and focused all the same.

“What are you talking about, old man?” A boastful voice cries out from the rabble of the tavern-goers, raising a gaggle of laughs from around the stuffy room. The silhouette sits back, his lips stretching into a thin smile.

“I said”, he repeated, clearing his throat, “this is a story about nothing, lad. Or rather, a story where nothing happens.”

Silence ripples through the audience as the last words hit their mark.

“Are you familiar with the city of Truphema?”, continues the hooded man, enunciating each word clearly, revelling in the newfound attention. “Along the coast, down South, nestled in the Emerald Coves. Was once called the Noonday Jewel. Rings a bell? Probably not. It’s mostly a desolate and deserted speck of land nowadays. But it used to be so much bigger, stronger, richer, yes. Picture, if you can, lavish skylines of golden roofs reflecting on the deep azure of the sea. Winding alleys filled to the brim with perfumes and trinkets, food and wine for every passer-by that stepped foot on the shiny cobblestone.”

“Merchants would fight for a spot on the bustling main square, and the stalls filled with glittering gems, fabulous fabrics and infinite riches you’d never dare set your eyes upon. People would flock from across the Seven Cities, crossing the Raging Seas just to wander around the colourful and luxurious streets. Everywhere you set your eyes upon, you were met with a smile, a refreshing drink, a purse full of silver coins, anything your heart may have desired or even dreamed of.”

“The people of Truphema were satiated, happy. They had enough to eat, drink, and laugh about. Sure, the days were ripe with work and toil, but the nights were full of endless parties, where both sparkling wines and sweet treats overflowed in the streets. The city flourished, seemingly unstoppable; greed or jealousy couldn’t break through its impenetrable walls.”

“Gilded in silver and emerald, Truphema was a haven for merchants and strollers alike, a breath of fresh, salty air carved into the harsh rockiness of the landscape. It felt like paradise, if you all can believe it. I’m guessing it’s difficult to picture it as such nowadays, as wrought with famine, rage and pestilence as it’s become. Yet for decades, maybe even centuries, it shone its beauty wherever it could, bringing peace and success to whoever crossed its gates.”

“During these times, Truphema harboured many different people within its walls. Some had come seeking riches and fame, and had founded dynasties of merchants skilled in what they did; others had washed up on its shores, broken and desperate, eventually vowing utter fealty to the city that saved them. But Truphema’s inhabitants had, for the most part, been born and raised there, thriving in the prosperity and opulence always on hand. Such was the case for the young man who’ll now take center stage in this tale, a Truphemian who went by the name Phthoneros.”

“Phthoneros was a boy with a certain grace which seemed, how could I put it… like a gift from the gods. Son of a successful merchant dealing in expensive cloths and dyes, he’d spent most of his life learning the family trade, getting ready to take over some day. He was brought up with the sun shining through the maple lattice of his garden, lazy rays blessing his olive skin, food bountiful at his mothers’ table. From the sweet wine and prunes grazing his lips to the fine threads covering his body, his existence had been pleasant.”

“And Phthoneros was of sweet disposition, yes,a polite young man with reasonable ambition. He charmed everyone he met with his sharp wits and curious intelligence, never straying too far from humility. His reputation in Truphema was built on nothing but smiles and a bright future; he seemed to have the whole world at his fingertips, cradling everything in the palm of his hands. People followed him, fell for him, laughed with him, desperate to get a sliver of his attention, a wink, a smile, anything. He had everything at his feet, waiting only for his reach.”

“And so, success grew all too easy for Phthoneros; over time, he became idle. He cruised by, efforts being a scarcity in his world. He wasn’t lazy, far from that, just a little… too… indulgent. He started giving up more easily, settled for less than he used to, and stopped chasing things as hard as he should have. But he was young, a little brash and charismatic; he could get away with anything, or everything. That is, until he met the one that would change everything:Ahène.”

“He bumped into her by chance, lagging behind a group of friends during an occurence of their usual late night festivities. And Phthoneros, usually so proud and confident, fell head over heels. Oh, my, you should’ve seen him. He started following her around, laughing to her every quip, drinking her every breath. He was absolutely, completely, fully smitten, ready to turn over a new leaf, start over from scratch. He would have given his life just to catch a glimpse of her smile, hiding under her generous locks. The streets of Truphema shone brightly underneath his feet, strong with the promise brought by this youthful crush.”

