‘Dag…’
A quiet whisper broke through to Dagramir as he sat on his knees amidst the unkempt lumber yard, a gentle breeze fluttering its way through the northern Bree-land fields. A few strands of his dark hair lost their place from their neatly tied position atop his head, floating gracefully down across his pale features. His eyes, having opened in muted surprise to the presence of a ghostly voice drifting through his ears, squinted to adjust his focus against the yellowed glare of the ever-rising sun.
‘Twas the morn, a few days of preparation having passed since his midnight visit to the camp. The Gondorian had been sat in such a state for a few hours, allowing the family, whom he had taken up the bounty to protect, to ready themselves within the wooden lodge to his rear. His mind, once vibrant and untameable in its quest for activity, had been positively dulled through the years he had spent alone beyond the realms of typical civilization. Allowing him to become at home within his head for the first time in the few decades he had spent wandering the many realms of earth beneath his feet. The numerous voices that he had been unable to previously shake from his system had seemed to have been appeased by this inner tranquillity. That was, of course, until now. The whisper had been quiet, a foreign flavour laced through the tremor that accompanied his name, managing to sound so very alien and yet so much like home in concurrence. A figment of his imagination, for sure. The yard around him was entirely devoid of life, for the time being. Nonetheless, a presence had begun to make its home aside him once more. One which he couldn’t quite put a face to. Yet.
Watching the few tufts of patchy, over-grown grass surrounding him sway rhythmically with the wind, a calm befell his rising chest. A rush of emotions had almost overwhelmed him through the events of the prior week, much more than he had naively anticipated. So long he had spent preparing for the eventuality that he would be faced with ghosts from his past, he had neglected to prepare for what came after. Many names had returned to the town he had once called his home, whose faces had allowed him a brief slip into a voyage of nostalgia. Reminiscing of times long past, when both he and the town to which he belonged were so very different in their nature. While the usual experiences were rather easy to slide back into for those whom he had become reacquainted, he himself did not feel so at home within the devil’s clothes any longer. Where others remained attached to the past, he had burned his bridges long ago. His heart was still; until, that was, those damned faces returned to the fore and threatened to disrupt the equilibrium he had built to survive. The lady and the huntress both providing him with reason to consider a past which seemed worlds away to the position in which he sat at that very moment.
Life had always been full of temptation. The foreigner finding that his charm worked to his own detriment more often than not as he grew older. The wisdom that which he had accrued doing little to sway the narratives that already built within the minds of those who once knew him. He had come to understand this, allowing it to rest easy within his mind that he, despite his flaws, would find no opportunity to repent for his sins. Nay, he instead was offered the opportunities to indulge in them further. He knew now that the truest test of his character was not to make peace with himself, but to stand firm in the face of those who would seek to change him instead. Perhaps this was why he had departed so quickly from town to return to the lodge and the certain danger which surrounded it. Facing a potential flurry of swords before he would allow his mind to pose questions that he did not want to answer.
Why had he returned to Bree? Was it the finely written letter seeking his presence which drove him in from the wilds and through the gates? A random notion that he belonged amongst the drunken flavours of the Inn once more? Or did he secretly hope that, upon his arrival, she would be stood there waiting?
He winced.
There were some wounds that he was incapable of healing, no matter how long a time spent in the wild alone in his own head. There were many he had yet to settle his account with, none more so than her. Words to be said, thoughts to be shared. Yet he could not find the gall to slay the final demon which towered above him, dousing him in shadows of discomfort and regret. Needless complications had returned to lace his thoughts with a sombre melancholy, once more proving to be very difficult indeed to shake out of his system. His eyes drooped, finding their way down from his immediate surroundings to the ground in front of his knees – and his ornate basket-hilted sword which lay flush before him. He knew of only one way to cleanse the soul, allowing him some measure of recompense to the weaknesses he had been forced to bear. Fighting. The one true constant that which his life continued to revolve around. Be it the sword or the quill, his fists would remain clenched. Desperate to take back that which had been taken from him. The world owed him as much, he thought to himself.
