5 My Madness

Aesoth, Dragon of Stone - Life is not something you discover. It is something you decide.

As I awaken, my lack of pain astounds me. Despite the solid ground pushing against my shoulders and back, I stretch out with lithe, fluid movements. No popping, clicking, or even sounds as I push on my back or lift my arms overhead.

My shoulder’s glide as I move my arms from one position to the other. My focus shifts and focuses like an eagle’s eyes. As I stand up, even my feet handle my stomping with ease. If anything, my body feels better than before my fall. Much better

After pinching my cheek to make sure it’s not a dream, I plan for my escape from this crevice. The sweeping, rugged divisions between the boulders fit like pieces of a mosaic. Like an old scar, this ravine is a harsh, hard reminder of what I’ve done and of what happened. That empowers my resolve.

All that awaits me here is a grisly death, so I plan my escape. Smoke signals are as old as time itself, but using one may attract unwanted comers. The bandits and merchants may still be nearby, and I ran only five hundred or so feet from the caravan. Not an insurmountable distance by any means.

I could try walking out of this hole, but after walking for thirty minutes in one direction, the crevice showed no sign of ending, so I stopped. I could simply build a walkway up, but I lack supplies and constructing a ladder sturdy enough will be a bit more than jsut difficult.

If I manage to tie together spare scraps of cloth for a rope, but I doubt these torn scraps would hold me. There is, however, one avenue of escape I had yet to consider.

Climbing the wall.

I eat a bundle of bugs before I saunter up to the wall, cracking my fingers. I mean, how hard can it be? Besides, if I never test my limits, then I will never know them. I dig my fingers between the interlocking rocks finding sturdy holds for beginning my climb. With a kick off from my legs, I lift my body with astounding ease.

As surprising as my sudden athleticism is, I still need to focus. I climb the wall with a peculiar, uncanny grace. Within fifteen minutes of doing so, I reach up over fifty feet. This both pleases and disturbs me. Before crushing my legs to pulp, I lacked the power for such an unworkable feat. I was always weak with my hands and strong with my words.

That was the case no longer. Within less than an hour, I reach the outcrop where I smashed my legs. My own blood and chips of bone stick there, but oddly enough, I find no distaste for my resting place. As I take out a few crushed insects, I scrape some pieces of me off into the chasm. While resting in my own blood, I eat a meal of bugs. What a life I live.

I survey my surroundings where I find a crater twenty feet deep off in the distance. At its center, a cracked rock lays open, like a tarantula slime’s egg. I’d read about them from books my father got me. The beast’s eggs are that moves using eight tentacles that lift the main body. They use thousands of antennae jutting from their bodies for probing around them. They even paralyze their victims with a stinger at the ends of their limbs.

If the egg had been a tarantula slime, I doubt it hatching would make a twenty foot wide crater. Legends speak of the horrors as monsters of unbelievable power, so I concluded the egg may be something that I never fully understand. I have no time for dwelling on the matter either way.

I reach this fissure’s apex, bewildered at my newfound ability. While I stand observing the wreckage of the caravan in the distance, the smell of rotting flesh fills my nostrils. I don’t wretch or gag or even wrinkle my nose. Instead, a hunger for it grows in the pit of my stomach.

Like a priest whipping their back for sinful thoughts, I bite my lip before meandering up the steep, rocky hill. Reaching the caravan, I search through the havoc. The sight brushes me as slightly unsettling. In fact, my calmness unnerves me more than the carnage. I’m not like this.

Unsurprisingly, I find little of value besides a newer set of clothes and some scraps of food. After eating a large portion of jerky and mash, I hike to a nearby stream. I rinse the bloody filth that matts my hair, though my skin’s quite clean.

The bath freezes me to the core, but the cleaning my hair is worth it. Besides, my plans rely on not looking like an animal. As I finish rinsing the water from me, my reflection beams from a still pool of water beside the creek.

