Arrived in the hilly highlands deep in the centre of the continent. With each step, the landscape had slowly risen from the ground. The atmosphere shifted from that sea-side breeze into the cold starkness of altitude.
I looked for an inn to rest my tired legs.
There were three options along the main rocky boulevard. The closest of which had an imposing dark oak door with two torches lit beside the entrance. Though it the two torches licked the shadows along the wall, the door looked barred and closed. Beside it, there was an array of tall potted plants surrounding a rickety looking door. An old man in a gray hood sat on a stool directly beside the door. He smoked from a pipe and the smoke twisted and turned among the leaves all around him. The furthest door was open, and had lively muffled noises coming from within.
I walked towards the furthest inn. It was drizzling and cold. Some ale and friendly conversation would be comforting after such a long journey to this highland town. The sounds grew louder as I approached and there were quite a few drunkards singing merrily inside. I stopped in front of the door. Do I really need social contact in the calm that has been solitude for the past few weeks of walking? What has brought me to this glowing tavern of noise, emenating the smoky smell of roast pork?
It’s been almost two months since I've last spoken to a human. Two cycles of the moon since that incident by the pier. I had retreated into dark solitude. In this solitude I had built up walls within myself. I promised myself never to be hurt again. Nothing will make me feel that weakness which cuts deeper than any blade. Yet here I stand, and I feel the glow and warmth of the rowdy tavern tugging me towards the activity within.
A man by the bar turns towards me, and notices my silhouette by the door. Did he recognize me? If so, I would need to be quick and stealthy to make my way to the nearest road. Again.
“You look like you could use a drink,” he roared, a lazy twinkle in his eye. “How long have you been standing there? One pint of ale for this man, bar keep, and one night with your wife from the looks of him.”
He laughed boorishly. Spit and bits of pork rose and fell in the air. He didn't actually care much at all whether I was standing there, or for what I had to say when I sat down next to him. He was too drunk and enjoyed filling the stuffy tavern air with his own voice. But a pint was welcoming. He soon disappeared into the dancing throng of sweating people and I was left with myself again. Amidst the rowdy crowd I felt invisible. For a while, I pictured an umbrella above me, and everyone else bathed in the waters of vagueness. I’m trying to arrive at a conclusion, about me, about her, about anything. About…Everything.
There are no answers to be found in here, but this noise is a nice change... I suppose.
The buzz of the fiddler and the stomping drunkards singing and dancing rose into a swollen drone in my ear. It had been a while since I last tasted ale, and already I can sense it rising within me. I looked at the dirty metal mug before me. It was empty now. There were two empty mugs near me on the counter. Were those there before? Had I drunk them so quickly? And then I looked towards the whirlwind of people. They seemed to be moving faster now. How strange I thought, that this mug, this ale, these people...
Suddenly I could relate to them. I know how this feels, I’ve been here before. I began to nod my head, the rhythm began to make sense to me. A hint of joy began to surface from within the darkness that had been my haven. I was conscious of everything. Every little glance between the people dancing, that sense of unity, that careless euphoria. Each second passed by vividly, but at the peak of my sudden awareness, something happened. All the noise vanished.
Do i want to relate to these people? To anyone? The way I related to her? More than anyone else in the world?
The noise dimmed to a hollow pitch, and so too did the void within me rise and rise until it surrounded me. Even in a room filled with people, how can one feel so lonely. This sudden shift from shared joy... Half a moment ago, a slight smile had begun to escaped my lips. Yet now I questioned this too. What are they to me? These foreign faces, all a blurring quicker and quicker now.
How her face does blur too, now more than ever. Every step towards the highlands brought on a deeper and thicker mist in my memory. Is nothing permanent? Are we all fated to wander lost in the fogs of our previous lives?
But there was no other way it could have happened. If it was that moment again, I would make the same decision all over again. Is this all there is? I could see every single person in this tavern living out their existence page by page, books upon books of people’s written histories. A dusty and crumbling archive measuring all of humanity’s endless endeavours.
Despite all the writing, it’s as if the unfolding of actions and events could not have been any other way than how it IS. Right this moment. And the next. And the next. There are those who believe that our lives are prearranged, and that freedom is an illusion. This cannot possible be. But where is this will that I so strongly vouch for? It must be in that moment, right before anything happens, yet ever so feeble, like an ever-dying ember, an infant, an unloaded gun. I look at these people, and then to myself, and I see no hope. There was never any other way. This void is me. And i am to live?
I look down at my half-pint and wish it all away. it’s suffocating in here.
I stood to rise, uneasily and knocked into someone.
“Watch where you’re fuckin' going you twat.” He raged in my face. His eyes didn't meet mine, they were glaring down at my neck. An irritated red vein was bulging at his temple.
I could have fought back. As if my pride had taken a hit. As if there was any pride left in me. My dagger was near my hand, and it was sharp. Yet before I knew it I found myself staggering into the cool mountain breeze outside. I gulped in that night air, and felt my head clear a bit. The old man a sitting amongst the potted plants lifted his head. From behind the smoke rising from his pipe, I saw two bright, red-tinted eyes gazing directly at me.
“He almost brought it out.” I said. The old man continued to gaze at me, unmoved. “My dagger. The dagger in me, that man almost got a slice of it. It all didn't even last ten seconds, but that was nearly the end of me and the beginning of something else.”
I felt insane. The old man looked as if he knew exactly what I meant, and I was relieved. But not a moment passed before he looked as if he confirmed my insanity.
His face had never changed.
How much of myself did I see in his stoic face? How much did I yearn for understanding from another? He puffed at his pipe and gazed at me all the while. I began to wonder if he was deaf, or mute, or both. I looked away from him and away from his silence. Three black dogs were crossing the cobblestone street. One of the dogs, the smallest of the three stopped and sniffed at my direction. How strange this insanity, this relief. The look of simple honesty on the dog provided me a faint sense of peace. Yet how ‘honest’ can a dog’s appearance be? How much of myself am I putting into all that is outside of me?
“Your thoughts,” I heard a croaking voice speak, “They go nowhere.”
I turned to where the old man sat, and watched him slowly walk away. I turned back towards where the dogs had been. They were gone too.