“But, as things always are, there was a catch: Ahène didn’t even know who Phthoneros was. They had never formally met, and she only had heard of him through faint acquaintances. The young man was a friend of a friend, themselves a cousin twice removed of another friend; they had never gotten to know each other, apart from him deciding to one day slither into her life. She was a little intrigued, but let him be; he wouldn’t be the first, or the last one, to want to draw her attention.”

“This went on for weeks, maybe months. The young man was obsessed, giggling at every one of Ahène’s words, trying to make himself known to her in any way possible.He dreamt of her day and night, stammering pleasantries whenever she glanced towards him as he turned red as a beet.But when Phthoneros finally mustered the courage, nay, the bravery to confess, he was met with nothing but contempt and reject. She wasn’t interested in him that way, and probably never would be. Ahène’s cutting words shattered over him, penetrating his soul like daggers puncturing his skin: “If I have nothing else left”.”

“If she had nothing else left. Phthoneros couldn’t get over the dryness of these words. The world had been stolen from underneath his feet, and it seemed that he would never recover. In his mouth, the wine had turned bitter and the prunes sour; nothing seemed to satisfy him anymore. He roamed the streets of Truphema, hollow and haggard, an empty shell of who he used to be.”

“Ahène had planted a seed, deep inside of Phthoneros. A darkened, withered kernel of seething anger and hatred was sprouting within the pits of his stomach, spreading its crooked roots throughout the young man’s spirit. He started haunting the seedy taverns hidden in the bowels of the Noonday Jewel, hidden within grimy back lanes and cutthroat alleys. He wanted to drown the harsh echoes of Ahène’s sentence, the heartache it had wrought upon his life. Phthoneros grew restless, little by little, unable to let go of the poisoned rejection that had been thrown into his face.”

“Over time, Phthoneros’ eyes grew weary with insomnia, always searching for something over the horizon. Only if she had nothing else left. Phthoneros was desperate to sway her mind. And so, the young man searched far and low for a way to make her like him, or at the very least look at him with something else than indifference in her eyes. Love potions, charms, fancy tattoos, lush clothes and perfume, everything. He met with anyone and everyone, throwing himself to ever shadier remedies. He searched far and low, in every nook and cranny he could find. Weeks turned into months, and still he looked for an answer, an ointment, something, anything to make Ahène love him. But all he was left with was her words, biting the inside of his cheeks, his soul, over and over again. “If I have nothing else left”.

“The young man fell into deeper arcanes, corners lurking at the back of the mind, at the corner of the eye. He hadn’t found what he was looking for, and it seemed he’d lost everything. His coin had sunk into his odd purchases and, despite Truphema’s golden aura, he was left with only distress and bootleg alcohol, trodding along the streets and wailing for his lonely, unreciprocated heart. In the deepest, darkest nights, where no light ever shone, Phthoneros could’ve disappeared, had he gotten the chance, or maybe the courage.”

“Until another one of these nights, dear boy, where the moon glossed her bleak light on the shingled roofs of Truphema. A hot, sticky night spent on the pavement, sobbing and sniffling, away from civilisation. A night Phthoneros would’ve wanted to forget, to get over with, to erase from history. It had been months of relentless, pitiful research to find something to catch Ahène’s attention, to no avail. His tear-stained cheeks were dulled by the alcohol, bitten by the midnight breeze howling in the streets. He had had enough.”

“Phthoneros sat there, moping, for what seemed like days, months, hours. But amidst the silvery moon’s reflection on the pavement, a peculiar glint caught the corner of his drunken gaze, just out of reach. He didn’t want to look at it at first, until the glow’s presence couldn’t be ignored anymore. Calling to him, it felt like it was almost humming. And so, through his intoxicated haze, Phthoneros followed the strange and shiny buzz through Truphema’s sinuous alleys.”

“The faint ringing eventually came to a stop in front of a unwieldy wooden door. Phthoneros’ hands hovered over the rough ebony for a while, a knock hesitating mid-air, until the hinges groaned in a cavernous way, letting him slip through.”

“What awaited Phthoneros inside, you see, was further away from comprehension than he ever imagined. Unusual contraptions hung from the ceiling, amidst vials, phials and eerily translucent glasses. Piles of books and indecipherable sigils were strewn around the dirt floor, like floating through a cold, crimson mist. Sketches of unrecognisable creatures patterned the walls, as well as precise diagrams of what looked like human body parts. An acrid scent filled the stagnant air, laying on the young man’s tongue, making it difficult to breathe.”