While the blurry image isn’t quite the same as a noble’s mirror, I still find no brand on my forehead or scars on my hands. I rub where the wound once was, finding smooth, supple skin greeting me in return. A grin explodes from my face. I understand little of what’s happening, but that doesn’t matter.

For some reason, all traces of my slavery disappeared. With that out of the way, I just need to perform with enough vigor to impress some passing nobles. Who knows, I might be able to go to a school for music if I’m lucky.

I’ll admit, it’s a simple plan, but simplicity isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Simple plans are acted with ease and flexibility. The demons of a plan lay waiting in the details. They will rise up and slit your throat if you aren’t careful.

Those thoughts float in my head as I start the long walk towards Tehnar. The city sits on the Northern side of the Bastion empire, near the endless ice of the far North. The evergreen forests give way to rocky mountain sides with small shrubs of all colors. The grass no longer grows green. In its place, wild swaths of maroon and amber blanket these hills and roads.

Crisp, cold, and biting, everything seems ready for hard winters. Rabbits with half white and half brown fur dart around. Foxes of red and white sniff the edges of trees, looking for any hapless rabbit sleeping in its burrow. Shaped like giant arrow heads, birds fly South, readying themselves for winter.

I pass through this the tundra like crawling through mud. The cold, wet ground leaks in through holes of my shoes as I walk. Before I know it, my toes are numb as blocks of ice. I kind of enjoyed the sting on my cheeks, however. The feeling reminded me of the sour candies my mother liked. My father hated them, but she always said that meant more for her. I thought so too.

I reached Tahnar at sundown, welcoming the sight of a city. Etched into the skyline, walls of stone came up three times my height, like walking inside a giant’s home. The city squeezed into these walls, tightly woven together. Plumes of smoke blew up into the sky from the innumerable firehouses below.

At the front of every city was a line of newcomers. Guards would inspect them, making sure they weren’t dangerous. Of course, I hardly required an inspection. I wore rags with matted, bristled hair. I posed no threat to anyone. To them, I was a ghost floating into the city.

Several nearby tradesmen talked about how the nearby bandits had been slain. Rahuul spread the rumor of Dirk’s heroism before buying up a set of slaves for a discount and leaving. Some merchants chided him, but most held a begrudging respect. The man had a solid sense for business. He turned dimes to dollars.

After walking through the city, I find an unnamed inn tucked right beside the city’s wall. Exhausted and filthy, I walked in and spoke with a curt, older lady at the front,

“Hello miss. Do you have somewhere I could clean myself? I’m more dirt than person at the moment.”

She said, “It costs two copper for each bath.” She glanced up from grabbing a set of mugs and said, “If you’d like, I’ll give you a plain set of cloths for half a silver too.”

I nodded as I said, “Sounds wonderful.”

I scrub till the soap stings my skin. For a second, I believed that my hair was falling out, but no, just clumps of dirt and straw. She set the new clothes at the edge of the door. After putting on the brown, cotton shirt and pants, I settle myself at a table.

Using the money I found on Jase, I eat my first real meal in months. The stew heartens my spirit, and the flavor and aroma remind me of my mother’s cooking. She always used wild herbs near our house for flavor. Each pot was an adventure since I never knew the mixture of the day.

As I eat my meal, musicians travel onto a tiny stage in the far corner of the room. After a few second thoughts, I climb up the platform with numerous drunken patrons shouting and whistling their support.

Their laughter and good spirits ease the butterflies floating in my gut, so I play my mother's harp with a glowing grin. I weave scenes of content and comfort and warmth. I orchestrate melodies crafted from memories of running beside my father while my angry mother shouts at us. We had snuck treats from the kitchen, so I giggled with childish glee as we escaped her switch.

I sing songs of cold nights warmed by their stories. They would fight the monsters that dwell in the darkness of my room when I woke up from nightmares. I sing songs booming the joys of my past. Whenever an injury or ailment pained me, they would give me a hand up, telling me to be a man.

