Blink.
Wooden beams stretched across a floral white expanse of painted framework that lay above Dagramir’s prone body. The contours of the roof hazed its way into his immediate attention as he did his best to return to his mind some form of conscious ability.
Blink.
Canvas sheets melded neatly against his bare back; the straw stuffing having left him in a quiet equilibrium. Between that, the comfort of his bed, and the pleasant company he had shared hours prior, he had spent the night blissfully drifting amongst warm, clouded dreams. The sudden absence of amiable weight upon the mattress to his right becoming all the more noticeable as he returned himself to the land of the living. Craning his neck to the side.
Blink, blink.
Just like that, once more, she was gone again. Floating back to the black expanse from which she came. Appearing to him in fleeting apparitions that he, despite his apprehension, enjoyed each and every moment of. A wanderer turned ponderer on the nature of women and their grander plans for the world at large. He was not one to audibly question - not anymore, at least. A certain vulnerability having been bestowed upon him in his recent and lengthy absence from the farmlands of Bree. Out in the field, he was composed. A picture of focus, a sharpened blade ready to be wielded by any with enough coin to afford him. With steel in hand, and a song in his heart, he would face down even the mighty dragons of yore for the right compensation. But now, with his love finding a physical form and returning into the forefront of his chosen reality…
Wince.
Splotched bruising along the line of his left shoulder joint painted neat patterns against a canvas of an almost bloodless hue. Patchy and prickling painful sensations ran a line along his rotator cuff at each brash movement. Pain he was most certainly alerted to as he lurched upwards, away from his prone position, to swing his legs off the side of the bed. Feet planting evenly against the rug that lay beneath the posts; matted fur nestling gently between his toes. A hand raced upwards initially, to pester at his acquired injury, though quickly he remembered better. Arm halting in its tracks. The words of the healer his employer had so thoughtfully sent his way a few days prior chimed in to tell him off: and rightfully so. Still, there was little the burning spasms along his arm could do to dim the optimism that had forged a fire within his core. While he held no love for his vulnerabilities, hope remained that eventually the chaos would come to settle. That a new normal would take root in his everyday shenanigans, that all the parts of his life would eventually fall into line. Working seamlessly to drive him onwards until his inevitable departure from the world.
How naïve was he to think that his death would have been so set in stone; cursed to end his life on those damned cobbles in such a foreign, flavourless home. While the Gondorian was not particularly predisposed to making grand plans, he knew that his fate was always intertwined with that of the blade. So alien to him was the concept of a peaceful ending. And yet, that was exactly what his Raven had offered him the previous evening, sweet notions that a path of a different kind may yet well exist. All he had to do was reach out and take it when the time was right. Trudge a line back down the Great West Road and return to his lands, his home - family by his side. Therein lied complications, naturally. He knew that his name would not be held in such a high regard were he ever to make it back to Gondor. The unexplained complications of his father’s demise hanging thick in the air of the White City, he imagined. But the concept of home was undeniable, a quiet trickling of water that forever arced a trail across his spine at the mere thought. Perhaps, one day, his legend could rest easily into a peaceful slumber rather than blaze across the sky like a glorious, blooded comet. Though, for now, there was still so much yet to accomplish. And it all came back to his newfound ventures to the east of Bree-town.
With a sleepy groan, Dagramir rocked in his position before forcing himself upwards. Coming to a stand amidst the harsh glaring light that rocketed in through the window. The hearth in the corner now quiet with dust and charcoal. Ash having left its keen mark against the tinder that had been quite ablaze the night before. Rounding on his heels, the pale man approached the dresser on the other side of the bed and went about clothing himself for the day’s debauchery to come. While notions of peace were sweet to think on, there was a more tangible matter requesting his presence. The Village of Ashforde. The budding settlement within which he had begun to make his home. Only a year or so prior - when the man was devoid of any social contact he could claim to be even ‘satisfactory’ - perhaps it would have been easy to think on the eventual cutting of the ties he had made to these lands. Removing himself from the life he had manufactured with a few turns of the tide. Paper walls folding in on themselves as the rogue would vanish back into a flat irrelevancy. Such an end was undoubtedly the easier option, laying his demons to rest and vanishing off into the night with a familiar puff of smoke. But as the settlement’s doors creaked open and allowed a once seemingly irreparable man to venture forth and find himself anew, he understood that perhaps in time things wouldn’t be so set in stone.
Sigh.
There were those that gave him plenty of reasons to stay solitary meanwhile: the maiden, the juggler, the huntress. The passing company of the lady and the like. He knew the longer he lingered in and around the buzz of civilization the more he would encounter. The man’s bravado thrived amidst a hive of social activity whether he liked it or not, no amount of self-imposed solitude would ever change that - despite the best of his intentions. In fact, where the faces may have changed in some cases, the overarching theme surrounding those lands had remained from whence he had last frequented it all those years ago. The downtrodden and the socialites were eternally at war, with each other and themselves. Battling for supremacy within the one tavern of note in the region. Foreign men drifted in, as they so often would, to provide a certain flavour to a town that had already seen its fair share. Breaking hearts as they weaved their tales; stealing life as they sauntered on by. He, himself, had even been a part of such provocation previously. Such was the beauty of time, should one be allowed to attempt to breathe beneath the waves of the sea they may very well learn a few lessons on when to hold their breath. Were one to take a delectable bite of the forbidden fruit, perhaps they would finally learn that life isn’t as kind or rosy beyond the security of neatly trimmed hedges. So easy, had it been, for his fixations to lose their focus. Attention stolen by the presence of a sweet or a shine. For without his focus, the viper was naught but a thin collection of meat and scales. A relic of an interval past. A trophy to ordain on the wall or in a bed. But given a whetstone, a purpose? A legend may yet have been awoken.
Yawn.
The leather straps upon the base of his gauntlets were becoming easier to fasten to his wrists. So too were the loops of his belt found by the keen embrace of the buckle. The work that had begun to situate itself neatly into paper piles upon his desk at least gave him some measure of variety in the meantime. His blade was keen, but his words were sharper. Functioning beneath the delicate weight of red ribbons had proven itself to be a joy for the most part; when his shoulders weren’t dislocating from their sockets, that was. Tingling stretched from the pads of his digits to the point of his shoulder, though Dagramir found an affection for each thorny chill they wrought through his aching muscles. With each pulse, he was reminded of what wonders life could bring. Be it the morning breeze rolling its way along the shores of the Brandywine, or the scent of a lover filling one’s nostrils after such a lengthy time departed. Or, in the Gondorian’s immediate case, a loosening joint aching underneath the weight of leather and ego. Alas, adventure awaited him, as it so often did, and all that stood between them now was the door to his cottage and the path that lay beyond…
Creak.