“At the center of the room, a small table stood alone, bare in the midst of unorganised trinkets and charms. Phthoneros’ ears filled with slithering murmurs, oozing from the thickness of the air. His heart was thumping against his temples, begging to claw its way out of his mouth as he grew closer to the grimy stand. On its wobbly surface sat a velvet ring box, covered in dust and time; a decaying piece of string was tied to it, adorned with a worn-out label barely spelling out: “All for nothing”.”

“Phthoneros’ palm hovered an instant over the battered box. Was he really about to grab this creepy casket from this even creepier shop? His throat had grown paper-thin, his tongue thick with a sudden thirst. His trembling fingers stroke the shabby velvet. In a heartbeat, he broke the musty seal and opened the box.”

“It was empty, except for a lingering suave smell and a battered ring. Phthoneros looked it over many times, and eventually put it back down where he found it. The thumping in his temples had subsided, barely a hum as he twirled the rusted band between his fingers. A sudden crack on one of the shelves made him jump; he instinctively slid the ring in the folds of his tunic. The noise had snapped him back to reality; he stepped over the surrounding mess and left the tiny as if in a hurry, disappearing clumsily into what was left of his drunken night.”

“The following days are lost to our recollection. Phthoneros roamed the streets of Truphema with no other companion than a bottle, faithful and comfortable against his lips. Through Ahène’s rejection, he had been left a void impossible to fill with anything other than substances and self-abuse.”

“After yet another hopeless night, the young man slumped to the ground, sobbing, distraught, unable to withstand his own pitiful state. Between two sniffles, he opened his buzzed eyes; the sun was waking up on Truphema’s golden roofs, glistening like gems against the emerald peacefulness of the sea. Ugly tears painted his face red; he couldn’t bear seeing another day start on his own solitude. Looking for coin to buy yet another bottle, Phthoneros plunged his trembling hand into his tunic, his fingers feeling around. To his surprise, he retrieved only the fatigued ring he had grabbed, or stolen, if you prefer, from the bizarre little shop a few streets back.”

“He steadied the band in his palm. Its bare surface seemed dull under the waking rays. Not a stone or perl adorned the rough metal. It seemed painfully ordinary, except for an inscription on the inside, repeating what had been inscribed on the box’s label, “All for nothing”. He had forgotten he had ever taken it from its home; it pulsed gently against his hand, matching the beat of his heart.”

“Phthoneros rolled the ring between his fingers. Everything had gone quiet around him; all he could hear was the thumping of his blood against his temples, too weak to drown out the torrent of his thoughts. Ahene’s rejection was still oh so fresh in his mind; he hadn’t been able to forget it, no matter how hard he had tried. Humiliation, shame and want whirled inside of him, an unending reminder of his suffering. Despite his efforts, he had become more and more bitter, closing himself off from his friends, his family, the world itself. In that moment, Phthoneros was truly alone.”

“The young man muttered under his breath, resentful sighs meant only for his own ears. He’d been crawling around for too long, forgoing his own health, all because of heartbreak caused by none other than the object of his deepest desires.”

“All for nothing, huh?”, he croaked, his voice rough with insomnia and too many alcoholic sins. The band lay heavy in his hand. In a clumsy gesture, the young man slipped the lacklustre ring on his finger, struggling to get up.”

“Mute silence filled the air, stealing life from Phthoneros’ ears. The ring ignited around his knuckles as he winced, startled by the sudden twinge. He tried scratching it off, but was cut short in his efforts as the world came crashing down around him. A cold, freezing wind blasted through Truphema’s usually lively streets, sending pavements flying. Echoes of buildings crashing to the ground reverberated on growing clouds of thick, pungent dust catching in Phthoneros’ lungs.”

“Waves of anguished cries flourished around the city, as many flickers of pain and broken limbs. Phthoneros’ temples were thumping with the sound of his own blood as he started running through Truphema’s alleyways, struggling to get away from the stampede of destruction roaring in his wake. Around him, stalls crushed under the weight of fallen stones, merchants screeching as their lives abruptly came to a halt. Children called for their parents, clutching old toys as fire consumed what used to be their homes. Passers-by watched, helpless, as the city sank into chaos and ruins.”

“Heads, eyes and gurgled cries filled the once sweet air of Truphema, now rotten with the smell of death and destruction. In a few grains of sand in the flow of time, the city was reduced to a rubble, the air tainted by a yellowish, grimy hue.”

