Zeylheim steps into a puddle of water inadvertently. He stares down at the mud and water mixing in the rain and sighs, for only a moment however, as if looking up might kill him. He finally lifts his head and observes the late night bustle of Bree. He frowns as he stands just outside the southern gate, seeing so many people at this late hour going about their business. He trembles, nay he quakes. Feared, truly, by what he observes, a town he once briefly called home. He met many friends here, people who gave him a job, people who gave him hope, a woman he longed for desperately. It likely has all changed now. He knew that when he left, this was likely, and more so he is sure of it now. He never wrote, he said nothing, he disappeared, afraid he would miss his brother’s passing.
He did anyway. It was pointless by the time he reached Dale.
Finally he steps through the gate and pauses halfway between the in of Bree, and the out of it. A gentle and somber tune strikes his memory like chalk, causing him to wince and nearly spend yet another moment crying as he pushes himself towards Bree. He hums to himself quietly, just to regain posture and composure, a brief little “hm.” He can’t open his eyes, the biggest mistake he had made was ready to swallow him whole. He dare not look back in defiance. He deserved this sorrow, this agony. The people he left behind…the hurt he possibly caused.
He adjusts the satchel slung over his back, his face gaunt and nearly malnourished, what’s left of his traveling rations having disappeared a good few days before. This was it. Step into his monster’s mouth, or die outside of starvation. He is many things, he thinks, but not coward enough to simply wither away out of shame. Much to his inner disgust with himself, he takes the full step into the gate. It takes a few moments of looking around, feeling his grief and regret, and feeling every emotion he once experienced here before leaving, before he finally reminds himself to smile.
How can I?
He wonders, missing the sound of footsteps that were woven with the tapping of a walking stick, the harsh but true voice of his employer, stitching up a newly wounded fellow or lady. He recollects these things fondly, and yet in his mind he has betrayed them so horribly. He sniffles and looks up as the city he once envied, the place he aspired to reside in. It now drove a dagger of fear into his heart. He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t deserve to carry the torch of his loving siblings. His mind torments him all the way to The Prancing Pony…
You’ve murdered their memory with what you did.
His hand grips the door handle before he finally looks up and somehow…out of somewhere, a smile appears on his slimming face. Forced, of course, but on for someone that is not him. There is no chance to make it right, but everything is out of his hands, even himself.