I remember one day when I asked my parents beside our fireplace,

“Why do you love mom?”

My father told me, “Hmmm, tough question, but I think I have an answer.” He turned towards her as she chopped carrots, beets, celery, and steak into a stew as he said, “I love her laugh and her smile and the way she cooks, but most of all, I love the sound of her singing.”

I grinned before my mother said, “I don’t quite remember it like that when we met each other.”

He lifted me up in his arm as he stood before walking over to her. He hugged her from behind as he said. “When I first saw you, I melted. I walked up to her and said, ‘You are my siren at sea. Please, sing for me.’”

My mother blushed as she said, “Stop it. You’re embarrassing me.”

He hugged her before they sat in silence with me between them. We were family. My father said, “You know, I have never regretted leaving them to be with you. Not one single time.”

My mother’s voice cracks as she whispered, “Not in front of Jack love.”

“I want him to see who we are.”

Tears welled in her eyes as she muttered, “I guess that isn’t so bad...Thank you for being with me. I know choosing me left you without a family. I know-”

He boomed his words, “That each moment I spend with you both is more joy than a lifetime spent with those monsters. This is a life worth living, not one where I become their plaything.”

My mother cried while they hugged each other, but there was no sadness in her tears. This was sweet and kind and perfect. I don’t know why, but I cried as well and without reason. Those are some of my happiest memories.

They fade in my mind just like my grin. From ear to ear, it slowly simmers into a simple smile. It hides my heartache. After the merriment, I retire for the evening. Before I walk outside, a husky man with a peppered hair and bead walks up. He had a jolly laugh and knowing smile, like a warm, welcoming grandpa. The wrinkles of countless smiles embroidered his face, and a big belly underneath his shirt told of countless good meals. He shouted at me with a thick accent,

“Oi, that be some fine playin yuh got there! I hear yuh haven’t a place to stay. How aboutcha stay in the attic if you can play here a couple of times a week, aye? We could use a bard like you to warm these walls.”

I chime, “I...I don’t have much money...”

My voice comes out hoarse and heavy. He guffaws, shifting his peppery side burns as he says, “I got an open room in me attic you could use. I can’t rent it out anyways. It ain’t too open, but it be livable. I think yeh’d feel at home there.”

I mutter, “ Thank you...My name’s Jack.”

As he replies, his gentle eyes dance to life, “Of course, we never introduced ourselves did we? Feels like I’ve known yeh for ages with yeh playing being what it is after all. Me name’s Morne,” He pats my back as he hands me a small, grey key.

My voice cracks as I reply, “Thank you...Thank you.”

He smiles as he says, “Come now, it’s nothin. You must be tired. It was good speakin with you. If yah help with breakfast, me wife may let you grab a snack or two.”

I nod my head as I murmur, “I’d like that a lot. Goodnight Morne.”

“And goodnight to yah Jack.”

At the back of the inn, a set of stairs leads towards a storage room loaded with barrels, rope, jars for pickling, kerosene, molasses, salts and seasonings of all kinds. At the back of the room is small, cobwebbed door. I open the door, finding a small, cozy room with a window.

A small cupboard and bed of cotton lays at the back. A chimney sits at the edge of the room, keeping it warm. Dust settles in the corners, but I a little dirt never hurt anyone. After a little cleaning, I could call this place home.

I unwind in the cushy bed and relax the most since my parents died. I take out my father's knife and place it on a book stand beside my bed with my mother’s harp.

During nights like this, my father would read stories of heroes who slew villains while lifting me in the air. He and my mother would pretend they were champions who fought all evil in this world.

They were my laughter and happiness and home, but most of all, they’re gone now. I’m alone. I have no one in this world. For three months, I’ve been strong. I carried it all like they would want me too.

I can’t anymore. I weep until my shoulders shiver with effort. I grieve until my heart and soul cracks. With these thoughts, I drift towards sleep when a deep, dark, and monstrous voice says,

“You're not alone, wretch.”