It certainly hadn't been the best few weeks of Dagramir's life, by any measure.
Not that he was one to have great weeks as a man of a certain repertoire, where he was used to being within inches of certain death by sword, or the hands of a scorned lover. Or even a scorned lover's lover. But he was beginning to feel the world turn against him one moment at a time, and the hole he usually slipped back down into when things turned sour was looking so awfully tempting.
As his courtship with the Raven was disintegrating upon lies and deceit, much like every other escapade into the forêt of love that Dagramir took, it appeared that his gamble was indeed costing him pieces of his shattered sanity. Not through better lack of trying, however, as he had given up a lot of freedoms, and put a lot of vices to his rear, in order to make an official courtship with the woman he had grown to love work. By the Gods, he had certainly tried. And when one particularly heated night in the confines of their bed allowed one simple slip of the mind to occur, and a potential pregnancy to ensue, he thought he was finally getting somewhere. Arriving at the same place he had once done with his wife so long ago. How dearly he missed the simplicity of marriage, in contrast to the mental hell he bared through each day. As a few weeks into this blissful pregnancy shock, with wedding bells in the back of his mind as a potential future with the woman, and her daughter, that he had so boldly committed to, he found it had all been for naught. Her lies finally broke the facade of their perfection. Dark words weaved through chapped lips that there had never been a babe. Not that he was to know, of course. For his heart shattered with each and every word she spoke to him, and each and every fist she battered against his chest in faux protest. Accusations that split his bravado in twain, that portrayed him as impotent. An idea that could shatter a man's fragile masculinity at the mere notion. Where he expected truth, he found naught but lies of her own work. But what else was he to think? They were sure that their life was set out before them, that they would finally be together in a perfectly imperfect family.
A lie.
In the time that followed, their love, once so fiercely bright behind closed doors, and innocently sparkling in their eyes, now began to dwindle. The Raven felt the guilt of a child's death upon her hands. The Viper found the guilt of a counterfeit conception upon his. As the light continued to dim, so too did their prospects. Nights spent 'working late', days spent 'working hard', and at any other time, there was always something else to do. Something else other than face their individual truths. Suddenly, Dagramir found himself in need of an escape once more. A cliche, undoubtedly, that the man was doomed to repeat for all eternity. But a moment's bliss, in his mind, was infinitely better than a lifetime of silent misery. In the time he spent sleeping rough in downright questionable conditions, he called upon his old contacts. Men, women, and grown children that he hadn't spoken to since the days he once bravely announced himself as the Black Viper, ready to rid the world of all evils. Only to become a shadow of his former self as the ravages of women, and alcohol, took their toll. With each few silver coins, came another whisper. Rumours of many different merchants, who peddled the wares necessary for him to succumb to addictions, and pleasure. Talk of potions, and lotions, and beautiful seductions. However, one rumour took his particular fancy, from a specifically mouthy Mister Sutton who spoke heaven, and hell, of an 'enchantress out west'. A mature figure who took him to places he could never have even dreamed of. Bemused, for one, the Gondorian thought it was worth a shot. At that point, anything was worth a shot. He needed to rid himself of all the expectations that were laid flat upon his back. All of the promises and commitments he was now tied to.
To become the man he was once famed for portraying.
A trip beyond the confines of Bree, was all it took. A stalk through the woods in the dead of night, was all it took. Three slow knocks upon the wooden-framed door of the darkened cottage, was all it took.
As the door opened, and the plush figure of the seductress was thrown into his sight, with the pungent scents soon enough reaching his nose, he was almost immediately hooked. She, indeed, was a purveyor of indulgence, and Dagramir was a model customer. Accepting each concoction that was placed into his hand eagerly, and lapping up all that he was offered, at the simple suggestion that soon enough his pain would dissipate. Though, unlike any of the previous merchants he had visited, she supplied every promise she made. Where he expected lies, he found nothing but honesty in her own work. Whatever facade he put in place to protect the burning cogs of his mind, she pierced right through with an elegant motion, and a submission to his thoughts. With mysterious liquid, after mysterious liquid, he soon found that familiar warmth chill his bones. His cravings soon withered from his mind, and once more, he was floating free without inhibition. Drifting peacefully from any manner of restriction, either mental or physical, and pleasantly into her arms, and subsequently her bed, against her beautiful body.
In all certainty, it had not been his intention to have returned to his infidelity so freely. If anything, he had came in search of a temporary escape, one that could shock the system, and guide him back to the path of the righteous. In its place, he found something much more delectable, to his partial dismay. How good it tasted to have a slice of freedom, however wrong it may well have been. There was a sprinkling of guilt to go with it, of course, but the positives dangerously outweighed any negative he could attempt to fathom. The taste of another woman's skin, the forbidden fruit, was always the sweetest.
Was this the man he was hiding from so desperately? A man fit to occupy the scum of the earth with the worst of them. Perhaps it was. He had never taken the time to properly self-evaluate. Spending so long hunting down men of his own ilk, and bringing them to whatever justice awaited them at the end of the road. So long going through the correct channels to professionally court a woman, and weave all the right words so that he may attain their heart, and not their hearts. But on the other side of the fence lay a much more fulfilling existence for his broken brilliance. A life he could lead, where he could exploit the worst of the worst for his own personal gain. Where he could snake his way into the bed of any woman he deemed fit to grace her body with his, and indulge in all the sins of the world.
It was so easy to finally succumb to such selfish ideals in his time of need, he began to wonder why he had even bothered to attempt to bury them in the sand in the first place.
Though love continued to hold his mind in contempt. A persistent love for a woman so wronged by the world, that all she deserved was right. An undeniable love for a woman who had matured him in ways he cared not to admit. An unrequited love to a company of brothers who had offered him the opportunity to repent his ways, and forge himself a new set of ideals among a true family. Pains in his heart that held him conflicted in his darkest hours.
Yet, even with these uncomfortable reminders of the life he had forged, there he was, still in the bed of a foreign woman, with her bare, ample body still held within his arms.
Perhaps there was still time to pretend left.
At least, for now.
