Father always said, "The wilderness is the darkest place in the world, for it teaches you nothing but pain." It sharpens you, just like a pencil wilt for usage. It sharpens you to be more open-minded, harder, more accepting, and above all, more resilient. "The wilderness," a beautiful word aligned with the perfections of alphabets and vowels, precisely some word.
Days had turned into months, or perhaps weeks or however many there were. We crossed plains, we killed, we ran, we hid... we survived. This was the most dangerous of all my adventures. All our coins were finished, and starvation had set in. I was tattered, and we had traveled over the seas of Antarctica. I wanted to see a man, and the only way to make it easier was to enter the place by sea – the only way no one would look for me.
We had traveled for many months, though I cannot say how many exactly, as I had lost count. But I saw the changing of the moon, and every time a full moon appeared, I knew another month had passed, or rather was set to set in. At first, we had no plans, no idea what to eat, no idea what to do with the swords. At least Ezron had ideas, but I... I had none. My face was rough, my hair had grown longer, and my beard had taken over my chin but the sideburns, remained the same. I barely shaved from the first day they started growing.
"I hear the Imam will be here soon," Ezron stated.
Yes, the Imam. Isn't that what Iranian priesthoods or leaders of the Islamic religion are called, or rather, Muhammad… not quite sure. I wanted to see Amir. I believe I had mentioned him before. He was the prince of Iraq, a great friend of mine. Unless he didn't want to be involved in my troubles, I hoped he would help me. I was lost, all my money gone, and here I was, searching for a man I wasn't sure would grant me an audience.
We had stayed in Iraq for about several months, and I'm quite certain that over a year had passed since our departure. I had become more experienced with the dangers, stronger, and more adept at hunting. I had also become quite a good thief. It may sound funny, but sometimes, when we had nothing to eat, stealing was the only option. I often thought about home, my father, what he was doing, and what he thought of me. Sometimes, I thought of the princess, the only woman who had awakened my desires toward the opposite sex. I thought about her until one day, Ezron told me that it was all in my mind, that they didn't care about me at all. He added that the princess should have tried to stop her father's actions, but instead, she had accepted everything. For all I knew, she might have already married the prince of Russia. I had a lot to catch up on, so I let it all go and embraced Ezron as my new brother and only family. I stopped using the name Willock, and now I used Lock more often, a word that not many would associate with a Lordship in the United Kingdom.
I sometimes wondered what day of the month it was, thought about ballroom dances, and more, but I stopped. Here in Iraq, we were fortunate to be welcomed by a certain hotel, which was often used as a hideout for royals. I had been given a job because of my skill with the piano. Thank God I had spent time learning the chords despite being a naughty kid when I was younger, wondering why my father never let me indulge in ball dances but placed me behind the piano. My voice was quite beautiful, and I had honed my singing skills, which people enjoyed. However, in Iraq, their classical music was quite complicated, heavily influenced by the Quran and characterized by fast, rhythmic textures, followed by a woman singing in their Arabic language. Ezron was given a waiter job, and that's how we began. I can't explain how it happened; I simply helped one of the owner's sons who had suffered from poisoning due to some sea weed. Just like that, we found ourselves embraced. I didn't speak much; all I did was play the piano and sing when required to provide the male chords to accompany the angelic woman's voice. We adhered to the local traditions, wearing long headwear scarves. With my hair a bit long, I had chosen not to shave as a reminder of all the days in the wilderness, where I had wandered, claiming it to be an "adventure" that, in reality, was running away from destiny, as the slayers had declared us the future of bastards.
We were currently preparing ourselves to entertain the guests, and for Ezron, to play his duties as a waiter; as Ezron had mentioned, "I hear the Imam will be here soon."
"What about the prince? Amir?" I asked him.
"They walk together. Maybe he shall be here, I'm not quite sure. Do you know him?" He asked.
"Yeah. We used to be good friends," I stated. I was already an open book with Ezron; he knew everything about me. I had told him everything throughout our adventures, from my childhood, from what I could remember up to the present.
"You think he shall help you?" He inquired.
"Not quite sure. I don't know if he'll even recognize me with this hair and beard," I replied. Ezron stared at me for a moment.
"You think? I see no difference," he said, applying some soap to his chin to clear off his beard, with the sharp razer. "Don't look, you don't like shaving. I want to be the most dashing young man today, maybe I shall have the princess of this nation begging for my hand. You lost your chance." I knew he wasn't serious, but when I saw him start cutting his hair into a stylish shape, I realized he was quite serious.
"You're not taking it seriously," I said, watching him. "And as for seeing me 'no different,' of course, you wouldn't, we've been through all this together."
"I want to be a 'dashing Ezron', cutie," he replied, watching me with a sidelong glance. Then he continued, "You should also shave, but you always look good, especially with those blue eyes of yours and your nice smile. No wonder most women go crazy about you, 'the piano man'." I just shook my head and decided to check my reflection in the somewhat large mirror. This land was quite developed compared to our hometown in London, with a clear reflection, unlike back home where one had to strain to see oneself. My beard was growing, the chin strip and sideburns had met, and my mustache was showing. I disliked the hair below my nose, so I shaved it all off, leaving the other facial hair in place. My hair was a noticeable brown, reaching my shoulders, and I often tucked it behind my ear to keep it from distracting me. My blue eyes were clear, my face unblemished, but I had aged since the last time I had seen myself in a mirror. My veins were more visible on my hands, and my jawline was sharp. My face was still thin, and my body had undergone many changes. There were also some scars from our adventures with my brother Ezron. After his conversations about my family, I had started calling him brother because I felt he alone saw me as Willock, not as a Duke, royalty, or a bastard who would bring damage to his world.
After everything, we walked side by side downstairs in the hotel. It was a rule that every staff member had to live nearby or within the vicinity of the hotel in case of emergencies. We parted ways as I prepared to take my place at the piano.
"Never knew you could be so handsome, Lock," the lady who sang told me with a Delilah's smile. I just chuckled in response.
"What song are we playing?" I asked, trying to shift the conversation.
"Not quite sure, but I hear we shall have many guests today from all over the world," she replied, her thick Italian accent dominant. I wondered how she ended up in Iraq. The interesting thing about this place was that most of the workers were not from the country's nationality. The head chef was Chinese, I believed, as he often spoke about Confucius and other Chinese philosophers. The wait staff, including Ezron, was from the United Kingdom. Two of the instrumentalists were Italian, and the drummist was a Native American from the Americas. I had never visited that place, but I had heard about it from my father, who mentioned that some of our troops were there dealing with issues related to slavery or something similar.