“In a panic, Phthoneros scurried from taverns to bars, familiar places and family homes. All he found was nothingness, rubble and dust, unrecognisable bodies and forgotten trinkets. Grief walked with him, a livid shadow stuck to his skin.”

“He ran and ran and ran, trying to escape the surrounding devastation. A few survivors roamed aimlessly within Truphema’s ruins, wailing and howling. Nothing was left of the once thriving city, only a despicable taste of guilt and shame in Phthoneros’ mouth. Tears couldn’t flow on his dust-crusted skin anymore as he erred, alone, eerily unscathed from all the destruction.”

“A familiar voice, or maybe a screech, eventually raised Phthoneros from this state of numbness. It was her, Ahène, her voice still crystal clear, cutting through the fog in Phthoneros’ brain. His feet ran wild like the wind, wings flying over the rubble. If she were still alive, then there was still a chance that everything would work out, everything would be all right in the end. Hope warming his heart, Phthoneros sped up to the source of Ahène’s voice, desperate to see her once more.”

“A body, another one, half-swallowed by fallen walls. Ahène’s face contorted with pain, her arms flailing about, trying to set herself free from the iron-hot hurt and tingling feeling of unusually lighter legs. Phthoneros, frozen on the ground beside her, unable to speak. Ahène noticing him, crying out for help, for any sort of relief from this hell. Phthoneros scratching at the earth around her, unable to stop tears welling up in his eyes. Ahène’s scathing words, branding his heart with misery.”

“Why does it have to be you?”, she cried, poison dripping from her lips. “Why you? I have nothing else left, nothing, so why you?”

“Phthoneros stopped clawing at the rubble as Ahène took her last breaths, hissing unspeakable insults towards him. Her eyes seemed to bite at his cheeks, her jaw snapping and knocking to the rhythm of her panic. In an ultimate, ragged whimper, Ahène gave up her last breath, a deformed grimace staining her once so-perfect face. Phthoneros stared at her for a while, motionless and unfeeling. His mind was racing inside of him, trying to make sense of what had just happened. He extended his hand, wanting to touch her face for the first time, one last time.”

“He reached out, palms covered in soot and sweat. Ahène’s body turned to ash as soon as his fingers grazed her frigid skin, and he was left weeping, thick tears streaming down his face in silence. The greyish, charcoal-like sand that was once Ahène blew away in the morning sun, mingling her tragedy to the golden rays.”

“All for nothing.”

“As quickly as it arrived, nothing left Truphema an empty shell, a hollow memory of opulence and vivacity. Phthoneros stood up, forlorn and alone amongst the ruins, numb and spent. His gaze caught the ring on his finger; in the havoc, it had taken on precious stones, and glimmered harshly in the sunlight. A heavy hand for a heavy heart. He didn’t understand exactly why but, in a burst of anger, Phthoneros tried taking the band off, pulling at his finger to get rid of the silver band. In vain. It was as if it had fused with his skin.”

“All for nothing.”

“The words escaped Phthoneros’ lips as he recalled the strange shop, the creepy objects and the weird box’s worn-out label. Nothing was the only thing left around him. Death and desolation lurked everywhere he looked, in corners of what used to be workshops, gardens, houses, spreading through the once-lively streets of Truphema. Phthoneros erred through what little was left, passing broken homes and grey limbs, stumbling on lattices and shattered benches. Unscathed, and far too clean for his own comfort, he was a living testimony of a tragedy he couldn’t stop thinking he caused.”

“No one knows what happened to Phthoneros after this, my boy. Some say he died a few days later, throwing himself over the chalk cliffs of the Emerald Coves. Others think he still roams this land, deserted even by Death, spinning tales and surviving off of nothing or anything anyone would give him. The truth probably lies somewhere in between, I would think.”

The hooded figure ends his tale as such. Around him, the audience of inebriated tavern-goers and lost passers-by has grown quiet, perched on the cusp of his every word. Time stands still, startled by the sudden ending interruption in the calming flow of his sentences. For a brief moment, a blanket of silence clouds the inn, freezing everyone into place.

The man breaks into an amused chuckle as he admires the effects of his story. Dusting his knees, he gets up from his stool, straining and groaning under the effort. He nods his head as a way to bid farewell to his company, now as lively and chaotic as it used to be, and drops a few metal coins on the wooden surface of the bar. In the muffled light of the candles, a flash of silver twinkles onto the cobblestone, reflecting on an ornate, yet worn-out, ring.