Between that, and the coin which he had been promised, he had every reason to be sat as he was. Directly in line with the path of a certain hurricane. A storm which there was always a chance he would not manage to luck his way through. There was no more Bloody Dawn to back him up in the fights in which he found himself embroiled. No true friends there by his side to take up arms and bleed for his name. No one left, save the frightened and fatigued family who were peering through the hastily barred windows behind him. Absolute confusion plastered upon their faces as to why this madman was resting at a time such as this. A time when any manner of bastard or brigand could make their way up the road and end his life with one swift, callous slash.
The idea of death did not frighten him in the same way it did when he was a boy, wide-eyed and bushy tailed as he scratched and clawed his way to the safety of the western lands. Nor did it give him pause as a young man, rampaging his way through other people’s lives with little care as to the state he left them. His thoughts and deeds had betrayed him before, a protagonist he most certainly was not - as much as he secretly fancied himself to be. There were women and children out there, somewhere in the world, who’s lives he had shattered by removing their fathers and husbands from them. Not allowing them the finality of a loving goodbye. Even today, the families of the men who would approach this camp – some of them, at least – would likely suffer the same fate as those before. Yet, he held no remorse for them either. He had never felt the loving embrace of a mother, nor father. The children which he fathered had grown up fatherless themselves, ‘lest they be cursed with the same fate that befell any who he had held dear. Dead. Lost. Forgotten to the ravages of time.
Well, all but one.
He had once spied the babe nestled within her belly, the very last time he had seen his raven. Nothing was ever certain in life until one had seen it with their own eyes. However, in spite of the bump, he had seen no bastard and heard no whispers of them either. The very thought of it existing led his chest to tighten in slight spasms that he had not felt in years. An opaque ignorance to which he was certainly grateful. The demise of the wife and child he had once bore, long ago, almost split him right through the seams that delicately held him together. He held a keen understanding of the effects to which he wrought upon those who held his company. Any child of his likely stood a better chance in life knowing not of his existence, assuming the worst and living a happier life for it. And yet, the narcissism of fatherhood demanded him to be better than his own, no matter the cost. To prove something to his kin, to himself, to anyone who would lend an ear: that he was different. That he could be better.
It was just then, as he spied a few misshapen blobs swaying towards him from the furthest reaches of his vision, that his hand snaked forwards to take a grip of his sword. In one swift motion, his pale fingers tensed around the hilt, and he slithered to his feet. His legs spread evenly, feet in line with the points of his shoulders, as he swished his blade around ‘til it nestled neatly within the sheathe that was strapped to his waist. Fingertips delicately reacquainting themselves with his favoured weapon, for the walls of the storm were approaching. His hands clenched, and released, before sweeping behind his rear to clasp neatly over the arch of his lower back. As the figures drew closer, he counted them keenly.
‘One, two, three, four…five.’
He smiled. At the very least, the woodsman, who had begun to set and load a crossbow within the cabin, had told him no lie. Five men of average heights sauntered their way down the road, a swagger about their steps as their weapons swung crudely and undisciplined in their hands. A few short swords, an axe, and most troubling of all a blade akin to a claymore clutched in the hands of the largest among them. Their leader, presumably. The mirthful look etched across his cheeks did no sooner leave him than the passing thoughts of those he still had to live for. If others from his past had returned to relieve him of his burdens, perhaps she would too. He hoped.
He just had to live to see it.
“An’ who in th’hell might you be then, eh?!” called the largest of the group, his crooked teeth jutting out menacingly as he spat towards him, a certain wariness held within his words that one serene man could stand alone between them and their coin.
A telling smirk tugged at Dagramir’s lips, a hand unclasping to rest gently upon the grip of his sword, as his head lowered ever so slightly to accommodate the gentle quip of his right brow; “Who am I? Well, I happen to be someone who, unfortunately, is about to ruin your morning…”
And, with that, the unpleasant clang of colliding iron rang in their day.
