Stalks of grass and flowers alike would have bristled pleasantly to the guiding hand of the early morning breeze. The wind carving its way over the collection of dirt and stone that surrounded Nenuial; where picturesque landscapes had been butchered by the unstoppable ingenuity of man. The river which flowed below an undeterminable King’s feet seemed rather gentle this morn, to Dagramir’s keen eye. The Gondorian stood calm upon the edge of the withering bridge, feet spread evenly to the tune of his shoulders. His hands were clasped neatly behind his back, dorsal flush to spine. In and out came the breaths, steady as they went. His nostrils straining for four - a pause of seven - his mouth gaped for eight. Just as he had been taught all those years ago. As chaotic a presence as he exhumed, irritating company and kin alike, there was always time to be spared for fleeting moments of solace - worries of losing his hair to the convictions of a previously angered Gonnhirrim, aside.
Once more, he had found himself embroiled into a situation he had rushed into without much prior consideration. A terrible habit of his, no doubt. Leagues to the south there stood an estate in dire need of his management, with its maiden proving herself to be specifically absent. In truth, his duties had not quite fallen into his considerations when he had drawn quill to parchment, sealing his involvement in the caravan’s journey to the north at the behest of a certain Miss Rosethorn. A good opportunity could never be wasted, he knew as much. The longer he spent amidst the company of his contracted brothers-in-arms, the further he relished his decision to abandon his post. Perhaps, like many an eve he would have departed town in his younger days, a scorned woman would be stood by the hedges ready to swipe at his ear. Perhaps, indeed. Regardless, his ribbons had steadily discoloured into their original black hue as he hurtled further into the familiar unknown.
It was these quiet moments when his thoughts betrayed him the most; while he silently hungered for peace, his mind could not bear the idea of sitting idle. Sprinklings of insomnia had begun to plague him, a bad itch he could not quite satisfy. And so, he pondered. As he often did. A dangerous pastime for a man whose mind could be his own worst enemy. Initial reservations came to him over the almost unbearable cleanliness the air to the north emanated, followed swiftly by a gander across the lip of the stone beneath his boots to determine if such a fall would kill him. Yes, was the immediate answer, though the pale man would do little other than smile to himself. He had survived worse, in lands a lot deadlier and a lot rougher than these. It had been many a year since he had first abandoned his post as a Sergeant of the Bloody Dawn to venture just over yonder on yet another voyage of self-discovery. Leaving behind the warmth of a lover’s arms in a comfortable bed to feel the bite of the northern-most shores of Forochel. Truth be told, he had found little up there - save for a new set of scars to add to his collection, a sabre’s teeth imprinted into his arm. A limb he would have lost if not for the timely passing of a local tribe.
It was far too easy to prescribe a complicated array of solutions to the simplest of problems, after all. Once upon a time, he was the talk of the town - the dashing rogue from lands far-gone come to steal wives’ and daughters’ hearts alike. With a boorish bravado and an irritating allure, the cad had a reputation to maintain. His one goal: to fulfil his purpose in life, whatever it may be. The easiest remedy to such an obsession was, naturally, a hand in marriage. Though even the promises made upon betrothal could not satisfy the snake, his curiosity burning far too brightly to be kept tame in a pot. Scandal after scandal, fling after fling, his hunger had gone unanswered. A wildling let loose upon society. There was humour to be found in such casual deceit, in the early days. After all, whose business was it other than his as to how his tale would be written? Though, eventually, his antics would catch up to him; a choice thrown to his door. To smother the flames or submit to the blaze. The Raven or the Huntress. A decision that, to this day, left him shuffling his feet uncomfortably. Tapping fingers against his clothes, his nerves alight. At one time, he was convinced he was designed for naught more than greed, a being of chaos to ravage the lands for all they had took from him. And so, he sprinted headlong into the fire to join the hunt and finally be free.
That was, until the hilt of a dirk protruding from his flesh revealed his error.
If there was one moment he could regret the most, of which there would be many a candidate, then such a mistake would have ranked highly. For his eyes had remained open as Narys threw to her chosen a knife, and thus, the upper hand. The rage he had felt clench between his whitened knuckles, the delirium he had suffered while stumbling down the road leaving a trail of crimson in his wake. Even still, he could recall it as if it were yesterday with the briefest closing of his eyes. That metallic swell upon his tongue as he watched his amour go unanswered. The sudden realisation that he was not the protagonist he had hoped, merely a pawn in another’s game of which he knew not even the rules. Dumbstruck to the revelation that there had been no choice at all - that each cry of her name received no reciprocation. And all the while, as he licked his wounds and wallowed in his misery, the antidote had been by his side the entire time. Not the wasted kindling of a love with so many conditional reservations, nor the casual trysts with the local fauna he had grown so tired of accommodating. Naught but her.
Of all his conquests - high and low, fierce or subdued - there was but one who had stood by his side against the world without fault. Despite his transgressions, his flaws, she was there to pick up his pieces and provide him with a smile. To offer him the love he craved, unconditional and all-consuming. And in that moment, all those years ago, he had failed Ashaia for the first time. Many more followed, for woe would oft be found amongst the broken. Time would flow, distance would grow, yet all roads led him home in the end. Even for those as egotistical as the Black Viper of Minas Tirith. Once, he had stood alone atop a drop of a similar design, with nothing but a bottle of whisky to his name, and the call of the void had never been stronger. Now, to his melodramatic musings he offered little more than a glance and a chuckle. As headstrong a man as he remained to be, his days of plummeting off into the waves below had finally come to their end. And, with that, he needed to search for a temporary reprieve from his ailments no longer.
There was no viable alternative, for he already possessed the cure.
At that present moment, she was camped just out of his vision - dozing away, blissfully unaware of his early morning reflections. That even a wistful consideration could bring involuntary twinges to the corners of his cheeks, in those very moments his demons would have been eradicated. Exhuming a warmth from his chest that fought perilously with the chilled silver chain he had recently acquired, and slipped beneath his shirt, prior to their journey’s conception. A wrinkling to his features at the sight of each of the dolls that Ava had insisted her mother should deliver to these lands for the lost children. A swell of pride bursting visibly from his chest as he considered what further mischievous tact he could teach his son once they had returned from their duties. A distinct sense of hope that, one day, he could look back upon his choices and be able to, at the very least, nod agreeably. What else could a man hope to live for?
It was then, as the tunes of the local avian wildlife breached his bubble, that the fatigue of travel finally collided with his skeleton. His bones had begun to ache from the previous day’s marching, his eyes strained to focus, and his muscles uncontrollably laxed. With a rather lazy grunt of contempt, Dagramir would have rubbed at his wearing eye sockets before turning to trudge back towards his knapsack. The following day would prove to be hell for the Gondorian, with the lack of a proper night’s rest playing havoc with his treasured equilibrium, but it mattered little to him. He could do little to change the past other than accept it, for only a fool would refuse to learn from their mistakes. And although he was a fool…
He would not make the same mistake twice.
