The Weary Traveller

[Solivagus]

These stories are just short snippets that one day I hope to turn into a larger story. Currently they've taken between five and thirty minutes.

 

The man strode wearily along the path, his mind full of images and ideas that were not his own. The once soothing sound of wind and water were lost upon him as he struggled to escape the tormented path his mind seemed destined to wander. As he closed his eyes in an attempt to disperse the images from his sight, he shuddered. And the rememberances claimed him again...

 

The dry sand beneath his feet, shifting in the errant desert winds. The cool feel of silk on skin as it rippled in the rare, tantalising breeze that the desert provided. The comforting wieght of steel at his hip. Those were what the man knew. Slowly he knelt beside the oasis, and he prayed to the gods that he followed, repeating his oaths as he had done for so many years. He swore once more to protect the oasis from those who would harvest it, to guard it from those who would misuse it's purpose. All knew that oasis were a haven, yet few understood that havens cannot be transported and remain the same. And so he existed. It was all he knew. He had no friends, for those who believed as he did had been killed in his endless struggle to protect. Thier names were seared onto his soul, thier ashes spread upon the wind, as surely his must one day be. He had no emotions, for they had been culled by his constant battles, ripped from him by nessecity. He existed only to serve the oasis.

 

Yet still he wished, wished while wishing was dangerous. He dreamed, and as he did so the small part of his mind that wanted more, the part he kept caged behind walls of loss and hurt and pain, struggled to escape its prison of darkness. One day, it would succeed, and then the man with only one purpose, the man who had never known anything except to serve, would have troubles anew to contend with.

 

The weary man shuddered as he opened his eyes, ripping his mind away from the strange memory that still seemed somehow strangely familiar. As he continued on his weary path towards redemption and acceptance, the wind blew again, carrying with it the faint scent of cacti, sand, and water.

Edited December 10, 2006 by Solivagus

[Solivagus]

The storm blew cold and hard, lashing the man with viscious droplets of water that stung his skin. Wind tore forcefully at him, threataning to throw him from the cliff edge and into the furious, hungry sea far below. The water tossed and heaved, eager to swallow the fragile figure who was trying to defy the storms strength with the same effort as he tried to deny his position in life. His denials were having about the same affect. Desperatly his broken mind skittered into what may have been some distant memory of a past life, or may just have easily have been a figment of his strange and pain-filled mind.

 

The wind howled around the tower of granite, trying, as it had so many times before, to tear the construct from the edge and toss it into the sea. Upon the balcony of the tower, wrapped in a long black riding cloak that sheltered him from the cold, a tall man with a melancholy face stood and watched the storms progress. He was known only by the people round abouts as "The Watcher". What he watched for was a matter for idle tavern speculation, but that he was waiting for something was unmistakable. It showed in the way he walked, the way he distanced himself even when talking. It showed in his pain filled eyes, full of longing, and it could be heard in his voice as he conversed with those few who dared to climb the tower and speak to him.

 

Gradually the storm subsided, and The Watcher sighed. Still it had not come. He began to fear it never would. Slowly he removed his cloak and made his way inside to lay on his bed. A fire burned in the simple room that was his home, driving the chill of the night into hiding. Curling up, the man closed his eyes and fell asleep.

 

He awoke only once that night, when the cold steel blade was plunged into his chest and through his heart. His eyes opened, the pain and loss replaced by thanks. As he closed his eyes for the final time, he whispered his last words and they were full of gratitude.

 

"At last, the pain ends."

 

And so he died, creating more tavern gossip for the locals.

 

The weary man tensed and clutched his chest as he returned to the present, his heart beating wildly, pain pounding through his head. How long he had drifted in the memory he didn't know, but it had been long enough for the seaes to calm and the storm to cease. He dropped to his haunches and waited for the pain to pass. The memories were getting stronger, more real. Why was he forced to live like this?

 

Grimly he smiled, but there was no mirth in it. He knew why he was made to suffer, why he was forced to live as he did. He just didn't know who had managed to cause such things upon him. When finally he recovered from the instensity of his vision or whatever it had been, he stood, letting his hand fall down to his side. before moving on. His journey was still a long way from being over.

 

Unnoticed by the weary man, the hand he had placed on his chest glistened red in the pale moonlight...

[Solivagus]

This one wasn't actually written by me, but by a friend of mine who found the previous two on LiveJournal and decided to write her own. She has strange notions, believeing frequently that things will turn out alright in the end and also that I am a good person. She also believes (or says she does) that the Weary Traveller is some obscure way of me writing about myself. Hmmm...

 

Anyway, here is what she wrote "in answer" to the previous two. All credit goes to Rachel Jones for this one-I look forward to writing with her in the future.

 

The weary traveller stood upon the cliff top, his ever restless mind running through his most painful memories and feelings, causing his soul to writhe in agony. His face twisted into a pity-inducing mix of self-hate, loss, and agony caused by the knowledge that what he wanted, what he need the most, was seemingly forever out of reach. He had lost his most valued friend, the one many had considered to be a soulmate and who he had looked upon as a sister. He had lost many other friends in a terrifyingly short space of time, and although he had avenged them, that was not enough to lessen his feeling of guilt.

 

And now his attempts to block out his emotions, to clear his mind of feelings, to rid himself of at least some of the pain he was currently going through-all were foiled by just one person. And there wasn't a thing he could do about it. As his mind focused on this his face formed an unconciouss snarl, but though he fought to stop the images they were just too strong. He saw what he wanted more than anything, and saw at the same time the unreachability of it.

 

His left hand formed a claw around his eye, as if seeking to tear the images from his mind by force. His nails dug into his skin, leaving deep marks that would take time to fade. His other hand went to his blue-black hair. Longer than he usually permitted it to grow, he grasped a clump of it, looking as if he was about to tear a great clump of it out. But he didn't. He couldn't. And still the images came on.

 

And so there he stood, upon the cliff top, battered by the sea wind and gazing out across the sunset and sunrise upon the water. The one he had lost had loved the view, they had sat for hours just to see the sight. He wanted so much to bring the person who was out of reach to this place, to see the beauty he had seen, but it was impossible. So instead he stood and looked, and wished, while the images of pain and misery raced through his mind. He had lost most of his hope, forgotten much of who he was. He saw himself alone despite the friends that he valued, for he felt he would never truly fit in, could never truly fit in. He was too different from them.

 

And the person who watched over him, the person who had done what she could to guide him from the destructive path he had chosen, the person who felt tears roll down her cheeks as she gazed upon his anguish-she swore to herself and to the Grey Lord that she would help him discover hope again.

[Elvina]

I'm happy to give you feedback for something you've written, but I'm not sure why you're posting something someone else wrote... do you want feedback for it - or her... or something...?